Brenna

I double-check the address before knocking. After convincing Mom I couldn't bail on Shea, the last thing I need is to go knocking on the wrong door. Mom wasn't pleased about me leaving, let alone going to boy's house this late. I think my only saving grace is that it's Friday. No school or practice tomorrow. I also assured her it was for our French project.

Although I hate to admit it, I admire Shea for thinking about his sister's mental health. It's great he's allocating his free time to her.

Taking a deep breath, I knock my knuckles against the cranberry-red door. All I can do now is wait.

As I'm waiting, I turn my back to the door and survey his neighbourhood. I've never liked the Kettle Valley. While the view is beautiful, houses crowd the area like sardines in a can. Living without a backyard would drive me crazy.

The click of a lock brings me back to my senses. I turn around as the door opens, staring down at the young girl before me. She's blonde with hazel eyes and a round face. Her cheeks are pink.

"Who are you?" she asks.

"Who are you?" I blurt, caught by the element of surprise.

Several seconds tick by before realization dawns on me. I almost smack the heel of my hand against my forehead. It's Chelsea Smith. Shea's little sister. She's grown up so much since the last time I saw her, I almost didn't recognize her. Last time I was at Shea's house, Chelsea was a toddler and they lived in West Kelowna.  

She looks uncomfortable, practically hidden behind the door.

"I'm Brenna," I smile. "Your brother's friend."

Chelsea frowns. The door opens a little more. She has a peach-coloured towel wrapped around her shoulders. Her hair is damp at the ends. "Shea doesn't have a girlfriend," she frowns.

"You're right, Chels," he chuckles. "I don't. Brenna is a... friend who's a girl."

His familiar voice stumbles over the word "friend."

Chelsea turns around. I look up, my breath catching in my lungs. Shea is walking down the hallway in nothing but his wet swim shorts. A towel is in his hands. He's rubbing it against the damp curls at the nape of his neck.

My eyes trail down from the towel to his broad chest. Then the toned muscle of his stomach. I have to avoid looking at his pronounced V-cut.

Cheeks burning, I bring my gaze back to his. He's standing behind Chelsea now, a hand resting on her shoulder. The towel hangs over his shoulder, catching droplets of water.

"You didn't tell me you had a friend coming over," Chelsea says.

"I have a friend coming over," he shrugs.

Chelsea punches her brother in the arm.

Shea smiles, ruffling her damp hair. "Get changed, kid."

Chelsea pouts at Shea. "I don't want to go to bed. It's the weekend."

"Did I tell you to get ready for bed?"

"No," she mumbles.

Shea gives his sister a little push. "Get going before I change my mind."

His words are enough to make Chelsea scurry down the hallway. In the distance, I hear feet padding against stairs.

"Sorry about that," Shea says. "She's a spitfire."

I adjust the strap of my bag. Now that Shea and I are alone, all I can think about is our kiss. The atmosphere feels awkward. Muddled. What was the purpose of him kissing me?

"It's okay," I shrug. "She was being smart about opening the door for strangers."

Shea mutters something like, But you're not a stranger. At least, that's what I think I hear.

I step inside, overwhelmed by the smell of chlorine wafting from him. I try to ignore it. He turns his back to me as he shuts the door, but I don't take advantage of the situation. Instead, I kneel and untie my Converse. Gawking isn't polite.

"Where can I put my shoes?" I ask.

"Wherever," he replies. "The kitchen is at the end of the hallway to the right. I need to wipe up this water before it damages the hardwood. Meet you there?"

"Sure," I nod, keeping my gaze locked on the shoelaces. I have engraved his body into my mind.

Surveying the area, I slide my shoes under the small rectangular table along the wall. Atop it is a glass bowl with car keys and a pack of gum. A bouquet of fake flowers sits in the middle, collecting dust. The ruby-red fake petals pop against the cream-coloured walls.

After discarding my shoes, I follow Shea's instructions and take a right at the end of the hallway. The dim-lit corridor breaks out into a large open-concept kitchen. The quartz countertop reflects the pendant lighting above. Above me, the ceilings are high and vaulted. Pot-lights are above, but they're very dim. White subway tiles pattern backsplash behind the sink. All cupboards are grey and the island is large.

Shea is next to the fridge, in front of the sliding glass door that leads out onto what I'm assuming is the back patio.

"You can set your bags on the counter and get set up," Shea says. "I'll clean the water up and then get changed."

Peering over the island, I watch as Shea leans over and mops up small puddles of water with his towel. His navy blue swim shorts ride up a little on his thighs, revealing nothing but corded muscle.

I draw my bottom lip between my teeth. His fucking thighs are gorgeous. "Okay. Do you, um, have any... um... papers I could grab? Notes from our previous sessions?"

With a low groan, Shea gets to his feet, grabbing the edge of the island for support. He squeezes his eyes shut, a crease forming between his brows.

"Are you okay?" I frown. My eyes go to his shoulder, despite him not using the muscles there.

"Sore," he replies. "From today's training session. I did too many squats."

I stare at his legs. Well, that explains a lot. "Right," I nod, turning to my bag. From it, I remove my textbook and papers.

"My notes are on the coffee table in the living room," Shea says. "Mind grabbing them?"

Anything to get me out of here while he's wearing those goddamned shorts.

I clear my throat. "Not at all."

He runs a hand through his damp, curled hair. "Okay. I'll be back in a minute. Make yourself at home."

After Shea has exited the kitchen, I trudge to the living room. The living room is cozy thanks to the wood fireplace. Large white candles and ivy plants decorate the mantle. Framed landscape photos decorate the space above.

My eyes continue to note the details. This is the first time I've been in Shea's house since he moved to Kelowna. It's strange. Everything I see is familiar and different. The weathered leather, grey couches and sleek coffee table are in front of a flatscreen TV. It's bracketed by a white shelving unit. Books line both sides. Below, there are cupboards for storage.

Just like Shea said, his notes are on the coffee table. Wasting no time, I round up the papers and head back to the kitchen.

Shea isn't back yet, so I set up our work station as he suggested. After I've organized papers, notes, and textbooks, I climb up onto a stool at the breakfast bar. I'm not sure where Shea keeps pens and pencils. Rifling through drawers is out of the question.

Sighing, I rest my elbows against the countertop and drop my chin against my fists. The quartz is cold through the sleeves of my sweater. I glance around the kitchen, trying to shake the weirdness away. Ever since Shea kissed me, everything's felt messed up. My feelings are conflicting. I'm forbidden from kissing other hockey players—that much was clear when I joined the league. Yet, I can't prevent myself from thinking about his lips. Or questioning why he did it.

"What kind of project are you doing?"

A small cry of surprise escapes my mouth as I jump, spinning on the stool to find the source of the voice. Chelsea is back. She climbs onto the stool beside me, her gaze filled with curiosity. My heart hammers in my chest as I take a deep breath. She should've warned me. I just about had a heart attack.

"Uh... A French project," I reply. "We have to research a French-speaking area and present it."

Chelsea wrinkles her nose. "That sounds boring."

I glance down at the papers and sigh. "It is boring," I admit. "Giving in to boredom is never the answer, though. Shea and I need to pass this course to graduate."

While Chelsea looks over the notes, I get a better look at her. Chelsea and Shea hold high resemblance; it's easy to tell they're siblings. Their eyes, hair, and skin tone are enough proof. Where the difference lies is in the facial structure. Shea has sharp cheekbones and a square jaw. Chelsea's features are rounded and soft.

She pushes the notes away and turns to me, her hazel eyes flicking across my face. "Shea has friends over a lot. Why haven't I met you before?"

I open my mouth, ready to tell her we have met. Chelsea doesn't remember me because she was too young. I bite my tongue before I can speak. Telling Chelsea we've met will only cause problems. I'll have to explain why Shea and I grew apart. She'll have lots of questions. "I play hockey," I say. "My schedule is busy. There aren't many chances for me to come over."

She cocks her head to the side. "You play hockey?"

"Yes," I nod. "With Shea."

Her lips part and her eyes widen with excitement. "You're Brenna!" she exclaims. "The girl my daddy hates! He always gets mad at Shea. He doesn't like you beating Shea in a face-off or scoring on their goalie."

Chelsea's comment shouldn't feel like a slap across the face, but it does. A crease forms between my brows. Once again, my feelings conflict. I'm glad Shea's dad hates me. He seems like a prick, anyway. Knowing I'm the catalyst behind the drama between Shea and his dad hurts a little. Not because Shea and I are comparable in sports, but because men like Shea's dad still exist. Men who blame women for their own problems. Feminism and equality are topics I hold close to my heart. I'll continue to claw my way to the top. I'll continue to fight. Saying it doesn't hurt, though? That's a lie. We shouldn't have to fight for equality.

Still, I shrug off Chelsea's inadvertent revelation. "That's my name," I smile.

The childlike wonder in her eyes makes my heart melt. The emotion she's displaying is my goal. I want young girls like Chelsea to realize hockey is for everyone. Not just men. I want my passion and consistency to be the driving force behind women's voices.

Her head bobs with excitement. "I saw you play! You were amazing!" She glances down at her hands, cheeks turning pink. As she picks at her cuticles, she says, "Shea's teaching me how to skate. I want to play hockey like you do."

Realization punches me in the gut. Now I understand why my comment has shaken Shea up. Why it's gotten to his head. All this time, he's been treating his sister like royalty and me like shit. If I'm guessing correctly, he contemplated what would happen if Chelsea saw him treating me badly. Judging by the relationship they have (from what I've seen, at least), Shea isn't capable of facing disappointment from Chelsea. It makes sense.

I lean back, pressing my lower back against the stool's small backrest.

Huh.

No wonder he's been putting effort in.

"Do you not play hockey?" I ask.

"No," Chelsea replies. "Daddy says girls can't play hockey. It's not fair, but Shea's teaching me. He said he'll take me skating tomorrow..." She trails off, gaze passing over the French papers. As if a lightbulb has gone off, Chelsea's head snaps up. "Do you want to come?" she asks. "You could come skating with Shea and I! We're going to CNC. They have a small skating rink beside the public library. That's where Shea takes me."

Her happiness is contagious, but I don't want to intrude on their outing. Shea rescheduled our homework session to make space for tomorrow. It's obvious he wants to spend the day with Chelsea. I flash her a soft smile. "Maybe. Skating would be fun."

Just then, Shea enters the kitchen. He's wearing grey sweatpants and a navy-blue T-shirt. The sweatpants rest low on his hips. He glances between us, his face void of any emotions until he sees Chelsea leaning against me.

His mouth twitches. "Is she badgering you?" Shea asks.

"No," I reply. My chest tightens with the urge to laugh. I wouldn't say she's badgering me, but she is a curious, outgoing soul.

Chelsea frowns. "I'm not badgering her. We're talking about hockey. I invited her to come skating with us tomorrow. Can she?"

Shea's hazel gaze connects with mine. A few seconds tick by before he sighs and runs a hand through his damp hair. Droplets fall onto the shoulders of his navy-blue T-shirt. "If she wants to."

I'm under pressure from their questionable gazes. Would it be weird to join them? I could contribute to Shea's skating lessons. Maybe give Chelsea a few pointers on holding a hockey stick or shooting the puck. Then again, I don't want to intrude. "I'll think about it," I offer, turning to Chelsea. Hunter wants to hang out tomorrow since I have the day off. That makes my day busy, but my evening free. I doubt Shea and Chelsea will go skating in the evening. "If I decide to come, I'll text Shea, okay?"

Her head bobs up and down. She's satisfied with my answer, but she still adds, "I hope you come."

I direct my gaze to Shea, who flashes me a rare look of sympathy. It's his way of saying I don't have to come if I don't want to. I shrug it off. She's still a kid. There's nothing wrong with her being excited. Besides, I enjoy the admiration. It's a breath of fresh air after playing hockey with boys who disrespect me (minus my team, of course).

Shea clears his throat. "Chels, you should watch TV while we work," he suggests. "French homework is boring."

"Okay," Chelsea sighs. "I'm getting another piece of pizza first."

Chelsea slides down from the stool and heads over to the fridge, removing two plastic containers. I eye the pizza, my stomach reacting. I skipped out on dinner for another spin class. The last thing I ate was an orange two hours ago.

Shea grabs some plates from a nearby cupboard and lays them down on the counter. He puts Chelsea's plate together first, popping it in the microwave for a minute. "Give me another piece, Chels," he mutters.

"You've had like five slices already!" she exclaims.

"So?" Shea challenges. "I'm hungry again."

Chelsea looks at me with question in her eyes. "Boys eat a lot?" I shrug. Honestly, I don't know how they do. When Shea was over, he ate so much food I wanted to throw up for him.

"Want a couple of slices?" Shea asks, taking a bite of the pizza. A dollop of sauce stains the corner of his mouth. He licks it away.

"What kind of pizza is it?"

"Ham and pineapple with jalapeños and mushrooms." He glances down, frowning at the slice in his hand. "It's a strange combination, but Jayden got me hooked on it."

"Sure," I reply. "I'll try some."

He gestures to the microwave. "Hot or cold?"

I don't like reheated pizza, so I ask for a cold slice. He grabs two from the box and places them on a plate. The same plate he slides across the countertop to me.

Chelsea stares at my plate, her nose wrinkled in disgust. "Ew. Cold pizza?"

I take a bite just to gross her out. "It's delicious. Not sure what you're talking about."

The microwave timer goes off. Shea removes the warm plate and hands it to Chelsea. She glances between Shea and I. "You two are weirdos."

"Okay," Shea says, resting his hand on her shoulder. "It's time to go."

As Shea is guiding Chelsea out, she asks, "Are you in love with her? She seems like your girlfriend."

Shea's cough echoes, stating he's caught off-guard for a fraction of a second. "You can watch one episode while you eat your pizza, and then you're going to bed. We're skating tomorrow, remember? And Brenna is not my girlfriend." 

"You're still weirdos," Chelsea says.

With her statement hanging in the air, she exits the kitchen and heads to the living room. It's on the other side of the dining room table. We stare after her, and I feel a smile creeping onto my face.

"She's cute," I smile, ignoring her other comment. It reminds me too much of our kiss.

Shea snorts softly, setting his pizza down. "She gets away with too much." He picks a piece of pineapple from the pizza and pops it in his mouth. A crease is prominent between his thick brows. "I'm probably to blame for that. Drawing the line between being a brother and parent is difficult. I don't want to overstep my boundaries."

"Where are your parents?"

The words slip out of my mouth before I can stop them.

Distaste intensifies in Shea's gaze, but he swallows thickly and stays calm. "Arguing upstairs," he replies. Indifference is thick in his voice. He points to the ceiling. "Can't you hear them?"

Quietness settles over us. Sure enough, I can hear the sound of muffled, angry voices. A jab of unwanted sympathy pokes my heart. The last thing I want to feel for Shea is sympathy. He doesn't deserve my sympathy. But no kid deserves to have a dysfunctional family.

A cartoon echoing from the living room cuts the muffled voices off.

More words related to his parents rest on my tongue. I swallow them. He doesn't want to discuss this. So I change the subject. "Are you ready for the French test on Monday?" I ask.

Shea holds up a finger while he finishes his pizza.

While I'm waiting for a verbal response, I take a bite of the pizza in front of me. Ham, pineapple, mushrooms, and jalapeños is delicious. Jayden and Shea may be on to something here. It's sweet, salty, and spicy. "Huh," I say. "This is fantastic. I didn't expect it to be good."

"Join the club," he laughs, placing his plate in the sink. "When Jayden ordered it, I thought he was crazy. I guess he proved me wrong." He turns back to me. "Should we get started?"

"Oui," I reply.

Shea's last glance at me is uneasy. And he hesitates before he says, "Okay."

*  *  *

Two hours have passed, and my head is spinning. Exhaustion is fogging my mind. And... I glance to my left.

Shea is asleep.

He's hunching over the island, one arm acting as a pillow. His hand rests atop a forgotten pencil. I stare down at his face. He looks peaceful. Leg days aren't fun, so I understand why he fell asleep. He's exhausted.

I rest my hand on his shoulder and give it a shake.

He stirs, pushing up on his elbow as he murmurs, "Huh?" Pens and pencils clatter to the floor. He rubs his tired eyes. "Fuck. Did I fall asleep?"

"Yes," I reply, closing my notebook. "I think it's time for me to leave. You're fading fast. I'm tired, too. We got a lot of work done, so I think it's safe to call it quits."

I climb down from the stool and gather my belongings, stuffing them into my backpack. As I'm reaching for my textbook, Shea grabs my wrist. My head snaps in his direction. I can't quite decipher the look on his face. He almost looks... regretful.

"Brenna..." he trails off, keeping his hand locked around my wrist. "I... I need to tell you something."

I frown at him. He's wide awake, but acting as if he's feeling the hazy aftereffects of sleep. "What?"

The house is quiet for several seconds, nothing but the hum of the fridge and freezer filling the space.

Shea sighs, running a hand through his hair. "I did something stupid."

Rolling my eyes, I say, "That clears everything up. Thank you, Shea. Just cut to the chase." I yank my wrist free of his grip.

He leans back, stretching his body out. His shirt rides up. I avert my gaze. Now isn't the time for gawking.

"A few weeks ago... after my injury, I went to Connor's house. I had a few drinks and... and agreed to something I shouldn't have. A bet. A bet involving you." He pauses, rubbing his temples. "Connor bet a large sum of money I could make you fall in love with me... and sleep with you."

I cock an eyebrow, anger brewing in my blood. My fists clench at my sides, but I take a deep breath, reminding myself he deserves an explanation. "How the fuck am I supposed to respond to that?" I snarl.

So much for keeping my temper under control.

"You're a fucking asshole, Shea," I spit, slinging my bag over my shoulder. Although I want to scream at him, I keep my voice low and dangerous. I don't want to wake up his family. "Seriously, fuck you."

Seeing red, I stomp out of the kitchen, heading for the front door. I can't believe he had the audacity to make a bet. What the hell is wrong with men? I'm not some variable to be manipulated. I'm a human being with feelings and rights. My role isn't to be tossed around and degraded. Bastards.

"I was drunk," he pleads, jogging after me. Shea grabs my bicep and spins me around. "I-I don't want to take part in the bet." His mouth pulls to one side. He looks at the floor. "Okay, maybe I intended to. Until you made that comment about Chels. I would never allow this to happen to her. So what makes you any different? Brenna, I'm sorry. Ruining hockey for another player... I can't fathom it. What I did was wrong, despite being drunk. At least... At least I'm being the bigger person."

"Then why tell me I don't deserve to play with the boys?" I snap. "If I'm no different from your sister, why the hell do you make such terrible comments? Do you not think your comments affect me? I can play the part, Shea. I can act as what men would label a bitch. I'll put up with the patriarchy—women don't have a fucking choice, anyway. That doesn't mean I don't feel its effects. Step back and try to view this from my perspective for once. You're putting me in a horrible position."

He flinches as if I have slapped him. "I'm trying! Why do you think I'm telling you?"

I open my mouth. Close it. Okay, he has a point. He could've gone through with the bet and attempted to screw me over. He didn't. I take a deep breath, centring myself. "Fine. You have a point. I'm assuming you told Connor to fuck off, then?"

Shea rubs the back of his neck, looking sheepish. "Uh, no."

"Why not?" I demand. "He's not entitled to throw my name into a bet because his ego can't handle a woman being a better hockey player."

"It's not that easy, okay?" he sighs, leaning against the wall. He looks exhausted; there are bluish-purple half-moons under his eyes. "Remember when I said Connor beat Jayden up? Well, he's threatening to sideline Jayden and KJ if I don't go through with it." He glances down at his hands, rubbing a thumb across his knuckles. "Brenna, he will not let up until I break your heart enough you won't play hockey. He sees you as a threat for the playoffs. Connor wants you out."

I toss my head back and laugh. "Are you serious? A broken heart would drive me. What a dumb-ass."

He flashes me a weak smile. "That's what I thought, too."

The curve of his lips reminds me of the kiss. A pang goes through my chest. "Did you kiss me because of the bet?"

Shea's cheeks turn pink as he looks away. "No. I kissed you to shut you up. You were poking your nose where it didn't belong. I acted with actions instead of words."

I draw my bottom lip between my teeth, Jayden's words echoing in my head. Shea was far from faking when he kissed me. He's trying to cover up his tracks. Maybe he didn't kiss me because of the bet. He sure as hell kissed me for a reason, though. One that didn't involve shutting me up. "How do I know you're not bullshitting me?

"You can ask KJ and Jayden," he replies. He keeps his gaze locked on the floor. His eyes are distant and glazed. "We're trying to figure this out, Brenna. Connor's got us surrounded. Jayden thinks he'll try to portray me as the villain."

I gape at Shea. "What the fuck is wrong with your team? Who does this kind of shit?"

"Aside from KJ and Jayden?" he sighs. "Everything." His posture slouches and he rubs his tired face. "I don't want Jayden and KJ getting hurt."

Goddamn Shea for caring about his teammates. If he didn't look so vulnerable, I'd tell him to piss off and storm out the front door.

The strap of my bag slides from my shoulder, landing next to the small rectangular table. I cross my arms. "What's Connor's plan?"

Shea sighs. "He wants me to rope you in, pretend to date you, and then break your heart before playoffs. His goal is for you to be off the ice so we have a better chance of being scouted."

Snorting, I wrinkle my nose. "Fat chance a scout chooses me. Scouts only attend our games for the boys. Have you ever thought Connor feels threatened by you? That maybe you're the problem?"

"No," Shea drawls, rolling his eyes. "I never thought of that."

I shoot him a deadpanned look.

He sighs again. "I tried to give him my captaincy. It didn't work. Connor wants me in the playoffs because all he cares about is winning. He wants our team in the spotlight. Not yours. Connor said I have to keep it a secret so we don't violate the code of conduct."

Shea's confession makes me blink. "You offered your captaincy?"

"Yeah," he shrugs, tugging the collar of his shirt. "It's not a big deal."

Bullshit. Being team captain is an honour. Giving up my captaincy to become part of the boys' league was painful.

I cock my head to the side. Hunter, Nick, and Drew would tell me to leave well enough alone. Catina, Evren, and Ella would drag me out of here by my hair. But this is an intriguing predicament. Connor fears losing Shea's contribution to the team. A relationship between Shea and I could never be public. How would Connor know? Where is the proof coming from? He's foiled his own plan.

What he's doing isn't right, either. He's forcing Shea and I into submission by threatening his teammates. If we could prove Connor's been blackmailing Shea...

Fuck, I'd love to take that bastard down.

"Why are you staring at me like that?" Shea asks, shifting uncomfortably. "Are you planning my death?"

"No," I grin. "What do you think about a little payback?"

He blinks several times. "What... What are you talking about?"

I jerk my head to the side, signalling for Shea to follow me. He does. We walk down the hallway, through the kitchen, and into the living room. I sit on the couch, leaning against the armrest. Shea sits down beside me. His thigh brushes against mine.

"We could cause Connor's plan to rebound," I explain. "If we play our cards right, he could be the one exempt from the playoffs."

"You mean 'banned'?" Shea snorts. "Connor doesn't want to be exempt from the playoffs."

"Fine," I chuckle. "Maybe 'banned' is a better word. What do you think? No one will know. Except KJ and Jayden."

Shea rubs the back of his neck. "We don't have to do this, Brenna. I can figure out another solution."

I lean toward him, resting my hand on his shoulder. Our faces are close enough I can feel his warm breath on my cheek. "Listen. We both despise Connor. That bastard gets away with too much. He fucked with Jayden. He's threatening to fuck with Kaleb. Connor's trying to fuck with me. He's fucking with you. People will think we've set our differences aside and called a permanent truce. Enemies become friends all the time. Connor will think you're following through with the bet. In the meantime, you, Jayden, and KJ can attempt to catch him gloating about the bet. Maybe record him or tape him? Solid proof will allow us to win the battle. If he tries to tattle on us, we have back-up."

"You say 'fuck' a lot," he replies. His voice is uneven.

My lips curve into a smile. "Men make me swear. So? What do you think?"

Shea expels a deep breath, tugging at his hair. He gazes at the blank TV screen as he contemplates my offer.

I hold my breath, waiting for a response. Shea and I may not be the best of friends, but there was a time where we were. Where we played on the same team. Who's saying we can't do it again?

"Okay," he replies, throwing his hands up. "Let's do it. We need to meet up with Jayden and KJ, though. They need to be made aware."

"Deal," I say, holding my hand out.

Shea's eyes flitter across my lips before he meets my gaze, taking my hand. His cheeks are pink. "Deal," he echoes. His grip is tight and his hand is semi-calloused. Two callouses sit below his pinkie and ring finger, but the rest of his hand is comforting and smooth. Warm.

I tip my chin up to the ceiling, a smug grin on my face. Connor will not know what's hit him when we're done. Shea doesn't look as confident as I feel, but I brush that away. We've already bent the rules, so why not bend them again?

We'll bend Connor's rules in our favour.