Heh. It could be a weather alert for a storm rolling in. But the ball of guilt, tangled with the voices of disappointment from those I love most, bubbles in my stomach acid, making my gut lurch.
The clock ticks closer to 9AM, and the anxiety tightening my chest ticks right along with it, like an olden day rack, stretching every cell in my body with each turn of the wheel. Click. Click. Click. Tick. Tick. Tick. My pulse syncs to the rhythm until I can’t tell which one’s the clock anymore.
The silence in the car is stifling. Last year, I was surrounded by my brothers, my hockey family. Now I’m just… alone. And the more I wait for the feelings of resentment and sourness to pass, the worse they get.
I glide my tongue along my top lip, lingering on the scarfrom the lip repair surgery I had as a child. Another reminder that I’m not the flawless son.
The scar pulls faintly when I smirk—like even my body doesn’t buy the act.
It seems I haven’t yet reached the figure in my bank account where I don’t care that I’m the back-up, the one with imperfections, the eternal disappointment. Does that figure even exist?
That’s what it’ll say on my tombstone when I die: Here lies Artemis. Grumpy bastard. Eternal disappointment.
The clock ticks over to nine o’clock, the final seconds of the countdown seeming somehow louder than the rest, announcing I can’t procrastinate any longer. I’m officially late for my first day.
Mustering a strength I don’t feel, I heave my bag from the passenger seat and groan. It’s time for a second chance to complete my degree, tick the damn box, and stop stewing in my misery.
The car door creaks open, and the now morning air slaps me in the face. It’s brisk and a wakeup call. If nothing else, maybe if I’m really lucky, I can at least help the guys win the championship this season.
It’s the only thing that gets me out of the car.
CHAPTER 2
Xavier
(LATE SEPTEMBER)
Visiting the Den in Cedar Rapids always gets my blood pumping, even before the game starts, adrenaline charges my veins.
It smells of sweat and victory with notes of cheap beer and spilled popcorn.
There’s something special about skating rings around these snooty little rich boys that brings a deep sense of satisfaction. I feel it in my calves—sharp and bright, the kind of burn that tastes like winning before the first puck of the game even drops.
Last year was the most fun I’ve had on the ice since I started playing. And I can only imagine how much fun it’ll be this year now that one of the de la Peña twins is repeating his final year. Talk about embarrassing. Guess money can’t buy everything, huh?
For a minute I thought I’d have to find a new adversary. The outskating de la Peña brothers were supposed to graduate and move on. And my older brother, Roman, is an NHL goalie—so that rules out antagonising the youngest de la Peña, Ares, while he’s protecting his pipes.
The idea alone makes me cringe. If I started even thinking that shit, Roman—who just signed a three-year deal with the New Orleans Phantoms—would fly to the University of Wisconsin and beat the ever-loving shit out of me with his goalie stick.
I still have a photo tacked above my dresser of him in his first NHL jersey. Little Roman with chipped front teeth and eyes too big for his face. When I was little, I wanted to be a goalie, just like Ro, but once I realized I’d spend my life being compared to him, I opted to be the top goal scorer for every team I graced with my Martinez presence.
If I was going to be compared to the guy who stopped the pucks, I was going to do my level best to net as many as possible.
Now he’s a poster boy on ice rinks and contract pages. He’s the face of globally recognized brands and is on track to be the best goalie the NHL has ever seen.
For now.
A deep sense of pleasure surges through me, replacing the bubbling jealousy of my older brother’s accolades. The bright, lights bloom over the ice, the crowd exhales their collectively held breath, and I turn that sound into a wide grin. This game is ours.
We skate onto the ice for a quick lap before we settle into the opening face off formation.
There’s a sizzle in the air, an expectation. Apprehension. Excitement. Almost entitlement, in spite of the fact there’s nothing serious riding on this game. It’s not a title clincher, it’s not a playoff final, it’s an early game in the season. Nothing of consequence. That’s just how they roll here in Cedar Rapids; theydeserveto win.
For the fans in the stands, something rides on every game.
The Raccoons have put together a strong team this year. We—the Wisconsin Wolves—haven’t played them yet toknow that, but we also don’t have to. The names on the roster say everything they need to. And as long as Artemis de la Peña keeps his grades up, he’ll be the biggest fish to fry this season.
Guy’s a fucking beast.
