To my relief, he nods. “Yeah. Though, honestly, some of them piss me off just by breathing, and it doesn’t take much more to make me want to pound them to dust.”
Fair enough.
But shame and guilt war for supremacy in me. “I’m so sorry I assumed?—”
“No. Stop. It’s fine. You didn’t know, and seriously, I’m not that much more aggressive a player now than I used to be. I’ve always played rough, but now I’m just… less controlled.” He heaves a sigh. “I’m hoping it will be over soon, though. It’s exhausting having these ur—surges of emotion.”
I guess it would be. My own puberty was a long time ago—so very long—but I remember it being very stressful. There?—
The lights begin to dim, and I glance up in surprise.
“Time for the pregame entertainment,” Felix says, and there’s no misinterpreting the relief in his voice. That’s understandable. Talking about something so intensely personal would be torture for me.
I turn my attention to the ice and the mascot. At least, I hope it’s the mascot. If it’s not, this game is a lot stranger than I thought.
It’s notuntil much later, when I’m changing for bed, that I have time to think some more about Felix’s revelation. After the pregame show was over, the players took to the ice, and Felix kept me busy with detailed explanations of everything that was happening. Hockey’s a surprisingly fun game—fast-paced enough to keep my attention, requiring enough skill and finesse to win my admiration… and rough enough to make me wince on several occasions. I’ve been told that the community version of the game is a lot faster and rougher, which makes sense given their greater physical abilities, and now I’m very much looking forward to watching Felix play.
I can see, though, why his puberty would be problematic for him as an athlete. Hockey might be a rough game, but even when the players are slamming into each other, they’re doing it withpurpose and often precision. They’re not bashing at each other just for the fun of it—most of the time—but rather with the end goal of getting the puck for their team or helping a teammate to score. The violence is controlled.
What Felix inflicts on his own teammates is definitely not controlled and has no purpose. It’s a wild outburst of hormone-driven emotion that has no true place in sport. Is that level of reaction usual for shifters? Do they all experience such wild mood swings and frustration, or is Felix’s more intense for some reason? He did say he was a rough player to begin with—was that a deliberate choice, or is he naturally more emotional even when he’s not hormonal? As difficult as puberty was for me, I wasn’t prone to outbursts of volatility like some of my peers were. The biggest issue for me was?—
I freeze with my shirt halfway over my head.
The biggest issue for me was the sexual urges. I wanted to jerk off a dozen times a day, and I got turned on by almost anything. People, yes, but also any kind of friction (which made clothing fun to wear), smells, even some sounds.
Is Felix going through something similar? What was it Dáithí said—something about this puberty being hormonal?
I grab my phone and go to one of the better community search engines. It takes literally seconds to find a treasure trove of information about reproductive puberty, whichismore intense for shifters than other species, since they’re experiencing it after their bodies and prefrontal cortices are fully developed. While all emotions are impacted, it’s particularly focused on sexual impulses and reactions—or as one forum puts it, “Expect to be horny as all fuck.”
Letting out a breath, I sink down to sit on the bed. Is that why Felix was being so weird tonight? He was turned on and uncomfortable in a public place? I don’t blame him for not wanting to talk about it.
I wince when I remember asking him if there was something I’d done wrong. Poor guy probably wanted me to ignore his reaction, and I was trying to make it all about me. He even said it wasn’t about me.
That’s almost too bad, though. I think I might like it if his horniness was about me.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Felix
I can’t believeI told Ari, the man I wanted to crawl all over and hump into sweaty satisfaction right there at the arena, that I’m going through puberty and experiencing “hormonal surges.” Ugh. I wish I’d just left instead. Getting up and walking out like a diva would have been better than this. I’ve spent the whole weekend wondering what Ari thinks of me now.
He was fine during the game and didn’t treat me any differently—that I noticed, anyway. I even managed to explain things to him, and he asked some intelligent questions, especially about the differences between the human games and ours. I’m not sure yet if we’ll convert him to the life of a hockey fan, but he can at least follow most of the game now, and he seemed to enjoy himself.
But I spent the whole of those three endless hours breathing in the scent of him and hyperaware of his body heat just inches away from me. Arena seating isn’t known for being spacious, and every time our arms brushed, lust would surge through me. It was fucking exhausting.
It’s also something I need to stop thinking about, or I’m going to have some explaining to do at Sunday dinner with my family. They might all have sympathy for my puberty symptoms,but my parents have rules about “appropriate dinner table behavior,” and me squirming with arousal isn’t going to meet their standard.
Squaring my shoulders, I pull out my phone and bring up my saved compilation of sad clips from movies. It’s a surefire way to change what my hormones are doing to me—no hard-on can stand up to forty-five minutes of movie misery, starting withBambiandThe Lion King,working throughThe Fault in our Stars, P.S. I Love You, Brokeback Mountain, Old Yeller, Marley and Me, The Shawshank Redemption, Stand By Me, and finishing up withDead Poet’s Society.
Guaranteed boner killer.
“Hello?”I call as I let myself into my parents’ house. When I first moved out, I went through a phase of ringing the bell, but Mom didn’t let that last too long.
“In the kitchen,” Dad replies, and I close the front door and make my way to the heart of my childhood home. So named because it’s where Mom hangs the photos she collects of literal hearts. It’s not as weird as it sounds—she’s a cardiothoracic surgeon, so hearts are kind of her special interest.
“Hello, family. The favorite son has arrived.” My declaration is met with jeers from my siblings and rolled eyes from everyone else. Mom comes forward with arms outstretched to give me a hug, then pauses and studies my face with suspicious eyes.
“Have you been crying?”
