I huff a laugh. Barely. “I’m good. I need less time out, more time finishing up some things for work.” I knead at the tense muscles at the back of my neck. “Really. I appreciate the concern.” I’m talking straight to Ares now. “But I’ll be okay once I get past the next few weeks.”
There is a package waiting for me when I get home. Of course there fucking is. It sits on the sofa next to me for the hour I catch up on emails, and the second hour I accidentally fall asleep, but I can’t fight the urge anymore.
I know before opening it, who sent it. And when I find a pillow with Xavier’s beautiful face on it, I finally let the truth hit. I am not okay. And I want him.
CHAPTER 23
Xavier
At what point in our lives do we abandon all our childhood fun to become adults?
Not even the fluorescent buzz of the overhead lights or the faint smell of cheap beer can drown out my inner monologue tonight.
It’s a weird question I’ve wondered throughout college. Mostly because all around me, my peers seem to be stripping their childhood magic like peeling the skin off an orange. And what’s left is a serious adult.
Not the hockey team, however. We refuse to let the fun go. Is that because we’re a bunch of technically legal adults who live together and who love playing pranks on each other?
I mean, we’re not Marc-Andre Fleury level pranksters, but, come on, who is? That guy will go down in history for more than being one of the best goaltenders the NHL has ever seen. And those pranks? Chef’s kiss. I can only dream.
Tonight, the guys and I did the local arcade. Is there anything more fun than Skee-ball, Whac-a-mole, and gaming cult classics like Pac-Man and Space Invaders? If there is, I haven’t found it yet. Other than being on the ice, I mean.
Except for the enforcer-sized itch between my shoulder blades I’ve been trying to ignore all fucking night.
There was something freeing about hanging out with the guys and playing competitive games with no stakes other than bragging rights. As usual, Ollie wiped the floor with most of us. Oliver Lindstrom is a master at all things gaming. He’s like, a genius, or something.
Truth be told, I needed the distraction tonight. Every day has been the same, and it’s driving me closer to doing something stupid like getting my ass in the car and driving to Iowa. Again.
Isn’t stupidity doing the same thing over and over and expecting different outcomes?
I’ve been so intent on holding the line, staying on the rightside of Captain Restraint’s fucking boundary, that I’ve turned back into the model student. I haven’t missed a class, I haven’t failed a fucking test, I have even donemorethan my fair share on group projects.
I’m basically a saint.
My room was a cramped shrine to my GPA, the desk light illuminating stacks of ledger paper that competed for space with my vintage Pac-Man lamp that Sofia gave me for my birthday a couple years ago.
Was it tempting to give Artemis’s number to every kid in the arcade tonight and tell them it’s the number for Santa’s hotline? Absolutely. Anything to ruffle those perfectly pressed feathers of his.
I’m half asleep in the backseat of Colton’s car on our way back to the hockey house, my face pressed against the freezing cold window as we’re cramped in the back seat. Three giant hockey players crammed in the back of his Matchbox car would make anyone laugh. Colton taps the brakes a little too sharply to pull me out of my near slumber. “Prick.”
He grins at me in the rearview. “It was just a love tap.”
“I knew I should have gone in the other car.”
He smirks. “You hate Lachlan’s music.” He has me there.
One thing I’ve been working on over the last couple weeks is not being quite so obsessed with watching my phone screen light up while waiting for a certain delicious hockey player to message. With mixed results.
But I’ve managed to ignore the burning brick in my pocket for most of the night. As I get out of the car, I give in and fish it out, and damn near trip over my own feet because his name is on my screen. My heart hiccups, my body threatening to keel over because even the sight of his fucking name has thrown my body out of whack.
Artemis: Where are you?
As I open the chat, he starts typing again.
Artemis: Never mind. You’re back. Don’t go inside.
My stomach tightens, and I resist the urge to dislocate my neck to look for him while I hang back from the guys.
“You coming?” Gus hooks a thumb at the house.
