Garrett

HALF THE GUYS in the weight room are hung-over as hell. I, surprisingly, am not one of them. Nope, this morning’s revelations pretty much zapped away any headache or queasiness I might have felt.

Hannah was raped.

Those three words have been running through my head since I dropped her off at her dorm, and every time they pop up, red-hot fury blasts through me like a freight train. I wish she’d told me his name, his phone number, his fucking address.

But it’s better that she hadn’t, otherwise I’d probably be in my car right now on my way to commit murder.

Whoever he was, I hope to God he paid for what he did to Hannah. I hope to God he’s rotting in jail at the moment. Or better yet, I hope he’s fucking dead.

“Two more.” Logan looms over me as I lie on the bench press. “Come on, man, you’re slacking.”

I blow out a breath and curl my fingers around the barbell. I channel all my rage into heaving the weights over my head, as Logan spots me from above. Once I finish the last set of reps, he drops the bar in the rack and sticks out his hand. I allow him to haul me to my feet and we switch places.

Christ, I need to get my head on right. Thank fuck we’re not on the ice today because I’m not sure I even remember how to skate at the moment.

Hannah was raped.

And now she wants to have sex with me. No, she wants me to fix her.

Holy mother of God. What was I thinking, agreeing to do this? I’ve wanted her naked ever since that first kiss, but not like this. Not as some kind of sexuality experiment. Not when I’m feeling this much pressure to… to what? Make it good for her? Not let her down?

“Any time now,” comes Logan’s mocking voice.

I snap out of my distressed thoughts and realize that he’s waiting for me to drop the barbell into his outstretched hands.

Taking a breath, I force myself to focus on making sure Logan doesn’t die on my watch rather than obsessing over Hannah.

“So I’m pissed at you,” he tells me as he bends his arms and brings the bar low to his chest. Then he grunts out a breath and lifts.

“What did I do now?” I ask with a sigh.

“You told me you weren’t interested in Wellsy.”

My chest tenses, but I pretend to be unfazed as I count out his set. “I wasn’t, at least not when you and I talked about it before.”

Logan grunts with each upward extension of his arms. We’re both lifting twenty pounds less than usual because last night’s drink fest means neither one of us is operating at a hundred percent today.

“So, what, now you are interested?” I swallow. “Yeah. I guess I am.”

Logan doesn’t say anything else. My fingers hover beneath the barbell as he finishes his reps.

I keep a close eye on the clock above the weight room door. It’s almost five. Hannah finishes work at ten, and then she’s coming straight over to my place.

So we can have sex.

The pressure in my gut gathers in strength, tightening into a massive knot. I have no idea if I can do this. I’m terrified of doing something wrong. Hurting her.

“I’m not surprised you saw the error of your ways,” Logan finally says as we trade places again. “She’s pretty damn cool. I knew that from the moment I met her.”

Yeah, Hannah is cool. She’s also beautiful and smart and funny. And she’s not broken.

The tightness in my stomach eases as I cling to that last thought. That’s why I agreed to sleep with her, because no matter what happened to her in the past, no matter how many scars she still bears from that ordeal, I know without a shred of doubt that Hannah Wells is not broken. She’s too strong to allow anyone—especially a piece of shit high school rapist—to break her.

No, what she’s lacking is the ability to trust, and to some extent, confidence. She just needs someone to…guide her, for lack of a better word.

But shit, can that someone really be me? I don’t know the first thing about the etiquette required for sleeping with a rape victim.

“So anyway, maybe I’m not pissed that you beat me to it,” Logan tells

me.

I shoot him a faint smile. “Gee, thanks.”

He grins back. “With that said, I request an exemption from the part of

the bro code that states I can’t date someone after you’ve broken up with her.”

My fingers stiffen on the bar. Fuck that. The thought of Logan hooking up with Hannah makes me want to go He-Man on the barbell and hurl it across the gym. But at the same time, I’m pretty sure there isn’t a chance in hell of Hannah dating Logan, especially now that I know about her hang- ups.

So I shrug casually and say, “Exemption granted.”

“Good. Now I’m adding ten pounds to this motherfucker, because, really, G, we’re better than this.”

The next thirty minutes fly by. The room empties out as the other guys head for the showers, but when I see that Birdie is still rocking chin-ups across the room, I make my way over to him.

“Hey, man, got a sec?” I call out, wiping my sweaty forehead with a towel.

He lets go of the bar, and his sneakers land on the blue gym mat. Then he grabs his own towel. “Sure. What’s up?”

I hesitate. Hockey players aren’t known for having girly heart-to-hearts. Most of the time, we indulge in locker room talk or shoot insults back and forth, with the rare serious convo thrown into the mix.

Jake “Birdie” Berderon is the exception to that rule. The tall, intense senior is the one you seek out for advice, the one you call when you’re in a jam, the one who’d drop whatever he was doing just to help you out. Last season, after half our seniors graduated and nominations for team captain were being tossed around, I told Birdie that if he wanted the job, I’d back him one hundred percent. He shot me down, insisting that he sucks at pep talks and would rather skate than lead, but honestly, deep down I know that

Birdie is our real leader. You won’t ever find a better man than him. No joke.

I glance at the open doorway, then lower my voice. “This has to stay between us, okay?”

A wry grin lifts his lips. “Dude, if you knew how many secrets are floating around in this thick skull of mine, you’d freak. Trust me, I know how to keep my mouth shut.”

I sink onto the long wooden bench against the wall and rest my hands on my knees. I don’t know where to start, but I do know I can’t tell him the truth. That’s something only Hannah has the right to share.

“Have you ever slept with a virgin?” I hedge.

He blinks. “Uh. Okay. Well, yeah. I have.” Birdie sits beside me. “Between you and me?” he says.

“Of course.”

“Nat was a virgin when we first hooked up.” Nat is actually Natalie, Birdie’s girlfriend since freshman year. The two of them are one of those “it” couples that everyone makes fun of for being so nauseatingly perfect together while secretly envying their relationship.

I have to ask, “Were you?”

He grins. “Naah. I punched in my V-card at fifteen.”

Fifteen. That’s how old Hannah was when she… I suddenly wonder if that had been her first time, and horror claws up my throat. Jesus. Losing your virginity is a huge deal for some chicks—I can’t even imagine what’d it feel like having it taken from you.

“Why? You’ve got a date with a hot virgin?” Birdie teases.

“Something like that.” Considering he met Hannah last night at Malone’s, I’m sure Birdie is putting two and two together in his head, but I know he won’t blab about this to anyone.

And I figure this virgin story is safer than uttering the words rape victim. Because really, the approach to sleeping with the former can’t be all that different from doing it with the latter. In both instances, you need to be patient and respectful and thorough, right?

“So what did you do for Nat’s first time?” I ask awkwardly.

“Honestly? I just tried to make her comfortable.” Birdie shrugs. “She’s not into all that mushy shit, like flowers and candles and rose petals all over the bed. She didn’t want it to be a big deal.” Another shrug. “Some girls do

want to make a big production outta it, though. So in your case, I think the first thing you need to do is figure out what kind of girl she is. Low-key or mega romantic.”

I think about Hannah and all the pressure she’s under to be “normal”— which is probably a million times worse than the pressure I’m feeling at the moment—and I immediately know the answer.

“Low-key, definitely. I think candles and rose petals would make her nervous.”

Birdie tips his head. “Then just go slow and make sure she’s comfortable. That’s the only advice I can give you.” He pauses. “And include lots of foreplay, dude. Chicks need that shit. Got it?”

I chuckle. “Yes, sir.”

“Any more questions? Because I stink to high heaven, and I desperately need a shower.”

“Naah, that’s it. Thanks, man.”

Birdie slaps me on the shoulder and rises to his feet. “Don’t stress too much about it, G. Sex is supposed to be fun, remember?” Then he winks and lumbers out of the weight room.

Don’t stress? Jeez, how can I not?

I groan out loud, grateful that nobody is around to hear the panicky sound.

Make her comfortable. Go slow. Lots of foreplay. Don’t stress.

Okay. I can do that.

Or at least I damn well hope I can.