But as we make our way across the backyard toward the house, I realize I’m not going to be able to eat a thing or get through idle chit chat with my family. And if any of them bring up the Adlers and what happened today at the market with the gift basket, I will probably cry out of frustration and sadness that Tate would not only do that to me but is so done with me he didn’t even show up to tell me himself. And then I’ll have a lot of explaining to do, so when we get to the porch I walk toward my car instead of walking through the screen door my mom is holding open.
“Maggie, where are you going?” Mom asks, concern crinkling her forehead.
“I forgot about an assignment due tomorrow. I need to go home and get started,” I say with a frown to sell it. “I’m sorry. This week has been a blur and I just spaced.”
“That’s not like you,” Mom continues to look worried. “You sure you don’t have just half an hour? You need food.”
“Can you drive Daisy home with a doggie bag for me?” I ask with a hopeful smile.
“Will do,” Mom says.
Luckily, Daisy was too hungry to even stop and eavesdrop on our conversation because she would totally pepper me with a billion questions: What assignment? Which class? Didn’t you just say a couple days ago that the semester workload was light so far?
I hop in the car and make my way down the drive. I pause and then turn the other way on the main road—the way that leads to campus and the hockey house and not my apartment.
It’s a little after seven thirty when I park across from Tate’s. The lights are on in what seems to be every damn room in the giant, old house. Great. It means his teammates are likely home. There is no way to be stealthy here. If I go in there, everyone will know. I take a deep breath, try to talk myself out of it, and fail.
I march up the steps and bang a closed fist on the front door.
“Come in!” someone yells.
I open the door and step inside. It smells good. Like, simmering tomatoes and fresh basil. I take a few, small tentative steps. The living room is right off the front door and two guys—Lex and Cooper if my memory is working—are sitting there on the battered couch playing a video game on the TV. Hockey, of course.
“No! No fucking way!” One of them howls as the other one leaps up off the couch in victory.
“Loser!” Cooper yells and points to the guy sitting down who tosses his controller on the scuffed wood coffee table with disgust. “You are cleaning the toilets next week!”
“When did you get good at this?” Lex grumbles. “If only you were as good on the actual ice.”
Kicking back in two beat up recliners, watching it all unfold, are the identical twins—Patrick and Paxton. I don’t think they live here, but it makes sense they’d be hanging out here.
“Hey all,” I say and they all turn and look at me.
“Hi,” Patrick is the first to greet me with a big smile. “I bet you’re not here for me, unfortunately.”
“No. I’m here for—”
“Tate,” Lex says and he smiles too. It’s less confident and more awkward, in a cute way.
“Tate!” Patrick yells. “You might want to run.”
“What are you going on about, Graham?” I hear Tate’s voice from the back of the house. He wanders out of what I assume is the kitchen, barefoot and in a pair of faded jeans and a Moo U T-shirt, holding a dish towel. He looks relaxed and gorgeous and it makes my heart twist painfully.
He looks up and sees me there and freezes. Patrick and Lex are now glued to the scene in front of them, their eyes bouncing back and forth between Tate and me like the audience at the U.S. Open watching a finals match.
“We need to talk,” I say flatly.
“I don’t want to talk,” Tate replies, in a monotone. “That’s why I didn’t go to the market today.”
“You should have been there to see my face when I found out you screwed us out of the gift basket money and publicity,” I snap and cross my arms. “I was furious. And hurt. You would have loved it.”
Tate just stares like he didn’t hear what I said or doesn’t understand it. “Are you drunk?”
“Do I look drunk?” I bark.
“Well, you’re a little flushed,” Patrick pipes up. “People get flushed when they drink.”
“Patrick, can you go stir the sauce for me and make sure the pasta doesn’t overflow?” Tate says and tosses the dish towel at him. It hits the back of his head. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
