Page 1 of Tripped Up

one

Elsy

“It’s not that bad,” Bex says, glancing around.

Not that bad?

Totes clutter every corner, stacked in daunting towers. And the maze of unopened boxes is a definite fire hazard.

Sighing, I stare up at the ceiling. The last thing I need is to trip over one of these endless cardboard death traps and break my neck—or worse, my hands.

Bex and I met in grad school at Stanford, keeping in touch over the years, and when I accepted the Boston Symphony contract two years ago, it made sense for me to move in with her and her roommate, Vanessa. She had an extra room. I needed a place to stay. It was perfect.

The three of us became a tightly knit trio in our short time together. I’m going to miss them. A lot. I feel bad for leaving, even though I know it’s the right thing for me.

When things went south for me in Boston, I knew I had to get out, and fast. A few weeks later, I packed up all my things and drove a moving truck across the country.

Austin will be a fresh start—one I desperately need.

A knock raps on my door, sparking my curiosity. The property manager already came by, and considering I don’t know anybody else, I’m not expecting anyone. Maybe it’s a friendly neighbor? Swinging the door open, I keep my fingers crossed that they’re my age and single.

A tall, built, light-haired man stands on my doorstep. Wyatt Whitney, professional hockey player and the bane of my existence, props an arm on the doorframe and scowls.

“Elsabeth.”

“What are you doing here?” I snap.

He arches an eyebrow. “That’s how you thank me?”

A bitter laugh rips from my throat. “Thank you for what?”

“I invited him over,” Bex calls from behind me. “Come on in, Wy.”

I glare at her. “Why’s he here?”

“Because you have ten thousand boxes and I want to get you unpacked sometime before next year,” she says with a grin. “By the time I board that plane tomorrow, I want to be confident you’re not going to starve or break your neck getting tripped up over the mess.”

Only then do I see Wyatt’s holding a toolbox, a bag of takeout in his other hand.

It’s not my best friend’s fault that I hate her brother. She doesn’t know I slept with him—long before I knew they were related.

It is his fault that he doesn’t remember we hooked up. He’s always treated me like I’m nothing more than the scum on his shoes.

And yeah, I know it was only ever supposed to be a one-night stand, but for him not to remember me after?

My best friend Mitch invited me to go watch him in Ottawa for the World Juniors Championship, then took me to a bar to hang out with his hockey buddies. Wyatt came up and flirted with me, obviously trying to steal me away from Mitch. It’s never been like that with us; we’ve always been strictly platonic, but Wyatt didn’t know that.

He was cute; I was drunk and lonely, so I went back to his hotel room with him. I snuck out in the morning before he woke up and was prepared to move on with my life. It was a great night, sure. But he was a hotshot hockey player at a college halfway across the country. The last thing I expected was for us to fall madly in love and have a happy ever after at nineteen years old.

But then I saw him in the hotel lobby with a few of the other hockey players. They were teasing him about going home with a “tubby butterface with good tits.”

Hey, I was drunk, Wyatt said. At least she put out.

My stomach sank. The sweet, charming guy I’d seen glimpses of turned out to be a pig in his natural environment. What a disappointment. He was exactly like every other guy I’d met.

Our eyes met.

He saw my face.