The Risk (Briar U)

It’s Tuesday morning and a skinny blonde is giving me the stink eye.

My friend Audrey is supposed to be meeting me at the Coffee Hut, but she’s five minutes late. Maybe the skinny blonde at the counter is pissed that I’m taking up a two-person table for myself? But that’s bullshit. She’s alone, too. Why should she get the two-person table? This is America. First-come first-served, girlfriend.

Still, I send an SOS to Audrey, because the coffee shop is packed, and I can’t nurse the same cup of coffee for much longer without the barista coming by to tell me they need the table.

ME: Where are you? Peeps are trying to steal our table.

AUDREY: Still waiting to talk to the prof.

Ugh, really? She’s still at the lecture hall? The journalism building is a ten-minute walk from the Coffee Hut. Her next message confirms my fears.

AUDREY: I’ll be at least 15. Do you mind waiting or should we meet this afternoon?

ME: I won’t have time this afternoon 🙁 Class starts at 1, ends around 5. We can do dinner maybe?

AUDREY: Can’t 🙁

Grrr. Despite sharing a major, Audrey and I haven’t hung out in a while. We don’t interact much during classes, since most of the time we’re assigned a story on the spot and then ordered to go forth and write it. I’ve barely seen my friend Elisa this month, either. I guess it’s that time of year. Final papers and exams, the hockey season at its peak, and before we know it, it’ll be May and the semester will be over.

ME: OK, I’ll wait. I miss your face.

AUDREY: Aw love you, boo. See you soon.

“Brenna Jensen?”

I lift my head to see the stink-eye girl from the counter. She’s two feet away now, and her expression hasn’t gotten any brighter. It matches the overcast sky beyond the window.

“Who’s asking?” I ask warily.

“I’m Hazel. Hazel Simonson.”

I give her a blank look. “Okay. Do we know each other?”

A groove digs into her forehead, but I’m not quite sure what that signifies. “Jake never mentioned me?”

My hand tightens around my coffee cup. “You know Jake?”

“Yes. Very well, actually.”

I attempt to keep my expression neutral. Swear to God, if this girl tries telling me that he’s her boyfriend…

No. I’d call bullshit if she did. I don’t think Jake is a dishonest person. He said he doesn’t do girlfriends, and I don’t believe he’s got a side piece stashed somewhere.

“Can I join you?” Hazel says coolly.

“I’m actually meeting somebody—”

She sits down, anyway. “I’ll keep you company until they get here.” Hazel clasps her hands on the tabletop. “There’s a couple things we need to discuss.”

I lean back in the chair, keeping my body language relaxed. Hers is confrontational, and I always meet aggression with indifference. It’s a tactic that tends to ruffle the aggressor’s feathers. “Look. Hazel. No offense, but I don’t know you. You’re claiming to know Jake, but he hasn’t once brought up your name to me.”

Her light-brown eyes flash briefly.

“So forgive me if I don’t trust the strange girl who sits down without invitation and glares at me like I strangled her cat.” I cross my legs, loosely resting a hand on my right knee.

“I do know Jake,” Hazel says curtly. “We grew up in Gloucester together. Went to school together. I know his parents… Lily and Rory?” she prompts.

I can’t challenge her on that. Jake never mentioned his parents’ first names to me.

“We all had breakfast together on Saturday. At their place.” A trace of smugness creeps into her expression. “Jake and I took the train up.”

An unwelcome feeling pulls at my stomach.

“I know him better than anyone,” she finishes. And it’s no longer a trace—she’s smug as fuck.

“Is that so?” I drawl.

“Yes. I know he has a good head on his shoulders, and I also know he’s way smarter than he looks. He doesn’t usually get played like this.”

The lioness act is starting to grate. “He’s getting played?” Sᴇaʀch Thᴇ FindNʘᴠᴇl.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

“Don’t play dumb.” She laces her fingers together in a tight grip. “I know exactly who you are. I cyber-stalked you after he told me you were dating.”

I manage to swallow my surprise before it reaches my eyes. Jake told this chick that we were dating?

Hazel smirks. “Like I said, Jake and I are old friends. We don’t keep secrets from each other.”

That sensation in my gut intensifies. It starts churning in a hot eddy of…I think it might be jealousy. But there’s a hefty dose of anger in there, too, because who the hell is this girl?

I meet her haughty eyes. “That’s great that you two are so tight. Although if that’s truly the case, then you would know that he and I aren’t seeing each other anymore.”

Saying it out loud triggers a wave of regret. I won’t deny that I miss him. It hasn’t even been a full week since I asked him to leave my house, but it feels like forever. He’s constantly been on my mind, which has been made worse by his daily texts. The one he sent yesterday about being around if I change my mind…I almost caved and called him.

At the last second, I regained my senses. Reminded myself why it’s better that it’s over. I don’t want a boyfriend, and especially not one who’s moving to another country in a few short months. And fine, maybe a part of me is still embarrassed by what happened in my bedroom. I could barely meet Jake’s eyes afterward. He got a front-row seat to my father lecturing me in the hallway as if I was a disobedient child.

It was so humiliating.

“Yes, I do know that,” Hazel says, interrupting my thoughts. “He told me that you ended it. And say what you will about Jake, but he’s not a cynical person—”

“What does cynicism have to do with this?” I interject.

“Everything. Because I am a cynical person, and I know what you’re up to.”

“Okay.” I’m beginning to grow tired of this entire exchange.

“Coach Jensen’s daughter hooks up with the Harvard hockey captain during the playoffs. She puts him under her spell, gets under his skin, and drops him right before the biggest game of the season. And now he’s so upset he can barely focus on hockey—the only thing that’s ever mattered to him, by the way—because this girl ghosted him.”

A new emotion joins the cocktail brewing in my gut. Guilt. “He’s upset?”

“Yeah. Congratulations. You got what you wanted.”

“That’s not what I wanted at all.”

“Right. I’m sure.” She scrapes her chair back but doesn’t stand yet. “Stay away from him. Jake and I watch out for each other, we have since we were kids, and I’m not going to let some puck bunny sabotage his season or distract him from his goals.”

“You’re not going to let me, huh? I’m sorry to break it to you, but, to quote my cousin Leigh’s four-year-old daughter—you’re not the boss of me.” I chuckle. “And I’m the farthest thing from a puck bunny.”

“Right,” she drawls again.

“Oh, and FYI, I’m not sabotaging a damn thing, but that’s the last thing I’m saying on this subject. I’m not going to explain myself to you or discuss my relationship with Jake, because it’s none of your business.”

She stiffly gets to her feet. “Whatever. You ended it. Keep it that way and we won’t have a problem.”

I smile, all teeth and no warmth. “Are you done?”

“For now. Enjoy the rest of your day.” She marches to the door, and I watch as Jake’s (alleged) best friend in the whole wide world saunters out of the Coffee Hut.

On one hand, I do appreciate it when claws come out in defense of someone you care about. But I don’t appreciate the accusation that I’m sabotaging Jake’s season, or that being with him was some nefarious scheme on my part.

I didn’t intend on hooking up with him. Ed Mulder and his stupid obsession with Edmonton was the only reason Jake and I went out. And things turned physical because that’s what happens when two people have chemistry. Chemistry is hard to find and even harder to fight.

Ha. I’d like to see Hazel try to resist Jake. If he fixed that seductive green-eyed gaze on her and—

Something occurs to me. Was this encounter more than just a friend defending her friend? Does she have a thing for him?

On further thought, I realize that wouldn’t surprise me in the least.

When my phone rings, I half expect it to be Jake, and my pulse speeds up. When the words HockeyNet flash on the screen, my heart beats even faster. Finally.

I take a breath, trying to steady my nerves. “Hello?”

“May I speak to Brenna Jensen, please?” inquires a brisk female voice.

“Speaking.”

“Brenna, hi. This is Rochelle from Ed Mulder’s office. Mr. Mulder was hoping you’d be able to come in tomorrow to discuss the internship position.”

“Oh. Um.” I quickly run through tomorrow’s schedule. My first class isn’t until one o’clock again. It’ll be close, but I could make it. “Yes, but only if it’s first thing in the morning. I have a seminar at one.”

“I’m afraid he’s all booked up in the morning.” I hear typing on the other line. “How about later afternoon? Does five thirty work for you?”

“I can make it work,” I say instantly, because I’m not about to be difficult.

“Perfect. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

She disconnects.

Excitement flutters inside me. In the back of my mind, a little voice cautions me not to get ahead of myself. This doesn’t mean I got the job.

But…how am I not supposed to be hopeful? He wouldn’t make me drive all the way to Boston just to turn me down.

Nobody is that big of an asshole, right?

“We decided to go with somebody else.”

Oh. Apparently Ed Mulder is that big of an asshole.

From my perch on his visitor’s chair, I swallow my resentment and muster up a calm tone. “For all three slots?” There were three internships up for grabs.

“Yes. We’ve got some good guys coming in. Don’t get me wrong, your academics are on par, but two of them are athletes, and all three simply brought something unique to the table.”

Penises.

They brought penises to the table.

There is no doubt in my mind of that. But I force myself to remain courteous. “I see. All right. Well, thank you for your consideration.” Thank you for making me drive all the fucking way here.

He could have easily sent an email like a regular old jackass, but noooo, he had to prove that he’s a supreme jackass.

I start to get up, but Mulder chuckles and holds up a hand. “Wait. That’s not the only reason I asked you to come in.”

My butt sinks back on the chair. Despite myself, a teeny flicker of hope tickles my throat. Maybe he’s offering me a different position. Maybe a paid one, or—

“I wanted to invite you and Jake to the Bruins game this Sunday.” He beams at me, as if expecting me to clap my hands together in glee. “The network has a private box at TD Garden. Oh, my brother and sister-in-law will be there, too. Lindsay and Karen really enjoyed meeting you the other night. You ladies can catch up while us boys enjoy the game.”

Is murder illegal in Massachusetts?

It’s illegal in all fifty states, I remind myself.

Maybe I could get a good lawyer who could spin it as self-defense? Summer’s dad is a defense attorney. I’m sure he’d be able to keep me off Death Row.

The fury bubbling inside me is so close to spilling over. This asshole made me drive all the way to Boston so he could reject my internship application and invite me to talk about knitting and interior design with his wife and sister-in-law while he and my fake boyfriend get to watch my favorite hockey team.

It’s probably a good thing I don’t own a gun.

“I appreciate the invitation. I’ll have to ask Jake,” I say tightly, hoping the sheer rage isn’t showing on my face. “I’ll let you know.”

“Perfect. Hope you guys can make it. My wife can’t stop gushing about what a great couple you two make.” He winks. “Don’t worry, it’s still our little secret.”

I fake a smile. “Thank you.”

“Let me walk you out.”

“No bother!” My cheery expression is in grave danger of collapsing. “I know the way out. Enjoy the rest of your day, Mr. Mulder.”

“Ed.”

“Ed.”

The fake smile disappears the moment I exit the office. My movements are stiff as I grab my coat from the row of hooks near the door. “It was nice meeting you,” I tell Rochelle.

“Yes. Best of luck to you,” she says sympathetically.

I step out into the corridor, but I don’t leave the building right away. I want to walk by the studio one last time, give it one last longing look. When I reach the cavernous space, there’s a news show in progress. I creep in, keeping a discreet distance, and watch as two analysts recap last night’s Ottawa Senators game and the game-winning goal by Brody Lacroix. One of them says, “Geoff spoke to Brody after the game. Here’s what the rookie had to say.”

From the corner of my eye, I catch a flurry of activity in the control booth. The director signals to someone, and a video of the interview suddenly comes on the screen between the two hosts. Geoff Magnolia’s annoying face appears. He’s the one who does most of the locker room interviews after games, and players view him as “one of the bros.”

Most of the time, Magnolia is too busy exchanging wisecracks with the players to ask about the actual game. With this Senators’ game, however, he’s attempting to be a real journalist while chatting with star player Brody Lacroix. They discuss Lacroix’s success in the third period, as well as his overall success during the season so far. At three different times, Magnolia says that Lacroix’s parents must be very proud of their son, and all three times, Lacroix gives an uncomfortable half-smile before finally mumbling some lame answer and turning away.

I shake my head. “Moron,” I mutter at the same time that a low female voice growls, “Idiot.”

I spin around to find Georgia Barnes, my idol, standing a few feet away. She eyes me, looking intrigued.

“And it’s time for a commercial,” one of the hosts tells the audience. “After the break, we’ll catch up with Herbie Handler down in Nashville and hear his predictions for tonight’s Predators matchup against the Flyers.”

“And we’re out,” a cameraman barks.

As if a switch has been flipped, the set comes to life. Bodies rush by, the chatter of voices echoing in the studio. “Someone fix that light!” one of the hosts complains. “It’s burning my goddamn retinas.”

A lowly assistant sprints over to deal with the lights. Georgia Barnes glances at me again, then walks off the set.

I hesitate for a beat. Then I hurry after her, awkwardly calling out her name.

She stops in the brightly lit corridor, turning to face me. She’s wearing a black pinstripe skirt, a white silk top, and black flats. Despite the elegant attire, I know that she has a fiery streak in her.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” I tell her. “But I wanted to let you know what a huge fan I am. I think you’re one of the sharpest, most intelligent journalists in the country.”

Georgia responds with a warm smile. “Thank you. I appreciate that.” Her shrewd gaze sweeps over me. “Do you work here?”

I shake my head. “In fact, I was just informed that I didn’t get the internship I applied for.”

“I see.” She nods ruefully. “It’s a competitive program, from what I hear.” A dry note enters her voice. “Although you should probably be prepared—this entire industry is competitive. Even more so for women.”

“So I hear.”

She studies my face again. “Why did you call Geoff Magnolia a moron?”

A rush of heat suffuses my cheeks, and I hope to hell I’m not blushing. “Uh, right. Yes. I’m sorry I said that—”

“Don’t be sorry. But tell me why you did.”

I offer an awkward shrug. “Because of the questions he was asking. Someone needs to tell that man to perform at least a modicum of research before his interviews. He asked about Lacroix’s parents three times.”

“So what?” Georgia says. Her tone is light, but I sense she’s testing me.

“So the kid’s mom died of cancer less than a month ago, and he looked like he was about to burst into tears. Magnolia should’ve known about that.”

“Yes. He should have. But as we’ve established, Geoff Magnolia is a moron.” She lowers her voice conspiratorially. “I’ll tell you a secret—what’s your name?”

“Brenna.”

“I’ll tell you a secret, Brenna. Magnolia is the rule, not the exception. If you ever find yourself working here someday, be prepared to deal with morons on a daily basis. Or worse, sexist blowhards who will spend every minute of every day telling you that you don’t belong here because you have a vagina.”

I smile halfheartedly. “I think I experienced that today.”

Her features soften. “Sorry to hear that. All I can say is, don’t let one rejection, one door-slam, stop you from trying again. Continue applying to networks, cable stations, anywhere that’s hiring.” She winks. “Not everybody wants to keep us out, and a change is coming. Albeit slowly, but I promise you it’s coming.”

I feel a bit awestruck as Georgia squeezes my arm before sauntering off. I have faith that she’s right, that a change is coming. But I wish it would hurry up. It took decades for female reporters to be allowed to interview athletes in the locker room. It required a Sports Illustrated reporter to file a lawsuit before a court finally ruled that banning female journalists from locker room interviews violated the 14th Amendment.

And yet changing laws does nothing to change social attitudes. ESPN has made strides by hiring more female columnists, analysts. But it pisses me off that women in sports continue to face hostility and sexist behaviors when they’re simply trying to do their jobs, just like their male counterparts.

“Brenna, hey!” Mischa, the stage manager I met last week, bumps into me near the elevator bank. “You’re back.”

“I’m back,” I say wryly.

“Good news, I assume?”

“Sadly, no. Mr. Mulder asked me to come so he could tell me to my face that I didn’t get the job.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. That sucks.” He shakes his head, visibly disappointed. “I would’ve enjoyed having you around.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sure the new interns will be great.”

“Maybe. But I have a feeling Mulder is missing out by letting you go.”

“Feel free to tell him that.” When the elevator doors slide open, I reach out to touch his arm. “It was nice to meet you, Mischa.”

“Nice meeting you too, Brenna.”

My smile fades once I’m alone in the elevator. Tears prick my eyes, but I order myself not to cry. I’m not allowed to cry. It was just an internship. I’m sure I can find a local TV or radio station to gopher at this summer, and in the fall I can reapply at HockeyNet, or maybe I’ll find an even better work placement. This isn’t the end of the world.

But dammit, I really, really wanted this internship.

My fingers tremble as I pull my phone out of my purse. I should order a car to take me to the train station. Instead, I think about Jake’s text from yesterday, the one urging me to call him.

I bite my lip.

Calling him is probably a terrible idea.

But I do it, anyway.

“Wow, you’re talking to me again,” Jake says when we meet up twenty minutes later. “What did I do to deserve this honor?”

My spirits are so low I can’t even conjure up a sarcastic remark. “I didn’t get the internship,” I say flatly. “Mulder chose three guys with penises instead of me.”

“As opposed to guys without penises?” He smiles, but his humor doesn’t linger. “I’m sorry, Hottie. That sucks.” He reaches out as if to touch me, but then thinks better of it and drops his arm to his side.

We’re on the front steps of the Bright-Landry Hockey Center, which feels like absolute blasphemy. Luckily, none of his teammates are around. When I called him, he admitted that practice ended hours ago and he’d stayed behind to watch game tape on his own. That’s dedication. And while I admire it, that also means I have to meet him here instead of his condo. The condo would have been highly preferable.

To add insult to injury, the sky decides to mimic my mood, taking this exact moment as opportunity to dump a mountain of rain on us. It’s been cloudy and chilly all day, but suddenly the sky is black and it’s pouring buckets, soaking our hair in seconds.

“Come inside,” Jake urges, grabbing my hand.

We rush into the building, where I cringe at the sight of the championship pennants and all the framed crimson jerseys. “What if someone sees us?” I hiss as I shove my damp hair away from my forehead.

“Then they see us. Who cares? We’re just talking, right?”

“I feel exposed. We’re too out in the open,” I grumble.

He rolls his eyes. “Fine. Let’s go to the media room. It’s private and I’m the only one in there.”

I follow him down the hall, my gaze eating up his long stride. It’s been less than a week since I last saw him, and somehow I forgot how tall he is, how attractive. He didn’t hug or kiss me hello. I didn’t hug or kiss him hello, either. Now I kinda wish I had.

In a state-of-the-art media room that rivals the one we have at Briar, I unzip my leather jacket and drape it over the back of a nearby chair. Then I plop into one of the plush chairs and stick out my chin glumly. “I really wanted that internship.”

“I know you did.” Jake settles in the chair next to mine, stretching those impossibly long legs out in front him. “But maybe it’s a blessing in disguise. Even if he hadn’t been your direct supervisor, you still would’ve had to interact with Mulder. And that guy is the worst.”

“True.” I suddenly notice the image on the big screen. It’s Hunter Davenport’s lean body crouching during a faceoff. “Spying, are we?” I crack.

“It’s not spying, it’s due diligence. And don’t tell me your boys aren’t doing the exact same thing right now.”

“Well, I didn’t come here to reveal Briar secrets, so don’t ask me anything about my boys.”

He glances over, his chiseled face serious. “Then why are you here?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, your cousin lives in the city. And I assume you have other friends here, too.”

“So?”

“So why was I the first person you called after you got the bad news?”

I flick my gaze to his. “You don’t know that you’re the first person I called. Maybe nobody else picked up.”

“Did you call anybody else?” Jake asks politely.

“No,” I admit, which forces me to look inward, because why did I call him? We went on a couple of dates, talked on the phone a few times, fooled around a time or two. There is no reason why Jake should have been my go-to comfort person today. I have a good support system—Summer, Audrey, Elisa, to name a few. Why didn’t I reach out to any of them?

“Why me?” he pushes.

I let out a frazzled breath. “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.” He chuckles softly. “You like me.”

“I don’t like you.”

“Yes, you do. That’s why you kicked me out last week.”

“No, I kicked you out because my father was standing outside the door while we were sixty-nine-ing.”

Jake makes a growly sound. “You just had to bring that up.”

“What, my father?”

“No, what we were doing.” His eyes gleam seductively. “Now I’m hard.”

“I feel like you’re always hard,” I grumble back.

“Come here and test that theory.” He pats his lap, while enticingly waggling his eyebrows.

I can’t stop a laugh. “What theory? You already admitted to being hard.”

He crosses his ankles together, staring down at his Converse sneakers for a few seconds. “Okay. So you’re saying you threw me out because your father almost caught us.”

“Yup.”

That’s not entirely true. I kicked him out because I refused to show him any more vulnerability. In the span of an hour or two, I allowed him to see how badly I wanted him, how wildly he turned me on. I allowed him to overhear a mortifying exchange with my father, in which I was admonished like a child and accused of being a train wreck.

I don’t want anybody else, let alone a guy, to ever view me the way my father does.

I feel Jake’s gaze on me. “What?” I mutter.

“I don’t believe what you’re saying.” His tone roughens. “What are you so afraid will happen if we keep seeing each other?”

“I’m not afraid. I simply don’t see the point when it can’t go anywhere.”

“Do you only spend time with guys you think it’ll go somewhere with?”

“No.”

He looks thoughtful. “C’mere.”

Before I can blink, he’s tugging me off my chair. I wind up in his lap, and the bulge in his jeans is impossible to miss or ignore. I sigh in resignation, adjusting my position so that I’m straddling him. His quickly growing erection is pressed directly against my core, and it feels so good I can’t help but rock against it.

Jake makes a husky sound. He slides one big hand to the base of my spine, while the other moves upward to tangle in my hair.

Against my better judgment, I lower my head. My tongue prods the seam of his lips, and he parts them to grant me access. I whimper when my tongue touches his. He tastes like mint gum and his lips are so soft and warm. I lock my hands around his neck, losing myself in the heat of him.

“Kissing you makes me so hard,” he murmurs.

“You were hard before I kissed you.”

“Yeah, because I was thinking about kissing you.”

I laugh, and it comes out a bit breathless. “You’re—” A crash of thunder drowns out my voice. The overhead lights flicker for a second.

Jake’s dark eyebrows fly up. “Shit, that was nuts.”

I stroke the wispy hairs at his nape. “Aw, Jakey. Are you scared?”

“Terrified,” he whispers.

Our lips meet at the same time the lights flicker again. This time they go out.

Darkness engulfs us. But instead of jumping up in a panic, we kiss harder. Jake’s hands travel beneath my black sweater. He pulls the thin material up to reveal my bra, but he doesn’t unclasp it, just pushes it down to reveal my boobs. Wet heat surrounds my nipple. He draws it deep in his mouth, and I shiver uncontrollably.

He squeezes my breasts while continuing to lave my nipple, licking and suckling until it grows impossibly harder in his mouth. I moan, louder than I should considering our surroundings.

Jake responds by capturing my other nipple and teasing it senseless. Then he gives an upward thrust, rubbing our lower bodies together. God. This guy. I’m so hot for him, it’s insane.

The room is still dark, but just when I’m starting to get used to it, the fluorescent lights flash back on.

Jake lifts his head, his gaze burning as he gets a nice eyeful of my chest. “So fucking beautiful.”

Groaning, he cups both my breasts before burying his face between them.

And that’s when Coach Pedersen walks into the room.