CHAPTER SIX

N oah

This is the best party ever.

Finn's apartment is in Seaport, which apparently is the fancy section of Boston if you like your buildings contemporary as well as expensive.

I know the layout from the various vlogs he's done on his apartment, a fact I don't mention to him. It was awkward enough to admit I've watched some of them. Some can mean three or something. All of them over four years is way more.

Finn is shorter than I imagined. Skates make him taller during the games, and cameras do the rest at his home. I'm two inches taller than him, and I can see the top of his curly hair. I have an odd urge to slink my fingers through his glossy locks; maybe that's a sign he's discovered that good product matters.

Large tourist boats drift around the harbor, and tourists in rows of closely packed seats dutifully take photos. I was in one of them in second grade. Other schools brought students to New York City, but Boston was the limit for my tiny New Hampshire town.

It was also about the best possible visit. I never thought I would one day be doing anything in Boston except craning my neck in utter awe.

Hip hop booms in the background, and the view changes from ethereal dusk streaked in tangerine and lilac to plain black. Lights sparkle, and my heart is light.

Finn wasn't kidding about throwing a party. The room is thick with people. Slinkily dressed women totter in high heels, cozying up to the casually clad hockey players. Everyone looks super healthy, super perfect. Giggles erupt with ever-growing frequency, joined by the ever-growing booms of male laughter. Glasses clink, conversations gallop.

A few women in teeny sparkling dresses have approached me, tucking their hair behind their ears, and running fingers along their collarbones, but I'm no good at conversation, and they wander off, leaving me to enjoy the view of my new city and my beers. Wooziness fills me with every taste of the bitter bubbles. I never go out in Providence, and I let myself become relaxed.

Then a certain golden-brown haired man ambles toward me.

"There you are." Finn slips a cocktail into my hand, taking my almost-empty beer bottle and adding it to the row of empty bottles on the windowsill. Condensation cools my fingers.

"What is this?"

"Tequila sunrise. You can taste test it for me."

I swallow the drink, then cough.

Finn's face falls. "You don't like it."

"N-no. I love it!"

His eyebrows rise. "Maybe I made it wrong. Is it too strong?"

I take another swallow. The liquid burns my throat, and it's way sweeter, way fruitier than anything I'm used to. God, why are girls so crazy for cocktails? It does taste super strong. Maybe unusually strong. But I'm not going to have him test it to make sure.

But my mother taught me to finish my food, and I'm not going to start off not doing that by insulting my hero. It's probably me, after all. Money doesn't go far, even in fourth-rate apartments, and ordering $20 cocktails is never a habit I've gotten into. Some things feel frivolous .

"You having a good time?" Finn asks.

I nod rapidly to make sure he gets it. "The best!"

Finn grins. "Great."

"You know I've seen all your vlogs," I tell him casually. "I'm a..." I hesitate, unsure of the word.

His blue-gray eyes glimmer. "Are you a fan?"

I shake my head. "No. That's not it."

"You're a hate watcher?" His pink lips swerve up.

I stare. "Your eyes are bigger than they look on the screen."

I think his brows lurch upward.

"I'm in 3-D," he says, his voice rough. "Surprise."

"Surprise!" I say. "That's what I am!"

"You're a surprise?" His lips curl. They are much fuller than I remember from the screen. Juicy almost. There's a reason why I shouldn't tell him that, though I'm not sure what it is. I know what I am though. "It begins with ‘s' though."

"Uh-huh?" Finn eyes my cocktail glass, but it's already empty. I wasn't going to make him feel bad. No way. Not anyone, but especially not him. I slick my finger along the rim and stick it in my mouth. I frown instantly. "Salty."

"You're salty?" he teases, his eyes glinting.

A dark-haired woman with thick black lashes appears beside him. She's gorgeous. I know. Because I'm straight. I can tell those things about women.

A pit forms in my stomach. Maybe I'm allergic to her perfume. She seems to have slathered it all over her body. She smells like a flower shop. Which, in hindsight, is supposed to smell nice. Floral they call it. Maybe with some musk. I try to remember if Abby ever talked about perfumes, but she was so serious, I don't think it came up.

"Are you Madison?" The words topple from my mouth.

Her eyes widen, then she smiles. "Guess I'm famous. What did he say about me?"

"That he wants to sleep with you."

Madison's eyes round.

"We'll have to work on your wing game later," Finn tells me, before directing his attention to Madison. "This is Noah." Finn drawls, his voice going extra deep. "He makes things up."

She turns her gaze at me. And I was completely right. She is gorgeous. Her nose turns up just so, and her eyes are set wide apart. She has glossy lipstick on and the sort of shiny white teeth that gives people thumbs-ups from dentists.

"Noah is from Rhode Island."

Madison's eyes light up. "I have family in Newport."

"That does not surprise me," Finn says.

"What about you?"

"I came from the AHL team," I explain. "I grew up in New Hampshire. Small town actually."

"Maybe I know it from antiquing? My mother and I go all over searching for finds."

"I so can't imagine anyone going to my town to buy anything else except gas from the gas station."

Her eyes widen. I think I've horrified her.

"Or whatever is in the gas station," I say. "We don't just sell gas. That would be silly."

"Doesn't sound like a town, Noah," Finn says.

I laugh .

"First you say you're a hate watcher, then you're lying about towns?" he teases.

Madison flicks her gaze back and forth between us.

"I'm not a hate watcher. It begins with ‘s.' ‘Hate' does not begin with ‘s.'"

"You've got me there," he says.

"I'm a superfan," I giggle.

Madison purses her perfect pink lips. "Right. I'll leave the two of you alone. You can talk about internet things."

"Enjoying your night?" Finn asks me.

I nod happily. I glance at the view. "The boats are moving fast!"

"Are they?" Finn's voice is careful.

"Totally. They're wobbling too." I frown. "Do you think we should tell anyone?"

Finn glances at the boats. He winces. "You know, water is a good thing to drink at parties. Let me get you some."

He disappears into the crowd, and I sink onto the floor, my head pounding, my throat tightening.

The happiness flittering through me crashes to a halt. My stomach squeezes violently, and a sour taste invades my throat. A sour taste I haven't experienced for years, but which I recognize at once. I cough, my body shuddering with the effort to restrain everything, like a goalie being pummeled by puck after puck.

Oh, no. Not here. Not in front of him.

Finn is at my side at once. "Let's get you to a bathroom."

The partygoers all seem to notice me now, and their disapproval is palpable. Bile bubbles in my throat, and Finn puts his arm around me and hurries me forward. His footsteps plod beside mine.

I battle the acrid taste rising in my throat and strangle a wrenching noise. It's not a war I'm going to win. Finn flings open a spa-like bathroom that emits a eucalyptus smell, and I hurry over the polished concrete floor, past the floating vanity, past the massive tub. I'm not supposed to be in a place so nice. Partygoers chatter outside, no doubt gossiping about me.

I lurch for the porcelain pedestal and collapse onto the cold floor.

I'm going to be sick in front of my hero.

And then I am.