“Why? He’s your best friend.”
“It just is,” I snap before seeing the hurt in her eyes. I love my mom. She’s seriously the best mother on the planet and isn’t used to me lashing out. Then again, neither am I. But after the phone call, I’m feeling on edge. Like a shaken-up can of soda that could explode at any second. It’s a real possibility if I can’t get my emotions under control.
Reaching for my mom’s hand, I tangle our fingers together and close my eyes. “He’s probably busy tonight, anyway. Dylan’s date is picking her up in less than an hour. It’s not like he can be ready that fast.”
“Pretty sure Archer can steal one of his dad’s tuxedos. Actually, I’m pretty sure he already owns one. Those boys have been attending events fancier than this since they were babies.”
My lips press together, knowing she’s right. Their parents are freaking billionaires. Literally.
“What if I just mention it to his mom?” she suggests. “Let her feel him out and see if he’d be okay taking you?”
“And make me the pity-party prom girl who can’t keep a date?” I stick out my bottom lip. “No, thank you.”
“Too late!” Dylan chimes in from the doorway. “I already texted Archer.”
My shoulders fall, and my eyes cut to hers. “You did?”
“Yup.”
Shit.
“What did he say?” I ask.
“He said he’ll be here in thirty, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I will away the stupid burn in my eyes–again–and nod. “Okay.”
It’ll be fine. Everything. Will. Be. Fine.
I sniffle and stand up, pulling on my proverbial big girl panties and letting out a slow breath.
“Let’s do this.”
Chapter One
Ophelia
“You really think this is a good idea, Blake?” my dad asks as he sets the final cardboard box down in the center of the cluttered family room of my new home for the next four years.
“Come on, Theo,” my mom urges. “When the girls decided to attend LAU, we agreed it was best to have the boys stay close and keep an eye on them.”
“That was before my oldest daughter started dating one of them.” My dad gives me a pointed look from beneath the brim of his worn baseball hat. Placing his hands on his lower back, he arches it, probably hoping it’ll ease the ache he’s been complaining about ever since he tweaked it while playing hockey a few years ago, though I doubt it helps much.
“Just because Lia’s dating one of the twins doesn’t mean all of our plans should implode,” my mom scolds from across the family room.
“Yeah,” I pipe in. “It wasn’t my idea for you and your friends to build a massive house for all of your kids to stay in. Pretty sure if you wanna blame anyone, you should look in the mirror, old man.”
“Har, har,” he grumbles. “That decision was made before I remembered what it was like to attend LAU while living at the Taylor House when I was your age. You can’t blame an old man for wanting to keep his baby safe.”
Ah, the Taylor House.
I’ve heard stories. Lots of them. I was wondering when he was going to bring up his college shenanigans with his friends. The original Taylor House was owned by my grandparents, and my dad took full advantage by offering housing to the entire LAU hockey team under the guise of building camaraderie. I’m pretty sure it was more along the lines of making things easier for puck bunnies to warm the players’ beds, but what do I know?
The Taylor House must not have been all bad since my parents and their friends agreed to invest in a massive duplex near LAU’s campus as soon as their kids started reaching college age. One side is for the girls, the other for the boys. It was either a clever decision or a ludicrous one, though it’s too early to tell.
Jaxon, my oldest cousin, was the first to enroll at LAU after he received a full-ride hockey scholarship. A year later, his little brother and the twins were also accepted onto the roster. Now, two years later, here I am, attending LAU like the rest of them.
One. After. Another.
Dylan and Finley will be moving in with me at the end of the summer, but since I was recruited to play for the new girl’s hockey team this year, I was asked to come early to train with the rest of my teammates in preparation for the new season.
It’s crazy. That LAU is kicking off an all-girls hockey team. Then again, I guess it makes sense, considering the men’s team’s fanbase. Who knows? Maybe the concept will even spread.
It’s a well known fact that girls’ sports are rarely taken as seriously as men’s. Things are slowly changing, though. My parents have been nothing but supportive since I was a little girl and chose to play hockey with the rest of the boys despite the odds stacked against me in terms of it becoming a career.
That being said, I’m not completely delusional. The chance of actually making a living while playing hockey professionally are slim to none, which means I need to pick a major at some point. But that’s a problem for future Ophelia. And I have no issue passing the puck to her and enjoying today’s moments while I have them.
Like right now. In the middle of a family room right down the hall from a bedroom I get to call home for the next four years. I could leap for joy right here, right now.
“Look at the bright side,” my mom offers. “At least there’s a wall separating the girls from the boys.”
“Like that makes it any better,” my dad mutters under his breath. “You sure you’re going to be okay here by yourself, Lia?”
Stealing my dad’s hat from his head, I slap the worn black material on top of my curls and smile at him. “I’m a big girl,” I remind him. “Trust me, I’ll be fine. Besides, it’s like you said. The guys are only a wall away.”
He scrubs his hand over his face. “Knowing your boyfriend’s one of them doesn’t exactly make me feel better.”
“And now this conversation is going in circles.” I laugh and kiss his cheek. “Have a little faith in me, Dad.”
“What about the motorcycle out front?” he questions.
My forehead wrinkles. “What about it?”
“Well, who does it belong to?”
“How would I know?”
His bushy brows dip, and he peeks out the front window, taking in the sleek, black motorcycle parked in the driveway.
“It probably belongs to Reeves,” my mom suggests. “‘Cause it’s not like any of our friends would let their kids buy a motorcycle.”
“No offense, but all the guys are over twenty-one, which means they’re officially adults,” I remind them. “I doubt they need their parents’ permission to buy a motorcycle.”
“Are you saying you’re gonna do whatever you want now that you’re a big girl living all alone at college?” Dad demands.
I pat his chest. “I’m saying it doesn’t matter who owns the bike because it’s none of our business. And it sure as hell doesn’t mean I’m going to be riding on it, so what’s the problem?”
“You don’t own a car,” he points out.