As much as I love fans of the game, now really isn’t the best time. My hand is covered in sweet, sticky coffee, I have snot running down my face, and my lungs still aren’t convinced that I’m trying to pump oxygen into them as opposed to brown sugar and oat milk.
Something is familiar about this guy, though I can’t put my finger on what. Maybe he’s a regular, someone who hangs out after games or around campus. Has he asked for my autograph before? Who knows? Sure as shit not me. Regardless, he should probably know when it looks to be a good time versus when it isn’t.
I glare at him, hoping the fuck-off vibes will be strong enough to dissuade him from hanging around and trying to talk to me.
Instead, he produces a napkin from his jacket pocket. It doesn’t look as though he’s snotted into it or anything, but at the same time, how do I know it’s not covered in chloroform? I’m glad we’re standing in public right now.
I’m not a small dude, and God knows swinging my fists is my skill—it kinda comes with the hockey territory—but some seriously intense vibes are radiating off this kid. I wouldn’t put it past him to be able to take me wherever he wants me to go. I’m praying it’s not his cold and dank basement.
An awkward laugh escapes me. I’ve clearly been watching way too many true crime dramas with Raffi.
The kid—who can’t be more than sixteen—stares at me like I’ve sprouted a second head. Or he’s waiting for me to return his greeting. But too long has passed since he said hello and now it would be awkward as fuck to actually say “hi” back. Except now it’s even more awkward that we’re both standing here staring at each other while goopy, cold liquid drips from between my fingers.
“You’re Ares de la Peña, right?”
I nod and finally take the out-stretched napkin from him. Desperation to not be sticky trumps chloroform potential. Plus, kidnappers don’t generally hand their drug-soaked rags to their kidnap-ees, right?
What is it about this kid that’s throwing me so off my axis?
“Thanks.” While I wipe my hand clean, my dude shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”
“Shouldn’t you?” he shoots back. Something about the firm set of his jaw that tickles at the back of my gray matter. Who the hell is this guy?
I toss the napkin into the trash on top of the remnants of my drink and arch a brow at the kid. His fuck-you attitude is similar to the one I held a couple years ago. Does he like liquor too?
“I’m Thiago.”
He already knows I’m Ares, so I can’t really say anything in reply. I nod again. “Something I can help you with? Are you a fan? Would you like an autograph?”
The kid snorts like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever been asked. “Thanks, but I’m good.”
The hairs on the back of my neck rise, and there’s a sinking feeling in my stomach that I don’t quite understand, threatening to bring up the few mouthfuls of chai latte I chugged before choking.
“Was there something…?” It’s not like I carry much cash with me. But other than my car, and my watch, I don’t tend to outwardly show that I’m wealthy.
Who the fuck am I kidding?
That’s a bald-faced lie. Every article of clothing on my body comes with a designer label and an accompanying extortionate price tag. My twin brothers are the understated sons of a billionaire. Athena, our sister and the oldest of the pack, has class and an appetite for nice things, but she doesn’t quite flaunt it like I do. Except for her car.
I’m a walking ad for brands. Okay, so I happen to have a penchant for the finer things, and it’s about to come back and bite me in the ass any second.
Does this kid have a gun? Is it even legal to carry in Iowa? Does it matter? If I’m being robbed in broad daylight by a dude in a ball cap, does he really care about gun laws?
In an instant, the confident kid regresses to a child in front of my eyes. His shoulders sag and his face pales. His eyes turn hopeful. My stomach clenches, waiting for the hit.
“I’m your brother.”
* * *
I’m your brother.
Thiago’s words echo around my head on repeat as I lock my thigh around the cool metal pole.
“Back again?” My boss, Ryker Hartmann, calls out from behind the quiet bar. It’s still early. Some regulars are dotted around, but they aren’t interested in me.
The technical term is male exotic dancer, but I prefer stripper. It sounds more badass, less refined, less suitable for a de la Peña. I also prefer when the bar is quiet, so I have space to try new things out on stage or the pole. That way if I fall on my ass, or my head, a limited number of people get to laugh at me.
Dancing is every bit as serious to me as hockey, but they feed into different wells. I grip the pole with both hands, one above my head and one below, and lift my legs above my head into the air, planting one foot below the knee of the other and stay there. I hold position until my muscles burn and beads of sweat trickle down my face.
