Shit. I completely forgot about Zach’s big night.
Honey:Sorry I missed your calls earlier, Chris took me to watch his hockey practice, and the ice rink has no signal. Good luck with Jacob! Call meafter your dinner, I want to hear all about it. Love you, Z.
Just as I send that text, another one comes through.
Unknown:Have you seen the picture of the kiss yet?
Block.
I shake my head, putting my phone in my pocket because I know they’re lying. I trust Zach, and I refuse to let some anonymous idiot get to me anymore. Not after today. Sitting in that ice rink brought me more clarity than I care to admit.
I’m not alone, anymore, and even though I don’t know what I want to do with my degree, it doesn’t feel as big of an issue. Not when I have people who see me, whochooseme, even when the rest of the world wants to make me believe I don’t belong.
Maybe for the first time since arriving at St. Michael’s, I feel like that’s enough.
Honey:Sorry I missed your calls earlier, Chris took me to watch his hockey practice, and the ice rink has no signal. Good luck with Jacob! Call me after your dinner, I want to hear all about it. Love you, Z.
I read the message. Then again. Okay, I read it a third time.
Chris. The ice rink.Practice?
This text has turned me into a Neanderthal because what the fuck is she doing there?
My grip around the phone tightens and I fight every urge to text back exactly how I’m feeling. Of course, the minute I leave her alone that preppy asshole has to step in, and Honey falls right for it because they’refriends.
Fuck me. She went to his fucking practice?! When I have tobegher to come to mine.
What the fuck is going on?
Taking a deep breath, I set the phone down carefully, resisting the urge to throw it across this pretentious restaurant and accidentally knock a waiter out.
Honey wouldn’t cheat. Not after what happened to her. She went there for a reason, and he was there to help her.
I talk to myself, but it’s having no effect on my mood.
He helped her. Not me. Not her fucking boyfriend.
I crack my neck and blow out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
“Get your shit together, Evans,” I whisper to myself. “Jacob Miller doesn’t invite a college quarterback to fancy restaurants because he’s feeling charitable.”
This dinner is too important to blow off because I’m spiraling over a text message from my girl. One I’m adding my own annotations to without getting the full facts.
I glance around, trying not to gape at the place Jacob picked. It’s not some candlelit five-star deal—it’s a sports bar. Well… an exclusive sports bar with leather booths, flat screens bigger than Honey’s dorm room, and jerseys framed like museum art. The orange and yellow hues of the skyline shine through the floor-to-ceiling windows, but what really throws me is the crowd.
There are Carolina pro athletes everywhere. I could’ve sworn I bumped into Tate Sorenson and Grayson Hawk of the Carolina Catfish before I walked in, and I had to act like I wasn’t freaking the fuck out over it. These are guys I grew up watching and I can’t believe Jacob wanted to take me here. I should be revelingin this opportunity and networking with the guys, but instead, I’m worrying about a hockey player stealing my spot back home.
“Fuck’s sake,” I mumble. If Honey was really doing something with Chris, she wouldn’t outright tell me, would she? It sounds rational, but I can’t stop imagining her sitting in the stands, watching Chris glide around the ice with those damn giant heart eyes she gives me. She wouldn’t be wearing his jersey. She wouldn’t cheer the way she does with me, but did he—
“Zach fucking Evans!”
I look up to see Jacob Miller slipping what looks like a folded bill to the waitress before heading my way. He’s in a white shirt and Ardent Jeans—no surprise there since he’s their ambassador—and the grin on his face lights up the whole damn room.
I stand, shoving my phone into my pocket and forcing a smile. “Mr. Miller. Good to see you again.”
He waves off my hand. “Please. It’s Jacob.” Then he pulls me into a bro hug, nearly squeezing the life out of me. “Look at you,” he says, stepping back to give me a once-over. “Packed on some muscle since summer camp. Coach Summers got you running laps until you puke?”
“Every damn day,” I admit, dropping back into my chair. “But it’s paying off. We’re still undefeated.”