Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
HUNTER
M y fingers tap along to the opening chords of “Don’t Stop Believing” as I study one of the vintage postcards sealed in the surface of the table. There are dozens of them—decorated with palm trees and sailboats and piers. The one half-covered by my bottle of beer shows a convertible cruising along the Pacific Coast Highway with a surfboard sticking out of the back. Blue sea and blue sky are the only backdrop.
If Eve were sitting next to me, I’d point it out to her. Ask if she’s ever painted the Sound. I’ve never seen any of her art, and I really want to. When she was sketching in the car, she looked so peaceful. It kinda reminded me of Hart, how the ice is so obviously his happy place.
Except, with hockey, I feel like there’s less mystery. Yeah, some guys are naturally more talented than others. But there’s also a huge element of hard work. And that hard work consists of the same things. There’s no sense of secrecy, like with the yellow sketchbook Eve was working in. Trying to guess what she would draw kept me entertained for a good hour.
Flowers, like the ones painted on her pants? Birds? Cars? Abstract shapes? Does she consciously decide or is it like skating for her, when your muscles know exactly what to do without you making a conscious decision?
A nudge to my ribs—courtesy of Aidan’s sharp elbow—makes me glance up. “Give it a go, Morgan.”
“Go at what?” I ask absently.
I basically tuned him—and everyone—out ten minutes ago so I could focus on staying awake. I’m attempting not to be a wet blanket, but I’m fucking exhausted. I don’t think I ever fell back asleep last night, so I’m going on about three hours of sleep.
“Hitting on Eve,” Aidan answers.
That gets my attention.
I look at Eve, which I’ve been avoiding doing. I’m genuinely concerned I’m not going to be able to avert my eyes after a polite amount of time has passed.
The shirt she’s wearing?
Fuck. Me.
That’s what I imagine that shirt would say, if articles of clothing could talk. There’s absolutely no way Eve’s wearing a bra under it, and her tits are wrapped up like a goddamn Christmas present with a few bows on top.
And…shit, I’m staring.
I quickly glance at my smirking best friend instead. “What are you talking about, Phillips?”
“Eve’s on the prowl tonight. Hart and I are taken, so you’ve gotta do the practice run.” Aidan grins. “Pretend to pick Eve up, and then we can give her some constructive criticism.”
“Stop making me sound like a jungle cat, Aidan,” Eve says.
When I glance her way again—not looking can be as conspicuous as staring—Eve’s cheeks are the same shade as raspberries. From embarrassment, or from the multiple rounds of shots Conor and I opted out of. He’s driving and I’m having enough trouble staying awake semi-sober.
Eve seems to be studiously avoiding eye contact with me as she tells Aidan, “And a practice run is totally unnecessary. I’ve successfully flirted with guys without coaching, thank you very much.”
“You’ve gotta be a little rusty, though,” Phillips replies. “Weren’t you with your loser ex for like three years?”
“Forty-one months,” Eve mutters, then sips more of her drink.
It’s almost empty. Between that and the shots, she’s gotta be pretty buzzed by now.
Aidan’s forehead furrows. “Huh?”
“Three years and five months,” Rylan supplies.
Aidan rolls his eyes, then tugs on her ponytail affectionately. “Nerd alert. Anyway, as I was saying, you’re rusty. A little practice never hurt anyone.” He smirks. “Plus, Morgan’s moves are legendary. I could use some entertainment.”
I’m still five steps behind in this conversation.
When was it decided that Eve was “on the prowl” tonight? If I’d known I was going to have to sit and watch her flirt with other guys, I would’ve driven slower and delayed our arrival. Or stayed home and slept.
I glower at Aidan as he continues grinning at me.
I’m not legendary at picking up women; I’m absolute shit at it. I make meaningless small talk or resort to cliché lines I’ve heard teammates use over the years. The biggest problem is—and I’m aware how conceited it sounds—I’ve never had to work very hard at picking a woman up. No matter how little I say, no matter what I say, she’s interested. I’ve never needed moves.
The irony is not lost on me that I’ve done a “practice run” with Eve before. Or that, under different circumstances—like the absence of our friends and her not fresh off a breakup—a chance to flirt with Eve Driscoll would be the highlight of my year.
Considering I won a national championship a couple of weeks ago, that’s fucking saying something.
“I’m going to grab another drink,” Eve announces, standing.
I glance at her glass. It’s now empty.
Eve’s seemed…off since she joined us at the table. I’m assuming it has to do with the phone call right after we arrived. Her ex, maybe? She didn’t offer any information when she returned, and it’s not my place to ask. Just like it’s not my place to suggest she slow down on the drinks.
“Order at the left end,” Harlow suggests, winking.
I glance at the bar. There’s a cluster of guys standing at the left end, right by the jukebox that’s blaring Journey.
Eve giggles, then heads in that direction.
I start picking at the wet label on my beer bottle. Flecks of sticky paper fall on the postcard I was studying earlier. I should order another beer. No one else seems inclined to head out anytime soon, and sipping gives me something to do. Plus, watching Eve “prowl” will be easier to stomach with a little more alcohol in my system.
Our waitress comes by a couple of minutes later, and I request a second round.
“Attaboy, Morgan!” Aidan elbows my ribs again. “Ten o’clock.”
I glance in that direction. Two women are looking this way.
I drop my gaze before even registering their hair color. “Not tonight.”
Phillips groans. “C’mon, man. Go get laid. I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t be. I’m fine.”
Exhausted is more like it. Not just from the lack of sleep, but emotionally drained as well. Stuck waiting for the ticking time bomb my brother has turned into to detonate all over again.
Dealing with Sean is…well, there isn’t really a coherent way to describe what it’s like watching someone you love repeat the same destructive cycle over and over again.
I’ve never mentioned my brother to anyone at Holt. Growing up in a small town meant everyone knew . Coming to college was an escape from it all. A fresh start. But there are times, like now, when it would be nice to tell my best friend that I’m in a shitty mood because I got a call from my brother. For him to understand what that means without having to explain—and relive—it all.
“Leave him alone, Phillips,” Conor says. Before I can feel too grateful, he adds, “Morgan probably has performance anxiety. He knows we’ll all be here, watching him.”
I flip Hart off.
I’m not self-conscious about flirting in front of my friends. I feel weird about hitting on someone else in front of Eve. But she clearly doesn’t have the same hang-up—three of the guys at the bar are gathered around her now—and that’s only exacerbating my shitty mood.
Maybe I should have made a move last night. Too late now, which is an unfortunate theme of my interactions with Eve.
“Wanna go play darts?” Aidan asks me.
I cover a yawn with my palm. “Maybe later, okay?”
Aidan studies me, his forehead creasing a little, before nodding. I must really look like shit, because he gives me a break rather than continue to badger me. “Yeah, okay.” He turns to Rylan, who’s sitting on his other side. “Dance with me, Rye.”
Rylan glances around. “No one else is dancing, Aidan.”
“So? More room for us. C’mon.”
Rylan shakes her head. But she takes his hand and they head for the small section of open floor between the jukebox and the pool table.
“Weird, huh?” Conor asks me as we watch Aidan twirl Rylan around.
They’re both laughing. They look joyful. In love.
And I hate the little pang of jealousy that hits in the center of my chest. Hate that I resent my best friend’s happiness because I’m sitting next to an empty chair.
The muscles on the right side of my neck are going stiff from the effort of not turning my head in Eve’s direction.
I’m yanked out of my thoughts by a small earthquake hitting my chair. I startle, focusing on a somber Conor sitting across from me with raised eyebrows.
“Did you seriously just kick my chair?” I ask.
“Yep. What’s up with you, man? You’ve been somewhere else since we got here.”
Harlow’s head turns from watching Aidan and Rylan dance, twin lines appearing between her eyes as she studies me too.
Great, everyone’s worried about me.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Just tired. I didn’t get a great night’s sleep.”
I wait for Harlow to joke about the bathroom incident. But instead she asks, “Are you dating Holly Johnson?”
Hart’s full attention is on me as he waits for an answer.
“What?” I respond. “No. Where did you hear that?”
“Eve mentioned she saw you guys last weekend.”
Eve thinks I’m dating Holly? She must have seen us together after she literally ran into me in the hallway. That’s…not ideal. That date was disastrous for reasons I didn’t even realize.
“Uh, yeah. We went out. But we’re definitely not dating.”
Conor nods once. “Oh, right. The bad date.”
“The date was bad?” Harlow sounds sympathetic. And curious. A little amused. If I had a sister, this is how I imagine she’d ask about my love life.
“It wasn’t great,” I say diplomatically.
“What happened?”
I exhale. “She really wanted to share a meal. Like really wanted to. Kept asking me about every item on the menu, even though I’d already told her twenty times I’d decided on pizza?—”
Hart makes a choked coughing sound that’s an obvious attempt to cover a laugh.
Harlow elbows him. “Ignore Conor.”
I roll my eyes. “We just…we didn’t have a lot to say to each other. Dinner was awkward, and then she wanted to hook up after. I told her I wasn’t in the mood, and that went over…badly.”
“You shot her down?” Hart asks.
“I wasn’t a dick about it,” I say defensively. “But…yeah. And she didn’t take it super well. We cleared the air a little before break, but there’s nothing going on there. You can tell Eve I’m not dating her.”
Harlow’s forehead creases with confusion. “Why would I tell Eve that?”
Crap. I fumble for some explanation that doesn’t involve me caring that her best friend knows I’m single.
“Just…I’m sick of the rumor mill. I don’t want her—or anyone else—spreading inaccurate information about me.”
Harlow scoffs. “Hunter, I hate to break it to you, but girls are going to keep spreading inaccurate information about you. It’s the plague of being popular.”
I swig the last of my beer. “I’m not popular.”
Harlow shakes her head, like she disagrees with me but doesn’t want to bother arguing.
I’m not trying to be humble. I’ve always been the serious, quiet guy who rarely says or does anything remarkable. The interest in me is all secondhand. In high school, it was because of Sean. At Holt, it’s because of Conor and Aidan. If I am popular, it’s only by association.
I stand. “Gonna find the bathroom.”
“I think they’re by the entrance,” Harlow tells me. “I saw them when we came in.”
I nod my thanks, then head in that direction. As I walk, my eyes don’t wander toward the bar once.
My willpower is pretty solid.
Sometimes, I think it’s too solid.