GARRETT
“Nnnewwwm.”
“Nnnewm!” “Nnneeewm!”
“For fuck’s sake.” Adam’s solid body connects with mine, knocking me into Carter. He sandwiches the two of us between him and the boards. “Would you two shut the fuck up? Enough with the sound effects. You’re not fucking race cars.”
I tuck my glove under my arm and nab Adam’s water bottle from where it’s cradled on top of the net. Water dribbles down my neck and beneath my chest protector as I squirt it into my mouth. “You’re just jealous ’cause you can’t skate as fast as us.”
Adam shifts his mask up and steals his water back. “When I’m wearing fifty pounds of goalie equipment? No, I can’t, and I highly doubt either of you could.”
Carter’s chest puffs. “I could do it.”
Adam snorts. “Okay, bud. Whatever you say.” “What? I could. Strap me up; let’s have a race.” I snicker. “Strap me up. That’s what Ollie said.”
“Boom.” Emmett knocks his gloved fist off mine as he laughs. “Just don’t tell her I laughed at that. She’s a thousand times scarier pregnant.”
Carter doesn’t appear to find it funny. With a battle cry that echoes across the rink, he tackles me to the ice,
smothering my face with his glove.
“Get off me!” I yell, flailing my arms. “Adam! Help!” “Jesus Christ,” Coach mutters, spraying us with a
shower of ice when he stops next to us. “Sometimes I think I’m coaching peewee, not men’s professional hockey. My daughter is more grown-up than you two, and she’s an infant.” He snaps his fingers and gestures behind him. “Beckett, Andersen, off your asses and give me five laps.”
Carter rolls to his feet and tugs me up. “Race ya.”
I shake the snow from my jersey. “You’re so unnecessarily competitive.”
“Yeah, and I—”
“Loser buys lunch!” Frosty air nips at my cheeks as I tear down the ice, Carter hot on my heels, hollering after me. And that’s exactly how, two hours later, I wind up facedown in a pile of chicken wings and pizza I don’t have to pay for, with Carter still giving me the stink eye, grumbling about cheating.
“You don’t know how to lose,” Emmett tells him, dropping an entire slice of pizza in his mouth. “Not a good trait.”
“I didn’t lose! He cheated!” Carter grabs the slice from my hand. “Gimme that.”
Adam slides another slice onto my plate. “Jennie all moved into her new place?”
Carter nods. “Moved in yesterday.” His gaze meets mine. “You see her this morning?”
I don’t lie often—this morning excluded, when I may or may not have said I was afraid of elevators, and that I hurt my knee—and I’m shit at it. But there was something vulnerable in Jennie’s eyes today, something sad and uncertain hidden behind her usual boldness. Something that said she didn’t want anyone to see her anything less than confident, not the way her chin trembled, the way she swallowed when I mentioned the day, or the way she hadn’t bothered to dress.
So I lie. Again.
“I haven’t seen her.”
“I thought you might if you were sneaking outta your friend’s place again.”
Heat claws up my neck. “I wasn’t sneaking out, and I haven’t been there again.”
“Finally got laid, eh, buddy?” Emmett clinks his glass against mine.
“Is sleeping with someone who lives in your building a good idea?” Amusement and concern mix in Adam’s question. “Or is it serious?”
“It’s not serious. And we weren’t really sleeping together.” At the looks I get, I relent. “Okay, but it was only a couple times. It’s hard to meet girls. All you guys wanna do is look at pictures of your wives and talk about how their hair smells like banana bread or some shit. You’re all pussy- whipped.”
“Adam is whipped by no pussy,” Carter retorts. “He’s a free man, and thank fuck for that.”
Adam chuckles, his cheeks pink. “Wish I could be a better wingman for you. I’m just not really ready for a relationship.”
Carter shoves a deep-fried pickle into his mouth. “You could just fuck, like Garrett.”
“I’m not—” I bury my face in my hands. “Ugh.”
He points at me with his half-eaten pickle. “Jennie was not impressed with you, by the way.”
“What? Why?” Stupid question. Between the wedding and the run-in at the condo, I’ve made less than stellar impressions. I’m hoping today fixed that, even if my original plan was to leave the drinks outside her door and never tell her they were from me.
“Something about not wanting to be subjected to you fucking her neighbor.”
It’s Carter’s fault, but then it almost always is. Had he told me they’d be there, I absolutely wouldn’t have been at
Emily’s. Fuck, he hadn’t even told me his sister was moving in. The woman turns me on while simultaneously scaring me shitless with only the look in her eyes, which is always super fucking ferocious, and now I have to lie so we don’t wind up in the elevator together.
Carter fishes his ringing phone out of his pocket. “Speak of the devil. Hey, Jennie. We were just talk—” His smile falls. “Whoa, hold on. Why are you crying? Take a deep breath.” He runs a frantic hand through his hair, tugging. “I don’t know how to—I don’t—how can I—I don’t know how to help you from here,” he finally settles on, half scream, and his eyes get wider the longer he listens to Jennie’s frantic rambling.
My experience in dealing with upset females is extremely limited to my three younger sisters. As complicated as they are, I don’t think they even tip the scale. Still, I find myself murmuring, “Remind her to breathe,” to Carter.
He nods. “Okay, Jennie. Take a deep breath.” He inhales deeply, over and over, winding his hand in a circle as if Jennie can see him. “Okay, good. Now tell me again.” His brows tug together. “Princess Bubblegum?”
My beer slides down the wrong tube, and I cough, sputtering into my hand.
“I don’t know where Princess Bubblegum is.” Carter sighs. “We’ll find her, ’kay? I promise. She’s gotta be around somewhere.”
I’m on my fourth slice of pizza when Carter hangs up the call, explaining about Jennie’s missing stuffed animal, the one their dad got her, and I know the second he sets those puppy dog eyes on me that I’m fucked. Royally fucked.
I shake my head before he even opens his mouth. “Please,” he begs.
“Aw, man.” I fold over the table. “C’mon.”
“Just check on her on your way up. Just a minute. She wouldn’t stop crying.”
“She doesn’t even like me! She hates me!” “She loves you!”
“You didn’t even try to make it sound convincing!” I slump in my chair. “She’s not gonna wanna see me. Probably throw a pillow at my head or something.”
“Nah.” Carter grins. “It’s the heels you gotta watch out for.”
What am I doing?
Stupid condo. Stupid Carter.
No, I’m not doing it. I’m not going. I refuse. Carter can’t make me. And Jennie won’t know if I don’t go. It’s not like Carter’s gonna tell her he sent me to check up on her.
It’s decided. I won’t go. I press for the penthouse and sink back against the elevator wall with a relieved sigh.
I watch the light above the doors bounce from one floor to the next, and as it climbs toward that 21, I groan.
I slam the emergency stop button the moment I pass Jennie’s floor, catching myself on the railing when the elevator bounces to a stop. It whirs to life when I hit it a second time, and I jab 21 just once, nice and hard, and drag my hands over my face.
A minute later, I’ve got my hockey bag over my shoulder, sticks in my hand, and ear pressed to Jennie’s door. The silence I’m met with convinces me everything’s okay. Maybe she found Princess Jellybean.
A whimper stops me in my tracks when I turn to leave. The broken sob that follows tugs on my weak heartstrings. With a sigh, I tuck my sticks under my arm and knock.
“Go away!” Jennie shouts from inside.
“Uh, I…um…” Words fail, so I knock again, quieter this time, ’cause I’m afraid to piss her off.
“I said go a—” The door whips open. Jennie’s jaw dangles as she stares at me. Her light violet-blue eyes seem paler than usual, the rim around them dark like midnight, the contrast striking. Like the skin around her eyes, her nose is pink, lips swollen and highly kissable.
No. Nope. No, they’re fucking not, Garrett.
“Uh, hi.” Am I waving? Fuck. Off to an awkward start; great.
Jennie hiccups, dragging the back of her wrist across her eyes. “What are you doing here?”
“Uh, Carter said—”
“Oh my God! My brother sent you to check up on me? Unbelievable.” She slams her hip against the door, propping it open, but it’s the arms pinned over her chest that are an issue. She’s wearing forest green leggings and a matching sports bra—a stark contrast from her oversized hoodie and jammies this morning. My gaze bounces between her cleavage and her toned stomach. Why isn’t she wearing a shirt? She should put a shirt on.
“You should…a shirt. Please?” Why is this happening to
me?
Dark brows rocket up her forehead. “Oh, you’d like me to put on a shirt? Would that please you? Well, I’d like you to get fucking lost!” She’s screaming but still crying, swiping at the tears free-falling down her cheeks, so it’s kinda more funny than scary.
Until she pins me with a glower so fierce, that smile creeping up my face drops.
“Right. Your home. No shirt.” Am I giving her finger guns? I’m fucking giving her finger guns. I grip my stick with both hands to prevent any further embarrassing actions. “Carter didn’t send me to check up on you,” I lie. “We grabbed lunch after practice and he said you lost Princess Jellybean, and I thought—”
“Princess Jellybean? It’s Princess Bubblegum! Ugh!” Arms in the air, she spins away.
Fuck me, those leggings. That fucking ass. It’s not until it starts disappearing from view that I realize she’s slamming the door in my face.
Flinging myself forward, I barrel through the door with my hockey bag, tumbling inside. Jennie grunts as I accidentally sandwich her between me and the wall. My arm goes around her, pulling her tight against me to keep her from going down.
“Get off me.” She huffs, shoving against my chest. “Wrong apartment, fuckboy. Your hockey hooker lives across the hall.”
My face flames. “She’s not my—I’m not a…”
Jennie sniffles, chest heaving as she stares up at me. She shoves me once more, gently, but my feet stay rooted. That dancer’s body she’s worked so hard on is sculpted perfection, but I’ve got close to a hundred pounds of immovable body mass on her.
My hand slips to her bare waist, gripping it to keep her steady while I straighten. “I’m not looking for Emily, and she’s not my…” I clear my throat. “Hockey hooker.”
Jennie dusts off her boobs. Nice boobs. No dust, though. “That’s not what she said.” She cleans the remaining tears off her face. “What are you doing here, Andersen?”
“Carter said you were upset about Princess Jell— Bubblegum. I was passing by and wanted to see if you were okay.” I take in the mess in the living room, boxes ripped open, contents strewn across the floor. “How’s the search goin’?”
Jennie fiddles with her braid, scuffing at the floor with her toes. “I can’t find her. I’ve only got a few boxes left here, and a couple in the spare bedroom.”
“Hmm.” I shove my fingers below my hat and scratch my head, pretending not to notice the way Jennie’s eyes track the movement. I’ve always been fascinated by her. She’s beautiful, and she knows it. Thick chestnut waves, almost always tied back in a braid, finished with a ribbon. Kinda
tall, I think. Five-eight, maybe, still a whole lot shorter than me. Long-ass legs I wouldn’t mind wrapping around my neck, draping down my back. A brilliant, wide grin with heart-stopping dimples, and a fierce personality, so bold and confident.
But when her eyes meet mine, it’s the dashed hope in them that prompts my next words.
“I’ll help you look.”
“What?” Her nose wrinkles as I drop my equipment, the damp, sweaty stench wafting up to us. “You don’t need to do that.”
“Sure, but I don’t mind.” I move past her, choosing a stack of boxes before she can argue more. Picking up the steak knife resting on top, I twirl it between my fingers and glance at Jennie as she watches me cautiously, fingers curling at her stomach. “Poor Princess Bubblegum might need stitches when you’re done with her if this is what you’re using to open boxes.”
I swear I see it, right there in the corner, the teensiest hint of a smile. Before it can bloom, Jennie’s lips flatten, and she slowly steps toward me.
“I broke the scissors because I was jabbing the boxes too hard.” She twirls her braid around her finger. “Uh, thanks. For helping, or whatever.”
“You’re welcome.”
I quickly slice the tape on all the boxes so I can tuck the knife away, and we sort through each one in silence, only the quiet music Jennie has playing on her speaker drifting through the room.
“What kind of stuffie is Princess Bubblegum, anyway?” I ask, flipping through a box of photo frames. It’s the last box in my stack, and the air has grown heavier with each one.
Jennie doesn’t respond. I find her staring at her box, knuckles nearly white as she grips it, coaxing me slowly in her direction.
“Hey. You okay?”
“She’s a pink bunny,” she whispers. “My dad got her for me for my sixth birthday. She’s got a ribbon on each ear and a-a—” she holds her arms out, thumbs and forefingers pinched together like she’s gripping the hem of a skirt, “—a pink tutu!” She chokes on her words, burying her sob and face in her hands, and I race across the room, arms outstretched.
I skid to a stop in front of her, resisting the urge to touch her. “You’re crying again.” Stupid. Of course she’s crying. She doesn’t need me to point out the obvious.
“I’m not crying,” she cries, jabbing a finger into my chest. “You’re crying!”
Riiight…
“Uh, do you need a…hug?” Cautiously, I inch toward her, opening my arms in slow motion. She might, like, bite. I don’t know how this shit works. My sisters are a lot younger than Jennie; their problems are easily solved with hugs.
Jennie’s a Beckett. If she’s anything like her older brother, there’s a good chance her problems are solved with Oreos and orgasms. I didn’t come prepared with cookies, and I’d ideally like to keep my balls right where they are: attached to my fucking body.
“What?” Her chin trembles. “I don’t…I…” She groans, stomps, and balls her fists up as her chest heaves. “Garrett.”
“C’mon, Jennie.”
Taking her hands in mine, I gently guide her into me. She comes willingly, dragging her ass about it though, and I wrap my arms around her. She smells nice, intoxicating, vanilla and cinnamon and coffee. When she carefully slips her arms around my middle and lays her cheek over my heart, I find out she feels nice too. Warm and soft, like when my mom used to microwave my underwear on those extra-cold east coast winter mornings.
“Atta girl,” I murmur, palm gliding down her back. It’s meant to be soothing, but I forgot she’s only wearing a sports bra, so my fingers dance over her bare flesh, and both of us go rigid.
Jennie pushes away at the same time I rocket backward, and I rip my hat off, burying my hand in my hair.
“I’ll, uh…” I thumb down the hall. “I’ll check the boxes in the spare bedroom.”
“Yeah.” She nods. “Yeah, cool. Good idea. You do that, and I’ll…stay.”
My casual stroll turns to a mad dash when I round the corner into the hall. Inside the bedroom, I press my back to the wall and breathe deeply. This is a disaster. The sooner I get out of here, the better.
There are only four boxes, and I go through the first two in no time. When I get to the third, the one labeled toys, I grin triumphantly, ripping at the tape.
“Aha.” This is it; this is the box. If this doesn’t put me in Jennie’s good books, nothing will. “Here I come, Princess Bubbleg—ah! Holy fuck!” I flip the top down and scream bloody murder. “Help!”
“What?” Jennie slides into the bedroom, breathless, eyes wild. “Did you find Princess Bubble—Garrett!” Her hands go to her face. She’s screeching. I think I’m crying. “What are you doing?”
“Looking for Princess Bubblegum!” I shout. The box I’m crushing against my chest, the one filled with dildos and vibrators, rumbles and shakes, coming alive.
“She’s not in there!”
“Spoiler alert, Jennie: I fucking know that!”
“This box is private!” Jennie charges at me, squishing the box between us. Something starts vibrating, trying to jump out, and I think I might be sick. “You shouldn’t have touched it!”
“Why would you label a box of s*x toys toys?” I shriek
back. My back hurts and my face feels really hot. I don’t
like it.
“What else would you call them?” She tries to pry the box from my—for some reason unwilling—hands. A battle of tug of war promptly ensues, the box ricocheting between us. “Give…it…back!”
I yank the box closer—why?—and Jennie tumbles forward, plastering the three of us—me, her, and the box— against the wall. She huffs, puffs, and pulls. Hard.
The box rips apart at the seams, the most beautiful rainbow of dildos and vibrators flying through the air between us in—I swear to God—slow fucking motion. Jennie’s eyes lock with mine, wide and horrified, as a particularly meaty fucker with a suction cup base slaps me across the face. It clatters to the ground, the length of it— why the hell is it so damn long?—pumping up and down and winding in circles, spinning around the hardwood like a bad break-dancer.
Jennie’s shriek is nothing short of bloodcurdling. With both hands, she shoves me along the wall, out of the bedroom, down the hall. “Out!” Her tiny fists pummel my chest. “Get out!”
“I’m fucking going!” I trip over my hockey bag, colliding with the wall. Scrambling to my feet, I whip the door open, toss my shit into the hall, and all but throw myself out of Jennie’s apartment before the door can hit me in the ass on the way out.
“Holy fucking shit,” I mutter, swiping the damp hair off my forehead. I have no idea where my hat went, but I’m sure as hell not going back in to find it.
I’m almost to the elevator when a door creaks, and my heart hammers at Jennie’s timid whisper.
“Garrett?”
I glance over my shoulder, finding that faint flash of violet-blue peeking through the crack in the door. “Yeah?”
She licks her lips, drops her gaze, and I barely catch her words before she slams the door. “Thanks for the hug.”
I scrub my hands down my face. “Well, I’m fucking dead.”
