My heart stops in my chest, and for a split second I contemplate hiding. He gives me a wink, spins the chair around so it’s facing the right way, and leaves. A not-so-small part of me wants to follow him.
CHAPTER7
Ares
It’s our third game of the season. We’re playing the Indianapolis Storm, and I’m still on the goddamn motherfucking bench. Under normal circumstances, the incumbent goaltender would be the starter, not a freshman. Except both our goaltenders moved on over the summer, leaving nothingbutfreshman goalies.
Coach seems to be flexing his big dick muscle. I’m not quite sure what message he’s trying to send other than he’s not above benching our starting netminder because he feels like it. How am I supposed to prove myself, to earn my place between the pipes by Christmas if he doesn’t ever let me play?
Asshole.
My blood simmers, hot under my skin, and I’m tempted to stand up, stomp my feet, and throw the team’s sticks all over the ice in protest.
The urge to punch something, to work this out of my system, is strong, and there’s no bright haired beauty to talk me out of breaking my foot this time. Even thinking of her brings relief to my tense muscles. She smelled like bubblegum at the gym, an achievement for someone with sweat seeping through her clothes.
Something about the way she handled me nestled deep in my chest. She wasn’t afraid of me, at least not until I tried to touch her face anyway. But the empathy, the care, the gentleness with which she approached me... that was... something.
Parker makes another big save out on the ice, and my stomach drops. Not even thoughts of the colorful, calm elf can ease this burning in my veins.
I’ll definitely need to hit the club on my way home. Ugh. I can’t even put on my hot as hell suit and sit in the stands yelling abuse at my teammates as a healthy scratch. I’ve got to stay suited and booted on the bench, in case my backup fucks up and I’m tagged in.
Not that I’d ever yell abuse at my teammates. At least not when fans can hear.
For tonight, I’m the backup.
I’m not good at playing second fiddle to anyone. In fact, I bust my balls every time I step out onto the ice to ensure that doesn’t fucking happen.
And yet… an impostor’s between my pipes.
Okay. He’s not an impostor, but it feels like he is. Maybe it’s me that’s the impostor. Perhaps Coach saw something during practice that he doesn’t like—other than my “bad attitude”—he could be regretting signing me.
My stomach tightens, but I force out a chuckle then flex my jaw. No way. I’m good, better than good. And yet, the bench feels pretty warm under my ass right now.
It’s the middle of the second, and we’re up by a goal. I should know everyone’s name by now, but I don’t. I’ve got the people who help defend my net down so I can yell at them if they fuck up, but I’m hazy on the forwards. What Idoknow is that there isn’t another de la Peña on the ice right now.
Thankfully, the smart people who created hockey made us all put our names on our shirts for ease of identification while traveling at high speed. So, when someone in a Raccoon’s jersey steps on the puck and falls on his face, I can clearly see that it’s left winger Tate Myers. That’ll make it easier to rib him about it later.
Stepping on a puck is the most embarrassing thing that can happen on the ice. Actually, it’s not the stepping on the puck that brings the humiliation—it’s the unstoppable, crazy awkward way that you immediately fall down that’s embarrassing.
It removes all control. Not falling is near impossible. So, when Myers’s face meets the ice, a mixture of laughter from the stands and wincing with mutters of concern from both benches fills the air. For those of us who haven’t face-planted in a similar way ourselves, we know it could happen to any of us at any time.
Still funny as fuck, though.
Myers gets up on his skates, dusts himself off, and shakes his head like he’s cussing himself out. It’s funny how we all blame ourselves for shit that we literally have no control of. Yet, we behave as though we should. Myself included.
My brothers both step out onto the ice. Brothers. Does Thiago play hockey? I shake my head, but the thought doesn’t dislodge.
Having watched the twins play since they started at UCR, Coach rarely sends them out together at the minute unless they’re needed to send a message to someone, and this game has been pretty tame so far. Is Coach shaking things up across the board for shits and giggles?
Wishful thinking. They play so well together as a pair. Artemis has Apollo’s back at all times, and it’s as though they sense where the other is on the ice. It can be a thing of beauty to watch, but when they’re having an off night, it can look pretty ridiculous.
While I’m distracted by my brothers on the ice, the ref drops the puck in my periphery. Could I convince Apollo and Artemis to switch their jerseys on the ice for April Fools’ Day? That would be funny as fuck. Okay, so they’d need to get matching haircuts too, but it’d be worth it to prank Coach. And everyone else on the ice.
I bet half the guys can barely tell them apart as it is. If it wasn’t for the scar on Artemis’s upper lip from his cleft palate surgery, I would struggle to know who’s who most days.
They used to switch places all the time when they were kids. Drove Athena and me mad. But drove Papá up the wall even more.
I’ve seen a meme on one of the socials where two players were sitting on the bench, one’s shirt said French and the other said Fries. It’s cute, but twin-switch would be a riot. Now that I think about it, the Sedin twins are reported to have switched jerseys for fun back in their day. It’s not like it never happens. It would be funny as hell.
