“What’s the matter, big guy? Coach got your tongue?” It’s a cheap shot, suggesting maybe his coach has him on a short leash this season because he’s repeating the year. “Are we behaving ourselves because we didn’t graduate?” My tone drips with condescension, mocking, and the more he stands like a giant, gorgeous fucking statue, the more I want to make him unravel.
What’s it like to be trapped underneath all that decorum?
The air tastes of anticipation, and the crowd’s roar at my check ricochets off the inside of my skull.
Carrying the family name is something I can relate to. Being Roman Martinez’s brother lies heavy on my shoulders. The constant comparison, the subtle comments, the sighs of exasperation that I’m not more like my brother. But this man? Artemis carries himself so tall, so broad-shouldered, that it can’t be natural. Or easy.
What would it take to make him break?
The refs are hovering, waiting to jump in and separate us if the need arises, and part of me really hopes the need fucking arises.
The only reaction to my snide remark is the subtlest twitch of his cheek as he clenches his jaw. It’s impressive.
I cock my head to the side. “Or is it Daddy Warbucks? Hashegot your tongue?” When in doubt, go for the aerospace mogul, the man who cheated on his mother, the man who has—on a number of occasions—stated his public disappointment over his children. The man—from the flare of fiery loathing that just flickered and disappeared in the eyes of theman before me—who Artemis probably hates with every fibre of his well-kempt being. Artemis’s father is a renowned, irredeemable piece of shit. “Scrooge McDuck… Montgomery Burns… or is he more like Lex Luthor?”
Artemis inches closer, so near to me his breath is warm on my face. It’s like the still-stopped game behind us—because the guy I checked into the boards is getting looked over by the medic, and the rest of the Raccoons lurk not too far behind Artemis, ready to hand my ass to me for taking out their teammate—fades away the more Artemis stares into my eyes.
“It’s shit, isn’t it?” His voice is low, freakishly calm, restrained, and reflects every bit of his outward poise.
I tip my chin, challenging him to do his worst. There’s nothing he can say that I haven’t heard before. “What?”
“Constantly living in the shadow of a greater man.” An almost secretive smirk pulls at the edges of his cupid’s bow lips, making his scar crinkle.
My hand twitches toward his mouth, and I pull it back like a fucking coward. My teeth ache with the idea of dropping my glove tracing the scar, brushing away those still trickling beads of sweat from his lip, his brow, his beard, and licking them off my thumb to fuck with him.
His words are well aimed, sharpened by years of taking fire from the same verbal bullets shot at me, even from inside my own ranks. I do what I can to keep the same level of composure that’s reflected at me in his breathtakingly handsome features, but my insides shake at his words.
Not because he’s saying something new, something that strikes like a tuning fork, vibrating deep and unsteady inside me. But because, while his voice is flat, his eyes shine with what feels like understanding. A common ground.
Of course, he’d know what it’s like to live under the pressure of someone else’s success. His father is a millionaire, set tobecome a billionaire by the end of the year if the stories online are to be believed.
Artemis doesn’t punch me. And for a blissful moment his intense stare flicks to my lips, like he’s contemplating what it might be like to taste me, like he’s allowing himself a single moment to entertain the idea of brushing his painfully close lips against mine.
“What’s the matter, Stud? Forget how to throw a punch?” Come on. I deserve it. Let’s dance, rich boy.
His face turns passive, disinterested, like I’m not worth the effort of swinging his fist. And that strikes deeper than any well-placed chirp he could have come up with. Insignificance rings through my muscles, making me clench and unclench my fingers.
“What’s the point? You’re just looking for attention.” He sighs. “I have better things to do with my time than rearrange your face.” He looks entirely bored, like a parent dealing with an unruly child, and something lights in my veins, surging through me at speed.
Out of nowhere a flash of him on his knees, begging for my leaking cock rushes to the front of my mind, and my already semi-hard cock perks up like he’s going to suck me off right here on the ice. Fuck, that’s not in any way pleasant in a cup.
He turns to leave, and I grab his arm to stop him, a jolt of something electric spearing through my arm. He jerks back like I’ve burned him through his shirt and pads. “The fuck, Martinez?”
The way he sneers my name is even more electrifying than our contact, or the way his eyes flicker with that ember of fire. What gasoline can I pour on it to make it an inferno?
He arches a brow as if to sayfine, if you want me to hand your ass to you, I will. But before he can get near me, the linesmen intervene and pull us apart.
I stay on the ice when they separate us—because part of me wants him to turn, wants the unfinished to become something louder. I want him to crack.
As he casually skates to the bench with his brow still curved high and his nostrils flared, not breaking eye contact, a snap decision is made somewhere in the darkest recesses of my chest.
I want to watch this man unravel.
CHAPTER 3
Artemis
The water scalds, but I stay under it anyway. Maybe the stinging pain will drown the pulse between my legs, the one that betrays every thought I shouldn’t be thinking.
