He’s a show-off. Which is even more annoying because he has the skills to back it up. My chest squeezes tighter. His line cycles the puck, quick little triangle passes that click into place with the obnoxious synchronicity of people whoactually trust each other.
Xavier calls for the return pass—the clanging of his stick on the ice bringing everyone’s eyes to him—and his winger obeys. Of course he does. People always fucking listen to him.
He’s the anchor of the team, the cornerstone, and so much better at playing hockey than his big brother could ever dream of. And I’m not just saying that because I love having my dick inside him.
Xavier cuts to the inside, his shoulders rolling, head swiveling, reading every inch of ice like it’s a language only he speaks. He shoots off his inside edge, his body bending in a way that’s entirely too erotic and fires a no-angle snapshot that pings off Ares’s blocker.
Ares swats it away like an annoying fly, the play continuing. The crowd roars anyway. Xavier looks over to the bench—just for a split second, just long enough thatI feel it. There’s no wave, no smile, no secret signal. But he’s definitely checking, silently asking,Are you watching?
I look away a second too late, my gaze lingering because I can’t help it. Apollo clocks it next to me like he always fucking does. My pulse answersyes, too goddamn loudly, like I could possibly look anywhere but at Xavier when he’s on the ice.
Then he turns, back-checking hard, shoulders set, jaw locked, already hunting the next play. And I’m sitting there, fists tight on my knees, pretending I’m not five seconds from coming apart over a man who’s bleeding blue across the ice.
We’re two minutes from the end of the first. We’re down by a goal, scored by Xavier, and he’s taken to prodding Ares, taunting him out of his crease. He’s realized the only way to beat my brother is for him to beat himself. But Ares isn’t falling for it. He’s cool, calm, and spouting chirps back about how Xavier needs to get laid, or how he’ll tell Xavier’s mommy that he’s being mean.
If it wasn’t an all-together supercharged game with tempers rising, I’d find it hilarious, encourage it even. But there’s a whisper in the air, a daring undercurrent that tells me this game’s balancing on a knife edge. Something in my spine pulls tight, like the ice itself is warning me. It’s like a heavy storm overhead about to break.
I’d love to say it’s paranoia, but when one of our defenders—not quite built as big as me—skates in Xavier’s direction, life slows to a standstill. His body shunts into the plexi with a God-awful crunch, and he collapses onto the ice like a leaf in the wind. My heart stops, my hammering pulse going so fucking fast I don’t know how I’m still breathing.
Xavier’s not moving. He’s right there on the fucking ice, still, small, and I can’t fucking go to him. Ares looks at me from his crease, his eyes going wide behind his mask because without me telling them to, my legs have lifted me off thebench, and I’m skating as fast as I can toward where Xavier is a crumpled heap. He’s still not moving.
The medics surround my guy, blocking off access, so that leaves the fucking defender. Running on fury and bone-deep fear, I get in his face, grabbing his shirt. “The fuck were you thinking?” My snarl drains all the color from his face.
“I-I didn’t mean to hurt him, Cap. It was a clean check.” His voice breaks, like he fucking knows it wasn’t clean, like he’s terrified of me ripping his head off his body.
“If he doesn’t get up, you and I are going to have a problem you can’t chirp your way out of. Are we clear?” I heave out a heavy breath, forcing air into my lungs. “He didn’t have the puck.” My voice is freakishly calm, steady, and nothing like the inferno raging inside my body.
I turn back to Xavier, and right as I plan to launch myself into the huddle of bodies, a goalie glove hits me square in the chest, pushing me back a couple feet.
“Let them work. Give them space.” His voice wavers, it’s unsteady, like the fear in his eyes. “They’re the ones he needs right now.” His glove shakes against my chest. That’s what finally sinks its claws into me—Ares is scared too. Shit. He’s the fearless brother of the three of us. Gods of war don’t have time for fear.
His words land, though, and I stop, watching helplessly as my fingers itch to check Xavier’s pulse, to feel the warm thrum under his skin and know he’s alive, he’s okay. Wake up. Please, just… wake up.
You could hear a pin drop around the arena, everyone’s holding their breath, waiting. Because no matter who goes down on the ice, rivalries get set aside when people get hurt.
The irony that it took for him to be unconscious before I made any kind of public gesture isn’t beyond me. My glance flits to the defender who’s worrying his lip and looking at me like he’s afraid for his life. Good. He fucking should be.
“It’s career suicide, Artemis.” Ares’s soothing voice does little to actually soothe me. “He’s on your own team.” His hand remains braced against my chest, like he doesn’t trust me to let go. Good call. I wouldn’t either. I don’t trust myself.
Xavier is stretchered off the ice, still sleeping. It’s what I have to tell myself, so I don’t go nuclear. He’s sleeping. That’s all. I skate back to the bench but barely stop to tell Coach I’m leaving.
“You’ll be benched.” His voice is heavy with caution. “You know the rules, kid. Think of the consequences.”
“I am,” I answer flatly. “Just not the ones you want me to. I could be benched, lose ice time, get extra punishment drills, lose my C.” I suck in a breath because that one stings. “I’d be in the doghouse with you, the other coaches, my teammates, abandoning your team mid-game is the ultimate betrayal. I’d likely lose any respect I have earned.”
It’s not that I haven’t considered the consequences of my actions. I just don’t fucking care anymore. There’s no NCAA fine, even if there was, I’d pay it without flinching. Any suspension is Coach’s decision, not league mandated. And any discipline would be internal team assigned.
Xavier is more important than any possible outcome, including my father knowing about him. Which I’d hazard a guess he already does. I drag my eyes from the floor to meet Coach’s hard stare. “It’s a family emergency.”
“How would you know? You don’t have a phone on the bench.”
My stare drifts to the ice, to where Xavier was hit, to where his body lay unmoving for longer than I’m willing to think about right now because if I do, I’ll hurt someone. “Martinez is family, Coach. I’m going to the hospital.” I shrug. “Do what you have to do.”
And I leave.
CHAPTER 43
Artemis
