I change, lace up, pretend I know how to be a functioning human being. We hit the ice for a mandatory light skate and scrimmage, and that’s when the first crack in the mask appears.
Hudson bumps me—lightly—and I snap. “Watch it,” I bark. Shit. Shit. That was definitely too sharp. It was also too fast, too loud, too… everything. I’m the composed, stoic, role model the younger guys aspire to be and look to for my calm presence.
Hudson skids back, his face pale. “Holy shit, dude. What crawled up your ass?”
Xavier Martinez. That’s what crawled up my ass. Or… I fucking wish he crawled up my ass, then I’d have gotten this itch out of my system. But he’s around it. Near it. Adjacent to it. I don’t know, my brain is soup.
“Just tired.” It’s a pathetic excuse not even I buy. “Sorry.”
None of the guys seem to believe me either, and my brother gives me a wary stare from between the pipes, but everyone lets it go. Because I’m a big, bad bastard, and they’re all afraid of me.
Xavier’s not afraid of me.
Jesus fucking Christ I need to get that man out of my head. Practice ends. Showers happen. I avoid eye contact withliterally everyone because if someone looks even a few degrees too closely at me, I might spontaneously combust. Or punch them. That wouldn’t end well when I’m working on staying inside the lines at school and in hockey.
Rule number one for a hockey player is pretty much never punch your teammate.
Eli claps a hand on my shoulder as we’re pulling on hoodies and winter coats. “We’re getting food. You’re coming.”
It’s not a question. And I go, because refusing would raise even more red flags. I might be a bit of a loner, the quiet, scowly one in the room, but when it comes to my hockey family, I show the fuck up. Always.
We smash into a booth at a bar, and the pulsing behind my eyes gets even worse. The boys are loud, laughing, ordering obscene amounts of wings. I fucking love wings. Does Xavier like wings? Most people do, right? Could I even date him if he didn’t like wings?
Date him? Ha. Nope. That thought doesn’t last long because I try to insert myself into the conversation. Keep it light. Normal. But my phone buzzes. Just once, that’s it, just one vibration. And my heart stops like someone yanked the plug out of the wall.
I shouldn’t look. If I pick up my phone, I pick up the check. Not that I’d let one of the rookies pay for the entire table when things are more than tight for a couple of them, but it’s the principle of the thing, right?
Leading by example means not picking up your phone to talk to someone who isn’t here at the table. It’s being present, ignoring the vibration, ignoring technology and the outside world entirely—unless we’re somewhere with gaming pads, and we can all kick each other’s asses over trivia questions while we eat.
I shouldn’t even breathe in its direction. But my traitor eyes flick down.
Goal Daddy: How’s the rage spiral?
Another buzz.
Goal Daddy: It’s really rude to hang up on someone and not pick up the phone when they call back, Artemis.
Goal Daddy: If your upbringing wasn’t already so *public* I’d think you were raised by wild animals.
My fork slips from my fingers. A metallic clatter rings out around the booth, everyone looks.
Ares raises an eyebrow. “You good?”
I nod maybe just a little too fast. “Fine.”
His brow arches, his eyes narrow, and his fingers drum the table next to his plate. He knows I’m lying. The more he stares at me the more exposed I feel. It’s like he can see that inside I am a glitching computer program.
But I can’t shake the thoughts loose.
Why is Xavier texting me?
Didn’t hanging up tell him I was done? That whatever this thing might be between us is over before it’s even caught fire? The better question is why does my stomach flip like a teenager’s at the sight of his name on my screen?
I don’t answer. I flip the phone face-down on the table and pretend wings are super interesting. But my brain? It’s humming. Buzzing. Pulsing like a live wire. Betraying me with every sensory detail it can recall from the night in the back seat of my SUV.
The boys are talking about fantasy hockey league and holiday plans and whether Levi can grow a beard—he cannot,as the last two Movember attempts have proven—but it’s like listening through water.
My pulse is in my throat as I think about Xavier’s surprisingly delicate touch brushing against my cheek, the way he slid his fingers into my hair.
