Brenna

Kamloops is being reactive instead of proactive, chasing the puck and fumbling their plays. There have been countless giveaways and my team has had several power plays. They're also fatigued, failing to move their feet and reverting to clutching and grabbing. When the game began, Kamloops looked strong. Now? Now it appears they're mired in another slump. With five minutes left in the second, our fourth line is on the ice and they're buzzing. Their passes are crisp and they calculate every shot, challenging the opposing team's goalie. Behind Hunter and I, Coach mutters an approving phrase.

With sweat sliding down my back, I stare at the game. It riddles my chest with excitement. These types of games, the ones where lines are clicking and the score favours us, fuel me. Make me proud of being part of this team.

Cody Wilson, one of our right-wingers, takes a slap-shot that ricochets off the crossbar. The puck, after it's rebounded from the boards, slides across the ice and into the corner. An outmatched Kamloops defence-man races Jonah Todd for the puck, grabbing Todd's jersey to slow him down.

An uproar comes from the bench, in sync with the ref's whistle. The game stops as they deal the penalty out, putting us on the power play.

"Christ," Nick mutters, relief present in his tone. "I thought he wouldn't call the penalty."

I nod. With late-night games, I find the refs are lenient. Kamloops getting away with holding wouldn't have surprised me. I'm not complaining, though. Even if we are winning 4-0, it's always good to practice our power plays for when we face stronger teams and their powerful players. Like Kelowna... and Shea.

Thinking his name reminds me of what happened two nights ago.

Him kissing me on the kitchen floor.

I avert my gaze from the ice. Hunter, Nick, and I will be on the ice for the start of the power play. It's how Coach makes our team gain momentum. But the thought of Shea has riddled me with anxiety.

We kissed.

The word churns through my thoughts, pushing my stomach to flip and flop with uneasiness. No—that's a lie. What makes me uneasy is the haunting memory of sitting on the kitchen floor and doing nothing. I didn't push him away. Nor did I slap him. Instead, I revelled in how soft his lips were. How good his mouth tasted. And when he got up and left, I sat there in a daze.

"Harrison, Tucker, Wright!" Coach shouts, clapping his hands together. "On the ice!"

Shaking away any calamities Shea has caused, I hop over the boards and skate to the face-off zone. It's to the right of Kamloops's goalie. Hunter wins the draw back to our left defence-man, Brydon Kennedy, who passes across the ice to his partner, Adam Phillips. The Kamloops penalty killers are doing a great job of taking away the shooting lane, so Kennedy and Phillips exchange positioning along the blue line. While they pass the puck, skate, and try to make space, I skate through Kamloops's box and set up on the right half-board.

For the next twenty seconds, we make a series of passes, but they do little to create a scoring chance. After an attempted shot, the puck deflects into the netting and the ref blows the whistle. As I'm skating to the face-off zone, I tap my stick against the scuffed boards. We're producing nothing on this power play. Which is out of sorts. We've been outplaying Kamloops. Why can't we break their defence when they're down a player?

The ref drops the puck. Hunter wins again because he's that good at face-offs. Now that Nick is back in position at the half-board, I plant myself in front of the net, searching for a tip-in. The view ahead doesn't look promising. Our defence and Nick are trapped in another game of tic-tac-toe.

However, while Kamloops watches the puck, Hunter slips behind the net and pops up on the goal line to the left side of the goal. Behind me, the goalie is facing the opposite direction; he's unaware of Hunter. I skate to the left of the goalie, bringing the defence-man with me. Little does he know that we've blocked the view of the goalie for when Nick passes the puck to Hunter.

The second Hunter arrives, Nick fakes a shot and drills the puck to Hunter's stick. With Hunter having a right-handed shot, he struggles to shoot. But there's enough oomph that it connects with my hockey stick. I tip the puck past Kamloops's goalie, putting us up to five.

From the bench, I hear Coach let out a whoop.

While Kamloops suffers from their mired slump, the boys converge around me, clapping me on the shoulder and cheering.

The outcome had never been in doubt.

But my smile falters when I hear the comments from Kamloops.

"But she's a girl. That goal shouldn't have counted."

"Fucking bitch. She's that needy for attention?"

"Attention? Screw that. We all know the only reason she's playing hockey with the boys is so she can fuck all of them."

Their voices are full of malice and envy. Although I want to fight back and resonate with them, I know my words will hold little value. Changing their minds is like trying to prevent the sun from rising—impossible. Instead of voicing my true intentions, I skate past Kamloops's bench with my chin high. Let them think what they want. They'll be eating their words when my fight for hockey equality pays off.

Their comments don't define my skills.

Or who I am as a person.

Their opinions are horse shit.

* * *

After the game has ended, I'm alone in the women's change room. Tonight's win should have me feeling happy. I should have energy. Instead, I feel beaten down and edgy. I close my eyes and groan, knocking my head against the wall. There's tension in my neck and shoulders. A steaming bubble bath is something I could use, and some tea and a delightful book, but I'm due for a sleepover with Cat, Ella, and Evren. All I have time for when I'm home is a quick shower and packing my overnight bag. If I change fast enough, that is.

My mind is wandering.

And the epicentre of my thoughts revolve around Shea.

It's safe to say our truce isn't a truce anymore. Truces don't lead to kissing. Truces don't lead to a guy like Shea realizing he's a jerk and trying to better himself. The comment I made about his sister shook him up. In a good way. Although I don't want to notice the effort he's putting in, or credit him for the night he told Connor to back off, I have to.

But guilt is eating me alive.

When I joined the league, I made an oath (not a legitimate oath, but a promise that held the importance of an oath) to avoid any romantic relationships or actions with anyone in the league. Shea and I, although we're not dating or anything, our kiss qualifies as bending the rules.

I pinch the bridge of my nose.

I let him bend the rules.

I let myself bend the rules.

Shaking my head, I correct my posture and unlace my skates, tossing them into the bag. I've just removed my socks and hockey pants and pulled on my leggings when there's a knock at the door. I hold off on removing my jersey.

"Come in!" I call.

Hunter opens the door and steps inside. He's dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. His auburn-brown hair is a matted mess of sweaty knots. "Hey," he says, sitting down next to me. "Feeling lonely yet?"

I'm not in the mood for Hunter's humour at the moment. "Always do," I sigh, my heart aching. Moments like these make me want to switch back to Catina's team. To have people in the locker room... to discuss plays as a team. To celebrate post-game victories or discuss how we can rebound from a loss.

No.

I shrug off my thoughts.

The playful smile on his face fades. "Hey," he says, nudging me. "What's wrong? You know you can talk to me, right?"

I meet his icy blue gaze, wondering what he'd think of me if he knew I kissed Shea. It would hurt him. Hunter doesn't hide his feelings for me. Feeling the same way about Hunter would un-complicated things. The problem is, I don't feel the same way. We're too close. We have too much in common. We've been friends since kindergarten. People tease me for friend-zoning him. I think that's a toxic, misogynistic term. It stems from the belief that the concept implies an exception that women should date or have sex with men in whom they have no interest because the men were nice to them. Anyone who abides by or believes in this concept is a misogynistic jerk fuelling the patriarchy.

Just because Hunter is nice and has an interest in me doesn't mean I'm required to make an exception and date him. Yes, sometimes I wonder what it would be like to date Hunter. Maybe, in a parallel universe, one where we don't share a history of friendship, it would've worked. Right here, right now? No. I will never date Hunter. He is my best friend, and I want it to stay that way.

"Nothing," I lie, averting my gaze. "I'm tired and sore. Spin class last night was intense, and the sculpting class after wasn't helpful, either."

He nudges me again. "When will you realize you can't lie to me? Bren, we've known each other since we were four."

Sighing, I glance at him. "I'm fine, okay? Just tired. I regret agreeing to a sleepover tonight. With Catina, Ella, and Evren. All I want do to is sleep."

Hunter frowns. "So cancel. If you're too tired, cancel."

I shake my head. Although I'm exhausted, I want to see my girlfriends. Even if there is regret about agreeing to a sleepover stirring in my gut, I know it will fade away once I'm there. Once I'm in my pyjamas and enjoying a night out. Hunter doesn't need an explanation why I want to go, though. I shrug him off. "What are you doing here?"

He notices frustration clips my tone, but he doesn't let it faze him. "The guys and I are going out for dinner. We thought you'd want to join." He shoots me a lopsided, slightly sardonic smile. "But you're booked already."

"'Booked?'" I ask, wrinkling my nose. "I'm not some venue."

He nudges me with his elbow. "I know," he laughs. "I'm teasing. You can join us next time. If you want to."

I lean my head against his shoulder and sigh. "Thank you."

"For?" he asks.

The hooks and bench ahead of me are empty, much like the rest of the surrounding space. I press my socked feet against the rubbery black floor. The emptiness disheartens me, but it also makes me appreciate the friendship I have with Hunter. The respect I receive from teammates like Drew and Nick, and opponents like KJ and Jayden. Although the comments directed at me tonight were degrading and rude, I have to keep my focus on the positives. I have the skill to make a mark in the hockey world. There are people I can depend on. I can lean on.

"Not being an asshole like Kamloops or Kelowna hockey players. For keeping it inclusive instead of exclusive. It makes dealing with idiots easier."

He loops an arm around my shoulders, giving me a half-hug. "I'm always here for you, Bren. Nothing will ever change that." With his free hand, he gives his jaw a rub. The sound of stubble scratching against his palm fills the silence for a few seconds. "I'm sorry about what those players said. If it's any consolation, Nick and I wanted to kick their asses."

"So did I," I reply. "But that would've cost us a penalty. We have to keep our emotions separate from hockey. Focusing on speed and technique is more important."

Winning and proving women can play is more important.

"It's still not right," he huffs. "I don't know how you stay calm."

I suppress a snort. He thinks I stay calm? Hell no. Although my urge to achieve success is fuelled by different factors, my temper is primary. I'm mad at the world for categorizing women. For succumbing to patriarchal capitalism. We are not an exploitable resource. We are human beings. The only way they should compare us to nature is via force and power.

I'm furious with my father for leaving Mom and labelling me worthless. For never wanting to meet me. The comments boys throw at me rebound like a puck from the crossbar, but they still reverberate within my bones. They still haunt me. I exercise to release that anger; to calm down. When the world pushes against you, find an outlet. A healthy outlet. Mom and Hunter say I overwork myself. I have to disagree. Everything I do has a reason behind it, and it's difficult.

"It's difficult," I admit. "But I know my hardwork will pay off in the end. That much I believe."

Hunter drops his arm from my shoulders. "You're going to rattle this world, Brenna Harrison. Mark my words."

A smile finds its way to my face. "Thanks, Hunt. I'm sorry I can't make it for dinner tonight. I will join next time."

He gets to his feet, flashing me his signature smile. "Have fun with the girls."

We exchange a wave, and then he's out of the locker room.

Once again, I glance around the room, taking in the empty hooks and bench. The red paint and black, rubbery floor. Even the space above the shelving platform winding around the room is void of anything related to hockey. I see previous ringette team photos, figure skating awards, and the memorial piece dedicated to the person who founded the arena.

I press my lips into a flat line, centring my emotions.

One day, my photo will join the figure skaters and ringette teams. I will be an inspiration for young women.

* * *

"Brenna!"

"Hey," I say, tossing my duffel bag to the floor. "Sorry, I'm late. Your mom let me in."

As per usual, Catina has her bedroom window open. The cold air filtering into the room causes a shiver to snake down my spine. My wet braids and T-shirt aren't helping this situation.

"Christ," I tease. "It feels like I'm in Antarctica."

"Shut up," Catina laughs, taking a sip from her cup. Judging by the slight puckering of her lips and the red flush along the skin of her neck, I'm assuming they've already broken into the alcohol. Lemon drop martinis are her favourite, despite the complaints about disliking sour drinks. A paradox I'll never understand. "It was hot in here."

"Well, vodka can do that to you."

After I've rifled through my duffel bag and pulled on a sweater, I survey Catina's bedroom. The walls are painted a deep red, something similar to mahogany but with less brown undertones. Her bedsheets are grey and frilly, adding a touch of femininity to her aesthetics. Twinkling fairy lights line the headboard of her bed, adding a warm white glow to the dim atmosphere. Framed photos clutter her nightstand, situated around her lamp and old-fashioned alarm clock. My favourite part of her bedroom is the reading nook. It's beside the shelving unit, accented with a grey cushioned seat, throw blanket, and an armful of pillows.

Along the far walls, next to the large open window, is a massive black bookshelf. If I'm an avid reader, then Catina is an insane reader. She polishes off an average of eighty books per year. I know this because we challenge each other via Goodreads every year. 

She always wins. 

I sit down beside Ella on the reading nook's bench. She flashes me a timid smile before offering me a bag of Twizzlers. I grab one strand of red liquorice and take a bite. The cherry-flavoured sweetness fills my mouth and sticks to my teeth.

"How was hockey?" she asks.

Glancing at her, I wonder if her question is genuine or if she's being polite. After her fallout with Kaleb, hockey has been a sensitive subject for Ella. She's never told us why she broke it off with him. Not truthfully, anyway. When she said they'd grown apart, I knew she was lying. There's another reason lingering beneath the surface.

Because I didn't play Kelowna tonight, I decide to answer her question. There'll be no mention of Kaleb's name. "It was great," I reply. "We beat Kamloops five to nothing. I scored two goals."

"That's awesome," she replies. Her blue eyes sparkle with pride. "Does that put West Kelowna on top?"

I beam back at her, but for an entirely different reason. She's a hockey fan and enjoys watching it. Yet she knows nothing about playing the sport, which is an entirely different experience as opposed to watching it. Instead of comparing me to men and questioning my commitment, she encourages me and supports me. As women should. If we want to back up our feminist movements and slam the patriarchy, we have to stand united. Instead of dehumanizing or disrespecting each other, we need to build each other up with respect and confidence. We need to create a strong foundation.

"Not quite," I reply. "According to the rumour mill, Shea managed tied up last night's game with ten seconds left. Instead of losing to Vernon, Kelowna came back in overtime and won. Kelowna's win led to them tying us for points. We're tied with Kelowna."

I don't mention Kaleb was the one who scored the game-winning-goal.

Ella raises her eyebrows as she takes a sip of her drink. "We're calling him Shea now?"

Cat and Evren, who are sprawled out across Catina's bed painting their nails, induct themselves into our conversation.

"Come on, Ella," Evren snorts as she paints her thumbnail gold. "Calling him 'Shea' implies nothing. They've been French project partners for almost a month now."

"We also agreed to a truce," I add, fiddling with the strings of my hoodie. Memories flood the back of my mind with broken glass, cool tile, and the warm touch of his lips. I hope Evren, Catina, and Ella can't see the evidence of memory on my face. "We've put our differences aside because we want good grades."

Ella exchanges a knowing glance with me, her dirty blonde hair bracketing her slim cheekbones. Questions and answers fill her blue eyes. She knows something's happened, and she wants to know what. Our gaze holds for several seconds. Ella cocks a blonde brow in silent question.

Tearing my gaze from hers, I mutter a soft curse. Ella's too observant. If Hunter can see something's off with me, then Ella probably sees it in waves of colour.

Thankfully, Catina steals the spotlight. She slides off of the bed and heads to the dresser where bowls of chips, candy, and some drinks are. "I can't believe you can act civil around him. If we switched our roles, the police would be searching for his body by now."

My lips part, ready to protest. I snap them shut and bite my tongue. What am I thinking? Defending Shea will only feed their suspicions.

Catina waggles her fingers above the collection of drinks and mickey of vodka before selecting an unknown can. I don't see what it is until she's turned around and has tossed it at me. Leaning forward, I catch the can before it thumps against the grey hardwood.

"Nice throw, Cat," I drawl, turning the can over in my hands. It's a fizzy, peach-flavoured Black Fly gin soda—my favourite. The can feels heavy in my palm. Drinking wasn't in my books, but it might ease some tension from my muscles. I crack the can open and take a long sip. The drink is so fizzy it stings, but the sweetness of the peach flavouring remedies the sting. I stare at the can. "Damn. This drink is dangerous. It doesn't taste like alcohol at all."

Evren raises her red plastic cup in a toast. "That's the point. It makes the experience much more relaxing." She wrinkles her nose. "Imagine getting wasted on shots of tequila."

However, despite the yummy taste, I'm hesitant to bring the can to my lips again. Although the drink tastes good, I'm not sure I want to feel the effects of alcohol; the lack of control over my mind and mouth. Just then, a memory slithers into the back of my mind, including the emotions I felt. I'll never admit it aloud, but watching the Canucks game with Shea was awesome. I felt relaxed and happy; tension didn't exist.

Glancing at my Apple Watch, I notice I've almost doubled my goals for today. Maybe taking a break and unwinding wouldn't be so bad. I'm nervous about drinking, but I know I can trust my friends. Also, I need to prevent myself from thinking about the other memory that continues to haunt me.

I toss back another sip.

Cat shrugs, her black hair adapting to her movements; it flows like water around her shoulders. "Tequila is delicious—if you know how to make a proper margarita."

A devilish grin spreads across Evren's perfectly painted plum lips. Even when we're having a sleepover, she looks sophisticated. Her gold hoop earrings match the golden threads of her blazer, which pairs beautifully with her black yoga pants and white turtleneck camisole. She leans over the bed and grabs her bag.

"Lucky for you ladies," she continues. From the bag, she removes a mickey of tequila. It contains enough booze for each of us to have a drink. "I know how to make amazing margaritas."

Ella wrinkles her nose. "Where did you get all this alcohol?"

"Older sisters," Evren and Catina say in unison.

Ella and I exchange a glance. Although Ella has a younger sister, she can understand the lack of an older sibling. We shrug and turn back to Evren and Cat. They're bickering over which is the better flavour for a margarita: lime or coconut.

Leaning back, I take another sip of my drink, unsure of where this night is going to go.

* * *

"Seriously, though," Cat slurs. She elbows me in the ribs. "Back me up on this, Bren. Men wearing flannels with the sleeves rolled past their elbows, who have tattoos on their forearms and wear glasses, are fucking hot. You can't deny that."

Smacking my lips together, I set my drink down and nod, raising one finger. "Okay, I can't deny that. Have you ever read Kiss My Cupcake by Helena Hunting? I swooned over Ronan." I pause, tapping my fingers against the pillow spread across my lap. "But, have you ever witnessed a man wearing grey sweats with a tight-fitting white T-shirt? It's incredible."

Evren wrinkles her nose. "Like ovary-scrambling incredible, or just incredible?"

A picture of Shea flitters across my mind. I'm still sober enough to not mention his name. "It depends on the man," I reply. Shea's face pops into my head, which is why I chug the last of my drink. Tonight, I'm blurring him from my mind. I made the executive decision. 

Rolling off of the bed, my knees slide down to the hardwood and I ease to my feet. The room sways as I stumble over to the dresser. When I catch my reflection in the mirror, I notice how flushed my skin is from the alcohol. Thank God Mom is okay with me drinking in moderation. Although I'm going to be hungover tomorrow, she'll brush it away with reasonings like At least you were safe or As long as you stayed at Catina's house. I also texted her with an update, so that's that. 

I grab another drink, popping the can open. I consume half the drink before I'm at the bed. There has to be a way to get Shea out of my head. To prevent these types of conversations. Every time Cat mentions a hot book character, my mind, by default, obsesses over Shea. Over how soft and warm his lips were when we kissed.

"How does it depend on the man?" Ella asks. She's been nursing the same drink since I arrived. AKA, she's sober as hell. It makes me jealous.

With no grace, I flop onto the bed. My drink fizzes, some bubbles sloshing over the edge and spotting Cat's duvet cover. "It depends on your preferences. Do you want him for the looks? Blond? Brunet? Tattoos or no? Or do you forgo the looks and depend on the personality? A combination of both? Your preferences can increase the emphasis of an outfit."

"I'll drink to that," Cat agrees.

"Same," Evren nods.

We knock together our drinks and then take a sip. Well... I chug the rest of mine, the peachy sweetness saturating my tongue.

"What's your preference, Ev?" Cat asks.

Evren taps her bottom lip with a gold nail. Her fresh manicure glitters. "Jeans, a wooly grey turtleneck, and a vintage suede jacket. You know? The kind that looks like leather, but isn't? I also like earthy-tone scarves. What about you?"

Catina flops against the pillows and stares at the ceiling. Her gaze is foggy from the haze of alcohol. "There are so many types. But if I had to choose, it would be the flannel and jeans with Timberland boots. Lumberjack style."

"That's so Canadian," I snort, grabbing a handful of ketchup chips. "Okay, if you could marry any character from a book who would it be?"

"Juliette Ferrars," Evren replies. "I haven't read much of it, but you got me hooked on that series, Bren. Juliette is such a strong character, and no one can tell me otherwise. You?"

"Elias from An Ember in the Ashes," I slur, resting my chin on my fist. "He melts my heart. Cat?"

"Alex Waters," she smirks. "Any man that has his dick referred to as 'Monster Cock' is perfect in my books. Ella?"

Ella ponders her options for several seconds. "I would have to choose Kaz Brekker. I like the dark, brooding type. He's also deeply devoted to his friends. Loyal."

"Of course you do," Cat giggles, passing me another drink. It's one of her lemon drop martinis, but it's still alcohol. Even if it makes my lips pucker. "Kaleb Jones fits that description perfectly. Hell, they kind of look similar. Though, Kaleb's face is much softer."

Evren uses aggression and nudges her.

"Ow!" Cat exclaims, rubbing her side.

"Cat," Ev hisses. "Don't be rude."

Ella stays silent as she curves into herself. If she pushes back any harder, she's going to become part of the wall. I feel bad for her—she was happy with Kaleb.

Feeling bad for discussing boys in front of her, I toss back the drink, my lips turning looser and looser by the second. I'm not sure how many drinks I've had. More than enough, thanks to the buzz in my head. Falling backward, I revel in the comfort of Catina's millions of pillows. Some of them are fuzzy. Some are soft... Soft like Shea's lips.

"I kissed Shea Smith," I announce.

It wasn't supposed to leave my mouth, but the attention needs to be removed from Ella and Kaleb's fallout. It's not fair to Ella. Besides, I can handle this conversation now that I'm fuelled by liquid confidence.

Ella, Evren, and Cat go silent, the three of them gaping at me.

"What?" Catina asks. Any slurring that was previously present is gone. "What the hell did you just say?"

"I kissed him," I hiccup. "He's a superb kisser."

Ella, who is more concerned than amused, leans over and takes my drink from me. "I think we've had enough alcohol for one night, Brenna. How about some water?" She leaves the reading nook and swipes a plastic cup from the dresser before exiting the bedroom. Her retreating footsteps echo down the hallway.

Water would be a good idea, but it's a little too late. "I kissed him"—I press my pointer finger to my lips—"right on the lips. And do you know what the worst part is?"

Evren and Cat shake their heads.

"I'd kiss him again," I admit.

"How did this happen?" Evren asks. "What made you kiss him? In case you've forgotten, he's an asshole. He doesn't deserve a chance with you, let alone any girl." Pausing, she pops a chip in her mouth and chews. "He is good-looking, but looks don't make up for the negative traits of someone's personality. Especially when they're disrespectful, sexist, and indifferent."

I stare down at my half-empty cup—or is it half-full? Wait. I don't have a cup in my hands. Or a can. I frown at my empty hands. Huh. Maybe I need some water.

"He's not completely sexist. He never told me I shouldn't be playing hockey. He just didn't—doesn't?—want me playing with the boys. Our truce has... complicated things."

Cat grabs a handful of peanut M&Ms from the bag and tosses them in her mouth. She doesn't speak until she's chewed and swallowed. "Who started the kiss?"

"Shea," I reply.

"Hmm..." Cat says.

Evren echoes her.

My eyes flutter shut again. "And I kissed him back. Though... I wasn't sure where to put my hands. What do you do when you kiss a boy? Do you just leave your hands in your lap? Or put them on his shoulders? I was so confused."

It's hard to tell if my friends are surprised, appalled, or disappointed. Even when they chuckle, I can't tell if they're nervous or if their amusement is genuine.

"So..." Cat drawls. "You kissed him back?"

"I did," I nod, opening my eyes. I keep my gaze locked on the ceiling, not wanting to make eye contact with either of them. "I think it was more out of shock, though. I wasn't expecting him to kiss me. But..."

Evren blinks. "You didn't push him away."

"No," I reply.

My friends fade off into silence until Ella returns with my water. She presses it into my hands and says, "Drink." She's slightly breathless from the two sets of stairs. Catina's house is annoying. Three floors with lots of stairs. Too many stairs. My thighs are always burning by the time I reach Cat's room on the top floor.

Ella's intense gaze meets mine for several seconds. I know this conversation isn't over; she wants to talk to me about Shea. After dating Kaleb for a few years, she's knowledgeable about KJ and everyone on his team, including Shea. Maybe she wants to warn me.

I scoff. It's not like I have feelings for him. Sure, the kiss was good and his mouth tasted even better. But I would never actually date him.

Would I?

I'm too drunk to answer. 

"Why don't we direct the conversation elsewhere?" Ella asks, turning to Cat and Evren. "This is one we need to have when we're all sober." She holds out her hand. "Give me your phones. What Brenna admitted isn't leaving this room until we've had a proper discussion."

Cat and Ev sigh, but hand over their phones. I toss mine onto the bed, watching as Ella scoops it up. I'm glad she's taking my phone. My hands are itching to text Shea and ask him why he kissed me. Which would probably be a mistake.

"Good," Ella smiles, tucking the phones in her bag. "Now, who else wants some water?"