The Deal (Off Campus #1)(52)

"Fuckin' Cass," Hannah's friend Dexter mutters from his seat next to  Allie. "Someone needs to give that boy a good ass-kicking." Dex glances  at Logan and me. "Can't one of you hockey players do it? Rough him up a  bit?"

"Gladly," Logan says cheerfully. "What's his address?"

I jab my friend in the side. "We're not beating anybody up, jackass. Not  unless you want to face Coach's wrath-and a suspension." I turn to  Hannah with a rueful look. "Don't worry, I'm beating him up in my head,  baby. That counts, right?"

She laughs. "Sure. I'll allow it." She tucks her order pad in her apron pocket. "I'll be right back."

As Hannah heads for the counter, I admire her ass for so long it gets me  three loud snickers from my companions. And don't get me started on how  weird it is to be sharing a booth with my best friend and Hannah's best  friends.

I was certain that Hannah's artsy friends would be all condescending and  frigid around me-especially after she told me what they think about  Briar's jock crowd-but I think my natural charm has won them over. Allie  and Dex already treat me like we've been buds for years. Stella, who  discovered her passion for hockey during the Harvard game, now texts me  every other day to ask hockey questions. And while that dude Jeremy is  still a bit snarky whenever I see him, his girlfriend Megan is pretty  cool, so I'm willing to give him a few more chances to not be a dick.





  

"She's pissed," Logan remarks as he watches Hannah chatting with the cook behind the pick-up counter.

"She should be," replies Dex. "Seriously, what kind of selfish douchetard dumps his duet partner right before a show?"

Logan snickers. "Douchetard? I'm totally stealing that phrase."

"She'll be fine," Allie says confidently. "Hannah's originals are awesome. She doesn't need Cass."

"No one needs Cass," Dex agrees. "He's like the human being equivalent of syphilis."

As everyone laughs, I tune them out and focus my attention on Hannah. I  can't help but remember the first time I came to Della's, with the sole  purpose of persuading Hannah to tutor me. It was only a little more than  a month ago, yet I feel like I've known her forever.

I don't know what I was thinking taking that whole anti-girlfriend  position. Because having a girlfriend? Fucking rocks. Seriously. I get  to have sex whenever I want without having to work for it. I have  someone to vent to after a shitty day or a devastating loss on the ice. I  can make the worst jokes on the planet and chances are Hannah will  laugh at them.

Oh, and I love being with her, plain and simple.

Hannah returns to our booth carrying our drink orders. Or rather, Allie  and Dex's drink orders. Logan and I asked for sodas, but what we get is  water.

"Where's my Dr. Pepper, Wellsy?" Logan whines.

She levels him with a stern look. "Do you know how much sugar is in a soft drink?"

"A perfectly acceptable amount and therefore I should drink it?" supplies Logan.

"Wrong. The answer is too damn much. You're playing Michigan in an  hour-you can't get all hopped up on sugar before a game. You'll get a  five-minute energy boost and then crash halfway through the first  period."

Logan sighs. "G, why is your girl our nutritionist now?"

I pick up my water glass and take a sip of defeat. "Do you want to argue with her?"

Logan looks at Hannah, whose expression clearly conveys: you'll get a  soda over my dead body. Then he looks back at me. "No," he says glumly.





34

Hannah


MY PHONE MEOWS just after midnight, but I'm not asleep. In fact, I'm not  even in my PJ's yet. The second I came home after work, I grabbed my  guitar and got right back to work again. Now that Cass has thrown a  selfish, vindictive wrench into my life, things like "sleep" and  "relaxing" and "not panicking" don't exist anymore. For the next month,  I'm pretty much going to be a walking basket case, unless I magically  find a way to juggle school, work, Garrett, and singing without having a  nervous breakdown.

I put down the acoustic and check the screen. It's Garrett.

Him: Can't sleep. You up?



Me: Is this a booty call?



Him: No. Do u want it to be?



Me: No. I'm rehearsing. Totally stressed.



Him: All the more reason for this to be a booty call.



Me: Keep it in your pants, dude. Why can't u sleep?



Him: Whole body hurts.



Sympathy flutters through my belly. Garrett had called earlier to say  they'd lost the game, and apparently he'd taken some brutal hits  tonight. Last time we talked, he was still icing his entire torso.

I'm too lazy to type, so I dial his number and he answers on the first ring.

His husky voice slides into my ear. "Hey."

"Hey." I lean back against my pillow. "I'm sorry I can't come over and kiss all your boo-boos, but I'm working on the song."

"It's okay. There's only one boo-boo I want you to kiss, and you sound  too distracted for that." He pauses. "I'm talking about my dick, by the  way."

I choke down a laugh. "Yep. I got that. No need to clarify."

"Did you decide which song you're going to sing?"

"I think so. It's the one I sang to you last month when we were studying. Do you remember it?"

"Yeah. It was sad."

"Sad is good. Packs more of an emotional punch." I hesitate. "I forgot to ask you earlier-was your dad at the game?"

A pause. "He never misses one."

"Did he bring up Thanksgiving again?"

"No, thank fuck. He doesn't even look at me when we lose, so I wasn't  expecting him to be chatty." Garrett's voice is thick with bitterness,  and then I hear him clear his throat. "Put me on speakerphone. I want to  hear you sing."

My heart squeezes with emotion, but I try to hide the response by  donning a casual tone. "You want me to sing you a lullaby? Aren't you  precious."





  

He chuckles. "My chest feels likes it got hit by a truck. I need a distraction."

"Fine." I hit the speaker button and reach for my guitar. "Feel free to hang up if you get bored."

"Baby, I could watch you watching paint dry, and I still wouldn't be bored."

Garrett Graham, my own personal sweet-talker.

I settle the acoustic on my lap and sing the song from the top. My door  is closed, and although the walls in the dorm are paper-thin, I'm not  worried about waking Allie. The first thing I did after Fiona told me  about the duet was give Allie a pair of ear plugs and warn her that I'm  going to be singing late into the night until the showcase.

Weirdly enough, I'm not angry anymore. I'm relieved. Cass had turned our  duet into the kind of flashy, jazz-hands performance that I despise, so  as infuriating as it is to get dumped, I've decided I'm better off not  having to sing with him.

I run through the song three times, until my voice goes hoarse and I  finally have to stop to chug the bottle of water on my nightstand.

"Still here, you know."

Garrett's voice startles me. Then I laugh, because I honestly forgot he  was on the line. "I couldn't put you to sleep, huh? I don't know if I  should be flattered or insulted."

"Flattered. Your voice gives me chills. Makes it impossible to fall asleep."

I smile, even though he can't see me. "I need to figure out what to do  about that last chorus. End high or low on the last note? Oooh, and  maybe I should switch up the middle section too. You know what? I have  an idea. I'm hanging up now so I can figure it out, and you need to go  to sleep. Night, dude."

"Wellsy, wait," he says before I can hang up.

I take the phone off speaker and bring it to my ear. "What's up?"

I'm greeted by the longest pause ever.

"Garrett? You there?"

"Uh, yeah. Sorry. Still here." A heavy breath reverberates through the line. "Will you come home with me for Thanksgiving?"

I freeze. "Are you serious?"

Another pause, even longer than the first. I almost expect him to  rescind the invitation. And I don't think I'd be upset if he did.  Knowing what I do about Garrett's father, I'm not sure if I can sit  across a dinner table from that man without reaching over to strangle  him.

What kind of man hits his own son? His twelve-year-old son.

"I can't go back there alone, Hannah. Will you come?"

His voice cracks on those last words, and so does my heart. I let out a shaky breath and say, "Of course I will."





35

Hannah


GARRETT'S FATHER'S HOUSE is not the mansion I expected it to be, but a  brownstone in Beacon Hill, which I suppose is Boston's equivalent of  mansion living. The area is gorgeous, though. I've been to Boston  several times, but never to this ritzy part of it, and I can't help but  admire the beautiful nineteenth-century row houses, brick sidewalks and  quaint gas lamps lining the narrow streets.

Garrett barely said a word during the two-hour drive into the city.  Tension has been rolling off his suit-clad body in steady, palpable  waves, which has only succeeded in making me even more nervous. And yes,  I said suit-clad, because he's wearing black trousers, a crisp white  dress shirt, and a black jacket and tie. The expensive material fits his  muscular body like a dream, and even the perma-scowl on his face  doesn't take away from his sheer hotness.