“It was an accident,” Brooks protests.
As they argue, a familiar face catches my eye. It’s the girl from the Coffee Hut—Jake’s friend. Hazel, was it? She’s moving through the crowd, scanning faces until her gaze suddenly collides with mine. Then she notices Jake standing two feet away from me, and a frown mars her face.
I tense in anticipation of her approach, but for some reason she stays rooted in place. Interesting. Didn’t she proclaim herself Jake’s closest friend and confidante?
I arch a brow in her direction. Her frown deepens.
As I break the eye contact, my peripheral vision snags on another familiar figure. I turn to see my father emerging from the corridor. Unfortunately, his arrival is perfectly timed with that of Daryl Pedersen.
Uh-oh.
The two coaches exchange a few words as they fall into step with each other. Dad is stone-faced, as per usual. He nods at something Pedersen says. I can easily guess their exchange—the usual good game, thanks, some fake camaraderie. But as they get closer, I distinctly hear Pedersen say, “Nice try.”
I’m not sure what he means, and I guess Dad is also stumped, because rather than walk away, he stops. “What do you mean by that?”
“You know exactly what I mean. Solid effort with the tricks.” Pedersen chuckles. When he notices me standing near Jake, his eyebrows flick up, and a little smirk forms on his lips.
A sick feeling swirls in my stomach.
Since my father doesn’t think rationally when it comes to the Harvard coach, he digs his feet in, his stance aggressive. “What tricks?” he asks coldly.
“I’m just saying, your plan to distract my star player didn’t work.”
From the corner of my eye, I see Jake frown.
“I didn’t expect that of you, though.” Pedersen shrugs. “Not the Chad I know, that’s for sure.”
Jake steps closer to me, and it feels almost like a protective gesture. My father doesn’t notice, however. He’s too busy glowering at Pedersen. The interaction has drawn a small audience, mostly comprised of Briar players.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” my father says irritably.
“I’m sure you don’t.” Pedersen laughs again. “But it’s nice knowing you’re not above pimping out your own daughter.”
Oh my God.
Silence descends, like dead air in a live newscast. My pulse races, and I’m pretty sure my blood pressure has dropped, because I’m feeling light-headed.
Dad glances at me for a second, before directing a glacial stare at his nemesis. “As usual, Daryl, you’re talking out of your ass.”
The other man cocks a brow. “To be honest, it was extremely satisfying being proven right. I’ve always suspected you’re not the honorable, rule-abiding martyr you present yourself as. The pillar of honesty and integrity, right?” Pedersen rolls his eyes. “Always thought it was an act. And while I’m glad to know the level you’ll stoop to, for chrissake, Chad. Your daughter setting up a honey trap for Connelly? I get that you hate me, but come on, that move was beneath you.”
Pedersen stalks off, leaving my father and the rest of our audience to absorb the impact of his accusation. Several seconds of silence pass.
Summer is the first to address the issue. “Bee?” she says uncertainly. “Is that true?”
And suddenly all eyes are on me and Jake.
31
Brenna
Twenty-four hours after the shit show that was the conference finals, I’m still dealing with the fallout. My anger over Daryl Pedersen’s actions hasn’t abated in the slightest. That spiteful dickhead didn’t need to drop that bomb and certainly not in public. After he did that, the Harvard players followed him, my dad ushered the Briar boys onto the bus, and I drove home with Summer, who was visibly hurt that I’d kept her in the dark about me and Jake Connelly.
But at least she’s still talking to me. My father hasn’t said one word to me since last night. I genuinely don’t know if he’s pissed or simply indifferent. I’m definitely not confused about how Nate and the others feel, however.
The guys are outraged. Hollis called me a traitor last night. Nate, still sore about being ejected from the finals, was livid that I would even dare to be with a Harvard guy after the bullshit Jonah Hemley pulled during the game. And when I got home from Cambridge, Hunter bitterly texted me: Wrist’s broken in 2 places. Thank your boyfriend for me.
They’re being babies. I’m well aware of this. But these babies are still my friends, and they dealt with a brutal loss yesterday. A loss that might not have occurred if Jake’s teammate hadn’t instigated Hunter’s and Nate’s ejections.
Doesn’t matter that Jake himself wasn’t responsible. He’s the Harvard captain, he’s the enemy, and I’m an asshole for “choosing him over us”—Hollis’s words, not mine.
“I still can’t believe you don’t trust me.”
Summer’s unhappy voice echoes in my ear. I’m lying on my bed staring up at the ceiling, trying to ignore my rumbling stomach. I’d hoped Summer’s phone call would distract me from the hunger, but no such luck. Sooner or later I’ll have to drag myself downstairs to find something to eat. Which means having to face my father, who’s been holed up in the living room all evening.