The phone buzzes again. I don’t fight the urge to flip it over, but I glare at Ares who smirks.
“I didn’t pick it up, just flipped it over.”
“Po-tay-to, free wings-o.” He’s grinning like the cat that got the cream.
Goal Daddy: Ignoring me? Rude.
Goal Daddy: Want me to come to Iowa and fix your attitude?
Fucking hell. I choke on a sip of water.
“Jesus, Arte.” Levi hands me a napkin. “What is wrong with you today?”
Everything. Absolutely everything is wrong with me today.
“I’m fine.” Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie. Liar, liar pants on fucking fire. I tell myself to put the phone away. Turn it off. Launch it into a glass of water. Flush it down the toilet. I have self-control. I do. I pride myself on my control, my poise, my ability to compartmentalize.
Except I’m not in control, and this shit isnotcompartmentalized. Xavier Martinez is an invasive species, and somehow, he’s managed to breach my first line of defense. I almost snort. First line? Dude’s commanding my every thought without even trying. Multiple lines.
What would it be like if weactuallyfucked?
Shit. No. Rewind. Put that thought back in the tube and screw the lid on tight.
No fucking. No dating.
I pick up my cell in the middle of some stupid team debate about Christmas movies and type before thinking:
Artemis: You’re insufferable, Xavier. I’m busy. Some of us have more to do than sit around waiting for their phone to light up.
He reads it instantly. The three little dots appear. It’s the moment my mask fully cracks, falls off, shatters on the floor. Because I want whatever he’s about to say like I want my next breath. The boys could be singing the Canadian national anthem around me, and I wouldn’t hear it.
The reply arrives.
Goal Daddy: Xavier. So formal.
Goal Daddy: Wings with the team? What’s the matter? Can’t multitask?
Goal Daddy: You didn’t sound like you were thinking about your job last night when you had your hand wrapped around your dick.
My entire spine locks. I look up because someone’s talking to me, asking something I can’t quite hear. I nod automatically. The restaurant is too warm. My legs bounce under the table, something Ares picks up on because he does it too. He kicks me, but it doesn’t still my jittery limbs. I can’t breathe right. I text again.
Artemis: Don’t bring that up again.
He immediately replies, again, almost as quickly as I hit send.
Goal Daddy: It’s always up for you, boo.
I shove the phone away like it’s made of TNT.
Levi leans in. “Seriously, man. You’re vibrating. What’s going on?” He speaks quietly. He’s too perceptive. His concern is mirrored in my younger brother’s eyes as they stare at me from across the table.
And for a second—just a second—I almost tell him,them.I say out loud that I did something last night I can’t stop thinking about, that I let someone touch a part of me I didn’t know was there.That I liked it. I like him.
But I snap the mask back into place, thin and brittle as fresh ice.“Stress,” I say. “Work.” I qualify.
He studies me, nodding slowly. Other than Ares, the guys on the team don’t know the in-depth details of what I do. And something like concern flickers in my teammate’s eyes.“Want to go out again tomorrow?”
“And every fucking day after until you stop looking like a haunted poet.” My brother is flying too close to the sun, he’s about to get his wings singed.
