Chapter 4: Famous Last Words: Chapter 4

Persistent poking wakes me. I toss one arm over my eyes, certain I’m imagining it. I’m alone in my own bed. Who the hell would be poking me?

“Harlow.

!”

I shift my arm away and reluctantly open my eyes.

Eve is perched on the side of my bed. Her dark hair is a mess and her glasses are askew.

“What’s wrong?” I mumble the words, my eyes already half-closing.

“Wake up.” Another jab in the ribs.

I mutter something unintelligible, hoping she’ll just give up.

“Harlow!”

“Is the house on fire? There better be some emergency—”

“

is here.”

That gets my attention. I open my eyes all the way and focus on her. “What?”

“Conor Hart. The hot hockey player. He’s here. At our front door. Right now.”

“What?” I repeat, flabbergasted. “

is he here?”

“I don’t know!” Eve flaps her hands around. “I opened the door thinking it was the doughnuts I ordered, and there he was looking ten times more delicious!”

I rub a palm across my forehead.

. “You ordered doughnuts?”

“I tried to, last night. I thought they were finally getting around to it.”

“That makes no sense. Holey Moley doesn’t even deliver.”

“Who cares, Harlow? I was asleep, and I didn’t see you dragging your ass out of bed to answer the door. The point is—the hottest guy I’ve ever seen in real life is at our front door. Get up!”

I refocus, although I am craving a doughnut now. “You didn’t ask what he’s doing here?”

“Of course I asked! He said he wants to talk to you.”

I woke up in an alternate universe. It’s the only explanation.

Approaching me at the party last night was strange enough. Coming to my house is incomprehensible. I try to think of a single reason why Conor might be here and come up totally blank. “Tell him I’m not here.”

“Harlow.”

Eve gives me a . For all her brash proclamations, she’s a moral epicenter; the type of person who doesn’t approve of hiding from conflict. Or from a hot guy. In this particular instance, I’m also positive she wants to eavesdrop.

What she doesn’t understand—what I can’t tell her—is that me avoiding Conor is for the greater good.

Talking with him last night was not only unexpected. It was also exciting. There’s a dangerous thrill that comes along with the forbidden, I guess. Or maybe that’s how every girl feels while talking to him. Eve definitely looks dazzled, which I’ll be teasing her about once this morning is nothing but a distant, outlandish memory.

“Eve.” I match her tone.

She sighs, then stands. “Fine. I’ll tell him you must have snuck out the window in the middle of the night to meet your forbidden lover.”

“Sounds great.” I flop back down on the mattress and pull my pillow over my face.

She won’t. I hope. Then remind myself I don’t care what Conor thinks.

My bedroom door shuts. I peek around my pillow to check the time on my phone. 7:05. I’m impressed Conor is up this early. He was still at the party when I left last night. Maybe he hasn’t gone to bed yet.

I roll back over, but I can’t fall asleep.

Curiosity burns away exhaustion.

Our conversation last night rattled me, if I’m being honest.

It wasn’t finally deciding that his eyes are more gray than blue.

Or him standing a lot closer for a lot longer than I was expecting. Long enough for me to accept what I’ve been aware of since I caught my first glimpse of him freshman year—I’m attracted to Conor.

Or the way everyone stared at us.

It was that approached . That the hostility wasn’t there. He wasn’t friendly, but he wasn’t outright rude, either. One conversation, and I’m worried I get the fascination with Conor Hart I thought I was totally immune to.

I can’t fall back asleep, so I roll out from underneath the warm sheets. I yank on a one-piece bathing suit and cover it with a pair of sweatpants and a fleece.

Eve’s door is closed when I walk past it. Clearly, she was able to go back to sleep. I resist the strong urge to knock and ask her what Conor said when she sent him away. But I resist it, because it’s Conor Hart. I’ve always seen the physical appeal, but unlike the girls who fall for his charm and cocky smirk, I know what’s beneath the stormy surface.

Know the carefree indifference masks uglier inclinations.

Know the fury that makes him such a force on the ice has repeatedly hurt people I care about.

I use the bathroom, make my usual smoothie, and snag my car keys from the bowl by the door. It’s raining—no surprise there. My black rain boots make an unpleasant squelching sound as I walk to my car.

I don’t bother pulling my hood up for the short trip. My hair is about to get soaked, anyway.

There are only two other cars in the parking lot when I arrive at the sports complex. It’s 7:40 a.m. on a Sunday. Not shocking at all.

I walk through the drizzle to the front entrance of the building. A swipe of my student ID card, and I’m inside the lobby. I veer to the right, into the women’s locker room.

I shed my clothes and stuff them inside a locker. Grab my goggles, then enter the pool area. There’s not a single person in here.

I pass the sign and walk the length of the pool to the blocks.

Getting into the water is always the worst part. The air in here is humid and warm but I know the pool won’t be. I snap my goggles into place and climb up onto the plastic platform. I lean forward and grip the front, then fling myself off of it and into the pool.

Cool water coats every centimeter of my body. I start kicking, propelling myself through the chlorinated liquid. The initial shock fades as I fall into familiar, rhythmic motion. I do four laps of each stroke, then switch. Freestyle. Backstroke. Butterfly. Breaststroke. Repeat.

I love swimming.

Love the way sounds are muffled.

Love the feel of my arms and legs churning through the water.

Love the weightlessness of gliding along.

Too bad there’s no option to swim a marathon.

I pause at the end of the lane. The large clock hanging behind the now-occupied lifeguard chair tells me it’s past nine. I climb out of the pool. Water sluices off my body, dripping back into the cement rectangle containing hundreds of gallons of it. My mind is blissfully blank, my muscles beginning to tingle with lactic acid.

“Have a good day, Jerry.” I wave to the middle-aged man who lifeguards here in the mornings as I head into the locker room.

“Bye, Harlow,” he calls after me.

The locker room is still empty. I grab a towel to dry off, then pull my sweatpants and fleece back on. Toss the damp towel in the hamper and make my way over to the door that leads back to the entrance of the athletic center.

I step into the lobby and collide with Conor Hart.

I’m staring at generic gray fleece, but I know it’s him, even before I glance up. Along with his eye color, I’ve memorized Conor’s scent. It’s far more appealing than the chlorinated air I’ve been inhaling for the past hour plus.

I almost fall on my ass in my haste to put some distance between us.

Conor’s alone, which I think is a first. Whenever I see him on campus, he’s surrounded by people. Friends. Teammates. Fangirls.

We stare at each other for a few uncomfortable seconds.

uncomfortable, at least. I can’t tell what he’s thinking.

I clear my throat. “Are you lost, Hart? This is the pool. The water is next door.”

His lips quirk. My entire body reacts to the tiny movement. “I didn’t know you swim.”

All of a sudden, I’m aware of my appearance. Wet hair. Circles around my eyes from my goggles’ suction. No makeup. Clothes only Eve sees me in. Plus, I reek of chlorine.

“The first time you said more than in my presence was last night. So you not knowing my daily exercise routine isn’t really all that surprising.”

His nod is slow, his lips turning up a tiny bit more.

“Daily, huh?”

“It means every day,” I inform him.

“Yeah, thanks. It would have taken me a couple of minutes to look up that definition on my phone.”

I scoff, then move to walk past him. Whatever is, it’s dangerous. The same hum of awareness I experienced talking to him last night is back. And it scares me, honestly. I’ve never felt it before, around anyone else.

Conor blocks me, stepping to his left as I move to my right. “Your friend’s a shitty liar.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I tell him loftily.

“Oh, yeah? So, you were…where when I stopped by this morning?”

My mind goes blank. “I forget.”

He grins, and my lungs stop working.

I’ve never seen Conor Hart wear anything but a scowl on his annoyingly attractive face. Amusement transforms already striking features, softening the sharp slash of his brows and the tight clench of his jaw.

“I didn’t want to talk to you. And I that’d be a plan you would be on board with.”

Our road of resentment is a two-way street.

Conor seems to have turned onto a one-way without warning me.

“Were you at the game last night?” he asks.

“No. I’m not one of your , Conor.”

He smirks. “How’d you know about me fucking up that pass to Powers, then?”

“I heard someone at the party talking about it.”

For a few uncomfortable, thrilling seconds, he studies me. Then shakes his head. “Nah, I don’t believe you.”

“I have better things to do with my time than go to your hockey games, okay?”

Conor tilts his head, not looking the least bit offended. “Is it because of Williams?”

“It’s because of .” I glance around the lobby, confirming we’re still alone. “And you know exactly why.”

I’m expecting the reminder to fracture this bizarre conversation.

Conor looks unfazed. Unbothered.

I exhale. “I read the game recap, okay? My dad was a hockey fan. I guess I maybe like it a little bit.”

I was expecting him to look smug about that admission. Instead, he looks bothered.

Because…

, I realize. I forgot that Conor Hart is the one person on this campus besides Eve who knows about my parents.

I look away, feeling even more awkward.

“Was your dad a Canucks fan?”

I swallow before nodding. “Diehard.”

“Did he take you to games?”

I can’t believe this is happening. That I’m casually talking to about a topic I don’t discuss with anyone.

“We went once. Have you ever been to a pro game?”

For some reason I can’t comprehend, I keep the conversation going. Actually, I know the exact reason: I like talking to him. Which is both shocking and concerning.

“With ?” There’s a new, mocking edge to his voice. I flinch, and Conor notices. “No, I’ve never been to one.”

“You should go.”

“Planning on it. But I’ll be playing, not watching.” He takes a step closer. I fight the urge to put more distance between us. “Aren’t you going to ask why I stopped by your place this morning?”

“No. But I’d like to know how you knew where I live. Little stalker-y, Hartbreaker.”

Unfortunately for my oxygen levels, the second grin he flashes is just as arresting as the first one was.

Conor rubs the back of his neck with one hand, looking almost…embarrassed.

“You heard about that, huh?”

“The whole campus heard about that.”

There’s a buzzing sound. Conor pulls his phone out of his pocket, glances at it, then does a double take. “Fuck. I’m going to be late for practice.”

Based on his surprised tone, we’ve been talking for longer than I realized.

He holds his phone out to me, open to a new contact. Messages keep showing up at the top of the screen.

I glance from the screen to him. “I’m not giving you my number.”

“I need you to text me your class schedule. Between my classes and hockey, I don’t have a lot of free time.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Conor?”

He exhales like he’s exhausted. “I’ll do it, okay? I’ll train you for the marathon.”

I fight through the shock and manage to say, “I’m good.”

“You found someone else?” His tone is a challenge.

“You turned down helping me. Rather rudely.”

Conor rolls his eyes. “All I said was .”

“It wasn’t what you said. It was how you said it.”

“Couldn’t have come as much of a surprise. You’re…. you.” I purse my lips in response. “Come on, you can’t honestly tell me it hasn’t affected your perception of me.”

“Nope, it has,” I tell him.

“Then why ask me?”

“I told you!” I reply. “Aidan.”

“Bullshit. Why did you really?”

“Maybe I wanted to see if you’re a better person than I thought,” I snap.

“Well, I’m not.”

I study Conor—

study him. Owning up to shortcomings is a hell of a lot harder than denying them. A self-awareness I didn’t think Conor had. It sparks a flicker of curiosity.

“Glad we’re on the same page.” I move to walk past him, again.

He stops me, again.

“Jesus Christ,” Conor mutters. “Look, I know I’ve been kind of an ass before, okay?”

Another shock.

Although I snort at the “kind of.”

“Just let me make sure you’ve got some idea of what you’re doing. Especially now that I know you’re kinda athletic,” he continues, nodding toward the pool entrance. “Even if it’s swimming.”

“What’s wrong with swimming?”

“It doesn’t get much sports coverage. That should tell you all you need to know.”

“Last I checked, Division III hockey doesn’t get much coverage either,” I tell him.

A muscle in Conor’s sharp jawline jumps. Bullseye on a sore spot. When I’ve puzzled the enigma that is Conor Hart—which up until now was an infrequent occurrence—one of the main questions is the mystery of him being one of my classmates.

He had other—better—options than Holt University. Options that would have made his plan to play hockey professionally after graduation a much easier goal to achieve.

“It will this year,” Conor says. Determination drips from the words, reflected in the features of his face that have turned stoic and unamused again.

I shrug. “We’ll see, won’t we?”

Inadvertently, I’ve implied I’ll be following the rest of his season. That checking the recap of his last game was not a one-time thing.

“Yeah.

will.” He caught it. Oblivious isn’t an adjective that can be used to describe Conor. “I’ll be at the running track at four p.m. tomorrow. Your move, Hayes.”

When I get home, Eve is eating a bowl of cereal in the kitchen. She wrinkles her nose when I pass by to grab water out of the fridge.

“You were at the pool?”

“Yup.” Eve’s mother is a hairdresser, and both she and Eve are horrified by the fact I dunk mine in chlorine on a regular basis.

“You’re using the shampoo I got you, right?”

“Yes.” I pour water into a glass and drain it. “It smells funky, though.”

“Put on extra perfume before our double date tonight, then.”

“Shit. That’s tonight?”

Eve doesn’t answer. She just points at the calendar, where is written in bold letters on today’s date. It’s the only event that made it onto the calendar this month, further emphasizing its importance.

“Why are we going out on a Sunday night, again?”

Eve shrugs. “Ben chose the night. He’ll be here with David at eight.”

I sigh. Eve has been dating Ben Fletcher since freshman year. They met at one of those school-sponsored first week events I didn’t think people actually went to, let alone found love at. Ben is nice enough, and he adores Eve, which is all I want for her. Unfortunately, he seems to have an endless supply of friends who are “amazing guys” and are “looking for the right girl.”

Spoiler alert: I haven’t been the right girl so far. For any of them. All of Ben’s friends are smart, nice, and, for lack of a kinder word, boring.

Tonight’s outing is the third double date in as many weeks. The final set-up, I’ve decided.

It’s not like I can’t find dates on my own. I’m going out with a guy in my aquatic resources class next week. But Eve is on a mission to make our senior year the best one yet—hence the bucket list and how I ended up at a hockey party last night—and so far I’ve indulged her.

“Fine. I’m going to shower and get some work done.” My plan was to put all of my assignments off until later, but that was before I was reminded about our evening plans.

“You should watch a classic movie, too,” Eve tells me.

“A classic movie? Why?”

“David’s a film major. The first thing he asked me when I met him was what my favorite movie is. You need better material than .”

“But that my favorite movie,” I insist. I’m dressing up as Elle Woods for Halloween on Thursday.

“I doubt David has heard of it. He prefers dramas to comedies.”

That bodes poorly for our compatibility, but I don’t say so.

I promised Eve I would make an effort tonight, and I will.

It takes me until it’s time to get ready to finish my homework, so I don’t watch a classic film. I scan an article listing the best films of all time for some conversation material while I do my makeup. I haven’t seen a single movie that’s mentioned.

Eve is always chatty, but Ben is a man of few words. His friends tend to be the quiet, serious type as well.

Within minutes of meeting David, I know it will be a long night. He’s nice. Cute. He’s taller than me, and at five eight that’s not always a given with guys. Unfortunately, none of David’s height accommodates a sense of humor.

I drive the four of us to Gaffney’s. David spends the short trip detailing French film angles and their technical brilliance. I kind of want to hum , even though technically, I’m not Singing wouldn’t send the same message, though.

Eve gives me a glum, sheepish look when we climb out of the car. Despite her advice earlier, I’m sure she realized the first time she met David that he and I are not headed for a happily ever after. Hope springs eternal in Eve’s world, though. I’m more of a pessimist. Comes with the territory after having your world toppled.

Half the hockey team is leaving Gaffney’s as we enter.

“Hey, Harlow,” Aidan greets.

“Hey,” I reply.

My gaze roves over the guys he is with, annoyed to realize I’m not randomly glancing around.

I’m searching for .

Conor is standing by the long table the rest of them must have just left, talking to a blonde waitress. She laughs at something he says and strokes his arm. He grins down at her, and something ugly twists in my stomach.

I look away, straight into Jack’s searching gaze. He glances at David next to me.

Jack. The hockey player I feel some emotion at the sight of.

“HARTBREAKER!” Hunter calls. Loudly.

Pretty much everyone in Gaffney’s was already looking this way, but that takes care of the few who weren’t paying attention to the hockey team.

Several of the guys behind Aidan exchange grins.

“He’s gonna be pissed,” Aidan tells Hunter.

“Then he shouldn’t have been late for practice. I’m not going to be able to walk tomorrow.”

Aidan nods, then glances over his shoulder. “Get her number so we can go!” he shouts.

Laughter rumbles among the players. David and Ben are staring at them like they’re another species.

“Hart drove,” Hunter tells me.

I nod, glancing at the empty hostess stand and wishing Eve hadn’t made a reservation so we could just seat ourselves.

Conor heads this way. With the blonde waitress right behind him. Her name is Stacey, according to the nametag attached to her blouse. She’s blonde and petite with big boobs, and I wonder if that’s his type. I’ve heard plenty of comments about Conor being the campus heartbreaker—ergo the nickname—and I’ve seen lots of girls circling him, but I’ve never actually witnessed him flirt or seen him pay attention to anyone in particular.

“Sorry for the wait,” Stacey says. “Do you guys have a reservation?”

“Yeah, we do.” Eve steps forward.

“Hey, Hayes.”

I lose track of everything except him, my eyes leaping to meet Conor’s gray ones.

“Hi, Hart.”

There’s visible shock on his teammates’ faces that Conor acknowledged me. It’s almost funny, seeing their stunned reactions. Aidan’s mouth is half-open.

Conor must notice their response too because I catch a glimmer of amusement in his expression before he looks next to me. There’s no reaction as he spots David and Ben. Then, “Hey, Eve.”

That’s all he says before heading for the door. His teammates immediately follow, like a row of baby ducks following a parent. Aidan grins at me as he passes by. Jack offers a tiny wave.

And then they’re gone.

“You know Conor Hart?” Ben asks Eve.

“No,” she answers.

I forgot to ask Eve about what exactly Conor said to her earlier. And I’m surprised he took the time to ask her name, let alone remember it. I figured he was one of those guys who had identifiable traits—

—in his phone instead of girls’ actual names.

Ben’s eyebrows furrow. “How did he know your name?”

“He’s probably secretly in love with me.”

Ben sighs. “Eve…”

“Your table is right this way,” Stacey says. Her expression is neutral, no reaction to the conversation about Conor.

I wonder how well they know each other. Remind myself , and resent how often I’ve had to do that today.

Stacey leads us over to a four-person table in the far corner.

Another waitress named Amy takes our drink order. Everyone except me orders beers. I opt for water. Eve offered to stay sober tonight, but I’m happy being the designated driver.

“So…” I search for possible topics. “What are you guys dressing up as for Halloween?”

Ben glances at Eve. “Whatever Eve tells me to wear,” he states.

Eve shoots him a proud smile, then looks to me. “I think I’m settled on Adam and Eve. I ordered the leaves earlier.”

“Cute,” I say, then glance at David. “What about you, David?”

“A director. Hitchcock, probably.”

“Was he French?” I ask innocently.

Eve kicks me under the table.

David takes my question seriously. “He was British, actually. I’m sure you’ve seen his films.

?

?

?”

I shake my head. “Nope, not ringing any bells.”

David looks stunned. “There’s a theater in Mayfair that shows his movies. We should go sometime.”

“Maybe,” I say.

“Who are you being for Halloween?” he asks.

I smile. “Elle Woods.”

Blank expression.

“From ?”

David shakes his head slowly. “I’ve never heard of it.”

Across the table, Eve sighs.

Probably thinking the same thing I decided earlier:

.