He snickers. “TMI.”
“People pee, Garrett. Deal with it.”
When I come out of the bathroom a few minutes later, Garrett wears the most innocent expression on the planet. So of course, I’m instantly mistrustful. I stare at the books strewn on the mattress, then at the messenger bag I left on the floor, but nothing seems out of place.
“What did you do?” I demand.
“Nothing,” he says nonchalantly. “Anyway, I have a game tomorrow night, so our next session will have to be Sunday. Is that cool? Late afternoon-ish?”
“Sure,” I answer, but I still can’t fight the sneaking suspicion he’s up to something.
It isn’t until I walk into my dorm room fifteen minutes later that I discover my suspicions were warranted. My jaw drops in outrage when a text from Garrett comes in.
Him: Confession: I deleted all the 1 Direction from your iPod when u were in the can. You’re welcome.
Me: WHAT?? I’m going to kiss u!
Him: With tongue?
It takes me a second to realize what happened, at which point I’m completely mortified.
Me: Kill u! I meant KILL u. Damn autocorrect.
Him: Surrrrrre. Let’s blame it on autocorrect.
Me: Shut it.
Him: I think someone wants to kiss me…
Me: Goodnight, Graham.
Him: U sure you don’t want to come back here? Give our tongues some exercise?
Me: Ew. Never.
Him: Uh-huh. PS—check your email. I sent u a zip file of music. Actual music.
Me: Which will be going straight to my trash folder.
I’m grinning to myself as I send the message, and Allie chooses that exact moment to wander into my room.
“Who are you texting?” She’s drinking one of her nasty juices, and the straw pops out of her mouth as she gasps. “Holy shit! Is it Justin?”
“Naah, just Graham. He’s being an annoying jackass as per usual.”
“What, you two are friends now?” she teases.
I falter. It’s on the tip of my tongue to voice a denial, but it feels wrong when I remember I spent the past two hours confiding in Garrett about my issues with Cass and then serenading him like a frickin’ troubadour. And honestly, as insufferable as he is at times, Garrett Graham isn’t as bad as I thought he was.
So I offer a rueful grin and say, “Yeah. I guess we are.”
9
Garrett
Greg Braxton is a beast. I’m talking six-five, two hundred and twenty pounds of pure power, and the kind of speed and precision that’s going to land him a plum contract with an NHL team one day. Well, only if the league is willing to overlook all the time he spends in the sin bin. It’s the second period and Braxton has already taken three penalties, one of which resulted in a goal courtesy of Logan, who skates past the penalty box to give Braxton a smug little wave. Big mistake, because now Braxton’s back on the ice, and he’s got an axe to grind.
He slams me into the plexi so hard it jars every bone in my body, but I luckily get the pass off and shake the disoriented cobwebs from my brain in time to see Tuck flick a wrist shot past St. Anthony’s goalie. The scoreboard lights up, and even the groans and boos from the crowd don’t diminish the sense of victory coursing through my veins. Away games are never as exhilarating as home games, but I feed off the energy of the crowd, even when it’s negative.
When the buzzer signals the end of the period, we head into the locker room leading St. Anthony’s 2-0. Everyone is riding the high of the two-period shutout, but Coach Jensen won’t let us celebrate. Doesn’t matter that we’re ahead—he never lets us forget what we’re doing wrong.