After he disappears in the crowd, Nate scoots into Hunter’s spot and slings his arm over my shoulders. “So what do you think about the finals? Any tips on how to stop Connelly?”
I falter. Why would I have tips about how to stop Jake? I study Nate’s expression. Does he know I went out with Jake this weekend? Did somebody see us?
“Why are you asking me?” I mutter.
“Because you know your hockey?” he prompts. “Because you’re currently living with Coach and I’m sure he’s making you watch hours and hours of game tape?”
Oh. Talk about paranoid. “Yeah, he is,” I admit.
“So give me some ammo we can use against Harvard.”
“Well. I don’t know if anyone told you this, but…Jake Connelly is really fast.”
Nate snorts and tweaks a strand of my hair. “Gee, I was completely in the dark about that. Someone told me his nickname was Lightning, but I assumed it’s because he’s into storms.”
A laugh flies out. “I heard he’s an avid storm chaser.” My voice turns serious. “In all honesty, Connelly is sort of unstoppable. He’s the best college player in the country.”
“Thanks,” Nate grumbles.
“Look me in the eye and tell me you think you’re better than him.”
After a beat, Nate scowls at me. “Fine. He’s the best college player in the country.”
“All you can do is try and slow him down. As for Brooks Weston, just don’t fall into his trap.”
“Easier said than done.” Hollis rejoins the conversation. “When you’re hopped up on adrenaline and that asshole is taunting you in the faceoff? You want nothing more than to clock him one.”
“It’s true,” Nate agrees. “He’s such a prick.”
“Who’s a prick?” Summer asks, returning to the booth.
“Brooks Weston,” I reply. “You know, your best friend.”
“He’s not my best friend. We just went to high school together.”
Hollis lobs an accusation at her. “You partied with him a couple times this year.”
“So?”
“See this, folks?” Hollis points his index finger at Summer. “This is the face of disloyalty.”
“Who is he talking to?” I murmur to Nate. “Are we the ‘folks’?”
“I think so?”
“Oh my gosh,” Summer exclaims when Hollis starts texting again. “That girl has you completely whipped. You know you don’t have to keep texting back, right?”
“Oh really.” His blue eyes gleam in challenge. “Do you want that hurricane blowing into our house and yelling at me all night?”
“What do I care? She wouldn’t be yelling at me.”
“Oh reeaallly,” he repeats, dragging out each syllable this time. He waves his iPhone around. “All it takes is one text from me saying you said something nasty about her, and she’ll be blowing up your phone.”
Summer pales. “Don’t you dare.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Our waiter brings over the vodka shots, but we don’t drink until Hunter comes back. He flops down beside me and reaches for his glass. We all raise our shot glasses, even Hollis, though his gaze keeps darting to his phone. Whipped, all right.
“Here’s to crushing Harvard in the finals,” Nate toasts.
The vodka burns a fiery path down my throat on its way to my belly. Whew. I forgot how potent vodka is for me. For some reason, it’s the liquor that hits me the hardest.
“Ugh, that tastes like ass,” Hollis whines. “I hate vodka. And I hate this song. Is that what you picked?” he asks Summer, as Taylor Swift’s “Shake It Off” starts playing in the bar.
“What’s wrong with T-Swift?” she protests. “We love T-Swift.”
“No, we don’t love T-Swift,” he reminds her. “We love Titanic. We love the Kardashians. We love Solange. But we sure as hell don’t love T-Swift—”
He’s interrupted by the arrival of Jesse and Katie. Jesse’s in his hockey jacket, and Katie is wearing a spring coat, so I assume they’re coming over to say good night. Instead, Jesse address Nate in an outraged tone. “Come outside. Right now.”
I’m instantly on guard. You don’t usually hear the younger guys barking orders at their team captain.
“Everything okay?” Summer asks in concern.
“No. Come see this.” Without another word, Wilkes spins around and stomps toward the door.
I glance at Katie. “What’s going on?”
She simply sighs and says, “You don’t mess with a boy’s car.”
Uh-oh.
When our group steps outside, Jesse is already ten yards away, his black-and-silver jacket flapping in the evening breeze. Even if I didn’t have him as a point of reference, I’d still be able to pick out his car.
It’s the one that looks like a fluffy, white marshmallow square.
“Oh boy,” Summer murmurs.
Jesse’s car used to be a black Honda Pilot. Now it’s completely white, thanks to the shaving cream. Or maybe it’s whipped cream? When we reach the car, I dip my pinkie into the white substance and bring it up to my nose. Smells sweet. I pop the finger in my mouth and confirm that we’re dealing with whipped cream.
“Those Harvard fuckers did this,” Jesse announces, his features creased with anger. “And we can’t let them get away with it. I’m driving out there.”