The Play (Briar U Book 3)

A few days before the break starts, I manage to squeeze in a coffee date with TJ, who meets me at the Theta house. It’s chilly outside, but we both agree a winter walk through campus would be lovely, so we set off in the direction of the Coffee Hut.

“Are you mad at me?”

TJ’s wounded tone has me glancing over in surprise. “Of course not. I’ve just been crazy-busy. I’m working on the case study, cramming for finals, planning the sorority’s holiday party with Josie, organizing a Secret Santa for everyone in my Biology tutorial. Life is nuts right now.”

“No, I know. I just miss you.”

“Aw, I miss you too.” I link my arm through his.

“Are you around tonight?” he asks. “There’s this skating thing at the rink in Hastings.”

“What skating thing?”

“It’s, like, a winter fair? It’s the first year the town is holding it. I thought it would be cool to go. Drink some hot cocoa, skate for a bit, get our picture taken with Santa.”

“That sounds fun. I love fairs. Oh—but I have Hunter’s game tonight.”

“Hunter’s game?”

I nod. “Briar’s playing against…you know what, I didn’t even ask who they’re playing. But it’s a home game, and I promised him I’d go. It’ll probably end around nine-thirty, ten? How long is the fair open until?”

He opens a browser on his iPhone, and I notice the Town of Hastings webpage is already loaded up. “It says here it goes till midnight.”

I brighten. “Okay, that works, then. I should be done by ten-ish, and that’ll give us a couple hours at the fair. Sound like a plan?”

“Sounds great.” He smiles, a rare sight to behold.

I can’t deny that TJ isn’t the easiest person to get to know. He keeps his emotions locked up tight, but once he warms up to people, he’s actually super sweet. He can be moody at times, which is probably why I can’t spend long chunks of time with him. That doesn’t mean I don’t like him, though. I also can’t spend an inordinate amount of time with Pax, whose melodramatic nature eventually drains my patience.

TJ and I navigate the winding path, snow crunching beneath our feet. The ground is icy, and he tightens his hold on my arm as we encounter a particularly precarious section of the path.

“They need to salt this,” he gripes.

“Right? I nearly face-planted just now.”

We’re about fifty yards from the Coffee Hut when TJ brings up the subject of Hunter. “You two hang out a lot,” he remarks.

I can’t decipher his tone. I feel like it might contain a hint of disapproval, but I’m not certain. TJ can be so hard to read sometimes. “Well, yeah. We’re friends.”

Friends who kiss.

I keep that tidbit to myself. Hell, I don’t know why I’m even still thinking about it. I kissed the guy twice and would happily kiss him a hundred more times. But Hunter rejected me twice and doesn’t want a single kiss more.

Ugh, and he wouldn’t even promise that we could resume the kissing when the hockey season ends. He just reiterated that our friendship is too important, and we proceeded to spend the rest of the night hanging out with Dean and his other friends, pretending we hadn’t just sucked each other’s faces off.

It’s so vexing. Frustrating. I don’t believe it’s an ego problem on my end, because I’m confident I wouldn’t have much trouble finding someone to have sex with me. Half the men on Tinder would offer themselves up.

But I don’t want those men.

I want Hunter Davenport.

I haven’t allowed myself to delve too deeply about precisely what I want from him. To keep kissing him, for sure. And sex, absolutely. The mere thought of our naked bodies tangled together gets me hot.

I’m not looking beyond that. But I do think he’s wrong—I think we could be friends with benefits without it complicating anything.

Couldn’t we?

“I just think it’s weird,” TJ says, jolting me from my troubled thoughts.

“Why is it weird?”

“I dunno. He’s such a fuckboy.”

“Not really.”

“Yes really. I told you about catching him in the library last year, remember? Any guy who fucks chicks in public is slimy.”

“One, that’s not at all an accurate barometer of slime—lots of very respectable people possess exhibitionist tendencies. Weren’t you paying attention to Andrews’ lecture about sexual compulsions? And two, that happened last year. Hunter’s different now. He’s not even dating at the moment.”Text © by N0ve/lDrama.Org.

“Yeah, probably because of the herpes.”

I give TJ a sharp look. “That’s a rude thing to say.”

He shrugs. “The truth isn’t always pretty.”

Now I roll my eyes. “What truth? You’re saying Hunter Davenport has herpes?”

“I think that’s what it was? I don’t remember exactly, but I’m friends with this chick in my dorm and she said Davenport gave her an STI this past spring. She used the word outbreak, so I just assumed herpes—but do the other ones give you outbreaks? What do chlamydia and gonorrhea do?”

“I don’t know.” I frown. “Are you being serious right now?”

“Honest to God.”

My stomach does a queasy little flip. TJ is a decent guy, and he doesn’t typically spread rumors, so I’m predisposed to believe he did hear something. But there’s no way it’s true. Hunter doesn’t have a sexually transmitted disease.

Well, I mean…he could.

Something else suddenly occurs to me. Is that why he’s not sexually active? Because he’s embarrassed about having something and passing it to someone else?

It’s possible, I guess. Either way, I’m uncomfortable discussing Hunter’s private business with TJ, who clearly doesn’t like him.

“Whatever. This is not a conversation we should be having,” TJ says before I can. “It’s really none of our business.”

“You’re right,” I agree.

“I shouldn’t have even said anything. But I wanted you to be aware, just in case. Since you’re spending so much time with him.”

Later that night, I drag Pippa to the hockey game with me and Brenna. Mostly because I’m worried Brenna will be so absorbed in the game that I won’t have anybody to talk to. Like me, Pippa isn’t a hockey fan. Neither of us could properly explain what’s currently happening on the ice. I just see big hulking boys skating very fast and wielding sticks.

Hunter told me his jersey number is 12, so I attempt to track those two digits with my gaze. I think he’s doing well? Then again, he hasn’t scored any goals, so maybe he’s doing poorly?

I truly don’t know how to measure hockey success. Nico played basketball in high school and used to score a ton of points in every game. But when I ask Brenna why nobody is scoring, she explains that hockey isn’t as point-laden as basketball. Apparently some games might end with only one goal between both teams. Or even a tie of zero.

Speaking of Nico, Pippa asks about him during the first intermission. “Did you ever hear from Nico after he attacked Hockey Boy?”

“Nope.”

“Has he tried to contact you?” Brenna asks curiously.

“No idea. I told you, I blocked him on everything, even email. I’m sure he’s figured that out by now.”

“Oh he has,” Pippa confirms.

I look over sharply. “You’ve spoken to him?”

“Me, personally? No. But Darius is speaking to him again.”

That brings a frown to my lips. I was texting with D the other day, and he didn’t once mention he’s back in contact with my ex.

“Darius said Nico is losing his shit. The guys had to forcibly stop him several times from showing up at your house. D told him it was asking for trouble.”

I make a mental note to call Darius later for more details.

“But yeah, he’s definitely not over you, or handling this breakup well.” Pippa gazes at the ice, where the Zamboni is shuffling along to smooth out the shiny surface. Then she switches gears from my cheating ex to the friend he cheated with. “Corinne says you two are texting again.”

I nod. “She sent me a funny meme the other day and we had a short convo.”

“For what it’s worth, she still feels terrible about everything.”

“She should,” I mutter, but my anger toward our friend isn’t as powerful as it used to be. Even my anger at Nico has dimmed.

“I really hope you two can be friends again one day, so we can hang out the way we used to. Maybe over the holiday break the three of us could have a girls’ night?”

A sigh flutters out. “I mean, we could try.”

“Hold up—you’re texting and making hangout plans with the chick who slept with your boyfriend?” Brenna demands. Her mouth is wide with disbelief, drawing attention to her trademark red lips. It’s the only splash of color amidst her black turtleneck, leggings and leather boots.

Pippa shakes her head wryly. “Seriously, Demi, you’re so fucking forgiving and understanding it makes me want to punch you.”

“Really? Those two wonderful qualities of mine make you want to punch me? Also! You literally just suggested we do a girls’ night. You’re encouraging me to be friends with Corinne again.”

“Yeah, but by agreeing to it you’re setting a bad example for the rest of us. You know, the grudge holders.”

Brenna grins. “I hold a mean grudge, I’ll tell you that.”

I roll my eyes at both of them. “I want to be a psychologist. That means I ought to practice what I preach, right?”

The second period gets underway when the referee skates up to the faceoff and drops the puck.

“How does he not get hurt?” Pippa demands.

“Who, the ref?” Brenna asks.

“Yes! Look at that little guy! He’s way too close to the action. One of those huge monsters could smash into him at any second and break every bone in his body.”

“I know it looks dangerous, but the refs know how to stay out of the way,” Brenna assures her.

A cheer rocks the arena and I squint hard, trying to understand what I’m seeing. #12 is flying past the blue line at the center of the rink. “Oooh, that’s Hunter! And he’s all alone.”

Brenna supplies the hockey lingo. “He’s on a breakaway.”

Oh gosh, he’s tearing toward the opposing net, his stick snapping up in preparation for his shot. As my heart lodges in my throat, I find myself shooting to my feet.

“Holy shit, you’re into hockey!” Pippa accuses, staring up at me in shock.

“Into it? No. But did you see that shot?” Hunter missed, but it was still ridiculously thrilling to watch.

Pippa narrows her eyes. “Ohhhhh,” she finally says. “I get what’s happening. You’re not into hockey. You’re into the hockey player.”

“No,” I lie. Then I groan. “Well, maybe a little.”

Brenna lets out a hoot. “That means a lot. Have you found the key to his chastity belt yet?”

A laugh pops out of my mouth. “No, sadly. It’s still locked up tight.” I hesitate for a beat. I haven’t told anybody about kissing Hunter, but I suspect that’s about to change. I need advice, and there’s no better time like the present.

So while Brenna and Pippa sit there grinning at me, I confess to the two kisses, which I think of as Bathroom Kiss and Salsa Kiss. “Salsa Kiss involved a butt squeeze,” I confess. “But then he stopped it from going any further. I think I might need to accept he’s not interested.”

“Bullshit,” Brenna says.

Pippa nods in agreement. “If he wasn’t interested, he wouldn’t keep kissing you back.”

“And then stopping it,” I reiterate. “He’s dead set on trying to be a good team leader and make hockey his priority.”

“Sleeping with you isn’t going to destroy the team.” Brenna rolls her eyes. “That’s just nonsense.”

“Maybe, but I can’t force someone to sleep with me. There’s this thing called consent?”

“Nobody’s telling you to force him,” Pippa says. “But it couldn’t hurt to give him a nudge?”

“I’ve done more than nudge. I kissed him twice. He shut me down twice. And after Salsa Kiss, I told him I wouldn’t hit on him again until he’s done with the season.”

“Then don’t hit on him.” An evil glint lights Brenna’s eyes. “You need to change your tactics here, babe. Stop going after him. Make him come to you.”

“How?”

“Make him jealous. Flirt with one of his buddies.”

“Oooh, Operation Jealousy!” Pippa chimes in. “That’s totally what you need to do.”

Make him jealous… I guess I already did that, the night I danced with Dean. And it worked, I realize. I wasn’t openly flirting, but the mere act of dancing with another man triggered Hunter’s possessive instincts.

“Isn’t there always a party after these games?” Pippa asks. “You should do it tonight.”

“I can’t. I have plans with TJ. Oh shit, that reminds me! I need to text him my ETA. When is the game over?” I ask Brenna. I’m worried I’ll end up being late, because even though we got here at seven-thirty, they didn’t drop the puck until past eight. There was a lot of preamble first, including a ceremony honoring a middle-aged alumnus who supposedly set a bunch of records back in the day.

“The second period just started. So you have at least another hour, hour and a half. And maybe another half hour for the boys to shower and change?”

Shit, that puts us closer to eleven. And if I want to say hi to Hunter once he’s out of the locker room, it becomes even more unlikely I’ll get to Hastings at a reasonable time. Shit.

I unlock my phone and pull up my text thread with TJ.

ME: Hey, so I totally got the times wrong. Apparently I’m not out of here til 11. I don’t think there’s a point in showing up at 11 if the fair closes at 12. Is it on tomorrow night too?

TJ: Not sure. Can’t you duck out of the game early?

ME: I would, except I’m here with Pippa and Brenna, and I promised Hunter I’d come find him after the game.

There’s a long delay. And still no response.

ME: I’m so sorry. Please don’t be mad. Our meet-up was a last-minute thing, anyway, remember? I already had plans to go to the game.

HIM: I know. It’s fine, D. Have fun at the game.

He’s clearly annoyed. I don’t blame him for it, either. But I’m also growing weary of reassuring him all the time. TJ asks me to hang out nearly every single day. We’re friends, sure, but I don’t even see Pippa every day, and I consider her my bestie. Hell, I didn’t even see Nico every day and we were a couple.

Regardless of all that, I do feel bad about not being able to make it to the fair. I shouldn’t have agreed to two sets of plans in one night. Any time you do that, timing always overlaps in some stupid way, and now I’ve disappointed one of my good friends.

ME: I’m really sorry, hon. This is on me. I shouldn’t have made plans on top of plans. It turned into a dumb double-booking thing, and I apologize for that. I’ll call you tomorrow and we can plan a friend day that fits both of our schedules, okay? Xo

He responds with xoxo followed by an, Okay.

Whew. I’m glad I patched that one up. Now it’s time for more pressing matters.

“I’m not meeting TJ,” I tell the girls. “So I guess I’m good to party later. What’s my game plan?”

“Flirt and seduce,” Brenna advises. “Pick his hottest friend—I’m thinking that’s Conor, or Matty. Get your flirt on, and make sure Hunter’s watching.”

“Then what?”

She shrugs. “If he takes the bait, hopefully there’ll be a chastity belt on your bedroom floor tonight. If he doesn’t…hell, hook up with Conor or Matty, then.”

I balk. “But I hardly know them.”

Pippa snorts. “You are the most sheltered college woman on the planet. It’s okay to fool around with guys you haven’t known since you were eight years old, D.”

I stick out my tongue at her.

“I’m serious. You’re allowed to experiment. For all you know, you were having the worst sex of your life with Nico, only you thought it was mind-blowing because you didn’t know any better. Let yourself know better.”

“Nico and I had good sex.” I pause. “Well, aside from the subpar oral.” Because who am I kidding? It was never even close to par. “But I never really saw the appeal, anyway. With oral, I could take it or leave it.”

“But that’s the most important part!” Brenna says in outrage.

“If I do end up with Hunter tonight, should I be worried about…um…you know, sexually transmitted diseases?” TJ’s warning continues to lurk in the back of my head like a cat burglar.

“As in, does Hunter have one?” Brenna thinks it over. “Nobody’s ever said anything to me about that, but obviously I can’t know for sure.” She wrinkles her forehead at me. “But that’s why you have the conversation before the clothes come off.”

“The conversation?”

“Disclosure,” she explains. “Diseases, birth control, any weird kinks you want to disclose. Like, if a guy has a foot fetish, I need to know about that shit up front so I don’t throw up on him.”

Pippa breaks out laughing. “Oh God, that’s a great point. All foot fetishes must be disclosed prior to sexual relations. And don’t even get me started on the guy in sophomore year who wanted me to pee on him.”

I resist the urge to bury my face in my hands and moan in despair. I am so out of my element here. I’ve only slept with one person. I lost my virginity to him, and we were in a long-term relationship for years. There was never any need to have “the conversation.”

And I never, ever had to wonder if he wanted me to pee on him.

I never thought of myself as naïve or inexperienced. I thought I was a ballsy, smart-talking chick from Miami who owned her body and her sexuality. But maybe it’s time to grow up a little. I do need to think about things like STIs and new partners.

And if everything goes my way tonight, that new partner is going to be Hunter Davenport.