The hockey house feels too quiet, too still, too fucking cold. Roman offered to put me up in an on-campus apartment, but I wanted to be around people, my hockey family, and yet… right now? I feel like I’m rattling around an empty building.
I lean against a kitchen counter cluttered with Nate’s discarded pads and my own open finance textbooks, the drafty windows of our Victorian hockey house rattling in their frames.
My phone pings again.
Coach: Need you sharp Friday. Scouts from Louisiana watching. Keep your head in it.
I laugh out loud—one of those unhinged, half-feral sounds—and lean my head against the door.
Perfect.
Great.
Louisiana. The one team I don’t want to play for. Roman’s team. If I make it, it won't be as a Martinez tag-along in the Pelican state. I want a city where my name is the first one the fans learn, not a footnote in my goalie brother’s biography.
Pressure from all directions and the one person I want to talk to is handling his millionaire apocalypse and ghosting me in the process.
I toe off my shoes, flop onto the couch, and stare at the ceiling.
I miss him. I hate that I miss him. And I hate that I’m hoping he misses me too. What is there to miss? We’ve barelyspent any time together and yet… I feel so much more like myself when I’m with him.
But I also know this: if he walks through that door tomorrow, or next week, or next month… God help me, I’m not turning him away. Not when it still feels like there’s something here. Or at least, could be. Even if I’m the only idiot brave enough to admit it.
CHAPTER 21
Artemis
Goal Daddy: Hope you survived the Thanksgiving chaos.
He’s still here. Well, nothere,here. But he messaged.
Despite my rational brain knowing that pushing him away is the right thing to do, I just can’t get him out of my mind. It’s like his touch cast a spell on me, and every fucking day he comes into my mind.
No amount of routine, work, or spending time with my siblings is making this ache in my chest dull.
No number of distractions or delays is keeping my brain where it needs to be: school, work, and hockey.
Yesterday, I had to deal with a licensing issue, a stupid paperwork snafu that threatened my timeline, a tech integration bug delaying my launch. It took all fucking day to triage and treat the damn thing which meant I skipped classes, and somehow, Alonso found out and called me to find out what the fuck was so important that had me out of school for the day.
Did you die, mijo?
My hand curls into a tight fist. Ihatewhen he calls me his son these days. It’s a chilling reminder that his blood runs through my veins, that his DNA is in my bones. I wish I could brush it off with a sugar scrub.
I swallow down bile. The older I get, the worse it is that I’m related to him. I’m not only embarrassed to be his bloodline, but I’mashamedof him. It’s why not only me, but my siblings actively do what we can to distance ourselves from him. We give to charities, help local businesses, invest in companies he would think a colossal waste of time and money, just so we aren’t like him.
Trying not to be like someone who gave you life, is fucking exhausting.
Does Xavier like his family? His social media seems to suggest he does, but I know from experience it’s easy to fake when the world expects you to smile.
Artemis: Do you like your family?
I send it before I can question myself. It’s cracking open a door I swore needed to stay closed, but maybe I can do it all and have it all? Maybe I can talk to him, and it’ll be fine. I talk to plenty of people in my life without everything falling apart at the seams. As long as I stay within the lines…
Goal Daddy: Depends on the day. Why do you ask?
My chest surges to life at how quickly he’s replied. I kick off my shoes and turn so I’m lying on my couch. I was supposed to investigate a couple of software issues this afternoon, but I suppose I could afford myself thirty minutes of chatting… right? Just half an hour.
Artemis: I hate myfather.
