“No, not him.” Her hand flutters dismissively. “The big guy with the tats. I didn’t catch his name.”
“Oh. Fitzy. Colin Fitzgerald,” I clarify. “One of your brother’s teammates.”
Summer’s green eyes twinkle. She flips her hair again and announces, “I want him.”
“Summer!” Dean says in exasperation, while I desperately try not to laugh.
“What? I’m just being honest.” His sister blinks innocently. “Be honest or be a jerk—that’s what you taught me when I was twelve, remember? After I stole your favorite shirt and then accidentally dropped it in the sewer?”
“How do you accidentally drop a shirt in the sewer?” I blurt out.
“I wasn’t wearing it. It fell out of my backpack.” She smirks at Dean. “And then I lied about what happened and you gave me a speech about honesty, remember? Well, congratulations, Dicky. I’m super duper honest now.” She points her finger at the living room doorway. “That was the hottest piece of man meat I have ever seen. And I want him.”
“I’m going to murder you in your sleep one day,” Dean tells his sister. “Swear to God.”
Her smile is the epitome of sweetness. “Aw, Dicky, you would never, ever do that. Wanna know why?”
“Why?” he grumbles.
“Because you love me.”
Honestly? I think I love her, too.
*
Dean
I am terrified of what I’ll find when I get home tonight. I’ll only be gone for sixteen hours, but Summer Heyward-Di Laurentis is capable of doing earthquake-level damage in sixteen minutes.
When she was thirteen, Nick and I were home alone with her. We turned our backs for twenty minutes, tops, and when we walked into the living room, the liquor cabinet was overturned, broken glass was everywhere, and Summer grinned at us and said, “Oops.”
She said she’d wanted a taste of alcohol to see what all the fuss was about. Destroying thousands of dollars’ worth of liquor in the process.
Granted, she’s twenty now. But do I trust her? Absolutely not. I’m just hoping Allie can find a way to control her. And yes, I recruited my girlfriend into babysitting my sister today. No way was I letting Summer loose on campus without a chaperone.
During the five-hour bus ride to Scranton, Allie sends me updates about their day, along with running commentary about how great my sister is, and OMGs! every time Summer reveals an embarrassing detail from my childhood.
Having breakfast at the diner.
OMG—your first word was ‘booby’? Why does this not surprise me??
Taking S to the salon. She wants a mani.
You’re scared of tattoo needles?? S just told me u almost got a tat when u were 18 but had to leave b/c u were scared. Bwahahahahaha.
I fucking hate my sister.
My phone stays in the visiting team’s locker room during the game, and not even O’Shea’s cold glares and snarled criticism can bring me down today, because we skate off the ice after third period with an actual W under our belts.
My good mood follows me out of the arena and onto the bus, and I settle in for the long ride, relieved by the latest batch of messages I find.
Driving 2 Boston for lunch. S wants to do some shopping.
Awesome lunch. Heading home now.
Oooh it’s snowing! S and I are taking a walk.
Home. Chilling and girl talk. Tell Tuck his tomato soup is da bomb.
Saw on twitter u won the game! FUCK YEAH!
Movie marathon. Putting phone on silent. See u when u get back.
The last message came in around eight o’clock. Good. I hope that means Allie and Summer are tucked under a blanket in the living room watching a movie and not out causing trouble.
Huh. And Allie was right. It is snowing. Once the bus crosses the state line into Massachusetts, there are suddenly white flakes dancing outside my window. I love winter, so I wholly approve of the sight.
It’s close to midnight when we arrive at our own arena. I ride home in the Beemer with Tuck, while Garrett and Logan head for the dorms to spend the night with their girlfriends.
Ten minutes later, I pull into our driveway. Not a single light flickers in any of the windows, but I catch flashes from the television flickering behind the living room curtains.
The front hall is pitch-black when we step inside. I walk ahead of Tucker, kicking off my shoes as I fumble for the light switch.
I don’t get the chance to flick it, because a bloodcurdling shriek suddenly slices through the silence.
Before I can react, I’m showered from head to toe with what feels like a tidal wave of lukewarm liquid. Another scream shatters my eardrums, and I’m still struggling to figure out what the fuck is going on when something hard connects with my left temple.
Crack.
Pain swims in my head, and I hit the floor like a sack of potatoes.
28
Dean
Fact #1: the Hastings police department has about eight officers on staff.
Fact #2: I think every single one of them is at my fucking house right now.
“Do you want to press charges?” The officer in charge hovers over Allie like a protective bear, a sneer on his face as he glares accusingly in my direction.
From my perch on the bottom step of the staircase, I glare right back at him. The EMT who’s examining my temple makes a reprimanding sound when I swivel my head in the opposite direction, but I ignore him. Because what’s happening right now is goddamn ludicrous.
“If anyone should be pressing charges, it’s me,” I say in disbelief.
The cop holds up a hand to silence me. “We’re speaking to Miss Hayes, sir.”
Oh yes. Miss Hayes. The crazy maniac who happens to be my girlfriend. The kung-fu master who knocked me out with a Wayne Gretzky paperweight.
But hey, at least the lights are on. This way everyone and their fucking mothers can witness my disgrace.
“You’re speaking to the wrong person,” I mutter through clenched teeth. “I’m the one who was attacked.”
One of the female deputies narrows her eyes at me. “From what we can see, sir, the young ladies are the victims here.” She waves her hand at the floor. “We walked in to find you lying in a pool of blood—”
“It was soup! Tomato soup!”
“—and shouting obscenities at Miss Hayes and Miss Di Laurentis.”
“Because they knocked me out.”
“Clearly they felt you were a threat if they took measures to incapacitate you,” another officer says coolly. He purses his lips, and the sexual predator mustache he’s rocking bushes up.