Speaking of Griff, he’s way over there, sitting at a table with Rowan, who’s supposed to be sitting with the hockey team. But guess when your dad’s an officer, you get preferential treatment. It’s not something I’m going to complain about. If Rowan comes anywhere near me, he’s losing his teeth.
Becks sits his large ass down beside me, his hair pulled back, scalp in full view. “So? Thanksgiving weekend?”
It’s reserved for family and gratefulness. I have neither of those at the moment. No, I haven’t forgotten about Rosaline, but even she’s been silent this term. Pretty sure it’s because she’s seeing someone and she doesn’t want her overprotective big brother to know about it. Lucky for her, I’m self-involved for the foreseeable future.
“Or will your boyfriend still not let you play?”
“He’s not my boyfriend.” And I mean it. If Tate wants toownme and call that the whole relationship, he doesn’t get to put a cute little label on it. I was stupid enough to try it out and look how that ended up. Beckett raises a brow. “We fuck. That’s it.”
“Whatever you want to call it. Your situationship, then. We could really use you. We almost got our asses kicked last game.”
They don’t win; they don’t get the money. Because on top of everything else, there’s that, too—my friends. If I marry Tate, I don’t need the money anymore, but they do for … well, I don’t know. Not my business unless they make it my business, but I trust that it’s important.
I’ve always been there for them, and they’ve always been there for me. Fuck Tate for ruining that with all his rules. If they need me, I’m showing up. End of story. I’m my own goddamn person, and I decide what I fucking do.
“I’ll play,” I tell him.
“Did I just hear you say you’re playing?” Kane reaches over my shoulder to pluck a sausage from the tray. “Won’t your not-boyfriend chain you up or something? Yeah, I heard the ‘he’s not my boyfriend’ comment. I vote he is, though.”
Kane takes a seat beside me, chewing loudly, generally causing a ruckus as he scoops way too much food on his plate.
I glare. Maybe I should punch him in the throat. “Not a fucking vote, Kane.”
“Easy, Savage. Kane has a point, as much as I hate to admit it. We’ll have to sneak you in. That one skinny dude’s fucking scary,” Becks says.
Gideon shudders. “Ethan. I swear he’s a witch or something. The way he stared into my soul, like he was gonna eat it.”
“Ethan’s not scary,” I say. I mean, maybe a little bit, but soul-eating? Their imaginations are next level. It’s kinda hilarious he scares Becks, though.
“I’ll flirt with him as a distraction,” Torin offers. We all spin our heads. Because, yeah, we call him the pretty one, but his feminine lashes and masculine jaw combo will only get him so far with Ethan, who tames Tate’s roughest guards. He shrugs. “I like a little danger.”
“Suit yourself,” Kane says. “I don’t think he’s a witch, though. Vampire, maybe.”
I’m still pissed at Tate. The rose helped, but it’ll die, and then what? Why would he get me something I’ll lose? He still hasn’t called or texted. But despite all that, thinking about telling him what my friends think of his terrifying assistant makes my lips twitch at the corners.
“I think you’re a bit insane for testing the big guy, Rye—and that’s coming from me,” Kane says while stuffing his face. “But I need the money, so I’m all for putting your ass on the line.”
“I’m not scared of Tate.” I also happen to know that Tate is going to his brother’s place for Thanksgiving.
Our weekend college hockey roster consists of home games with the Black Knights from Pacific Air Force Academy and the Tacoma Lightning. The locker room’s a cacophony of chaos and hollering, because Coach hasn’t entered yet. There’s already sweat and the usual locker room dampness in the air despite the wide air-circulating fans whirring in the background.
“Motherfucker,” Gideon’s deep voice hisses from beside me. He scrabbles to pick up what fell out of his cubby. I bend down to help. “No, don’t?—”
“What the fuck?” I think what I’m looking at is a long lock of hair. Fire-red hair. There’s only one person I know with hair like that, and I’d know it fucking anywhere. Before rational thought can reach my brain, I have Gideon slammed against his cubby, head leaning back, jersey pulled tight enough to choke. “Why the fuck do you have a lock of my brother’s hair?
“Not … your brother’s,” he chokes out.
Torin steps forward to one side of us and Rhys to the other, but they don’t step in. My hands itch to punch Gideon in the face, but my lizard brain finally diverts to my intelligent one. Griff’s hair’s never been that long, ever. It’s one of the few things he wouldn’t do for Mom. She wanted him to grow it out so bad, but he was acutely aware of looking too “feminine” because of Father. I suspect he always left it long on top for her, but that lock Gid has is ponytail-manbun worthy.
“Sorry, man. My bad.”
He shakes his head. “No need to apologize,” Gideon rasps once I release his throat. “I’d have done the same.” Gideon glares, but it’s not for me; his gaze lands in Rhys’s direction. That doesn’t make any fucking sense. Gid must be thinking about something that’s pissing him off.
“We’ll talk later,” I promise him.
But the drama doesn’t end there.
Kane and the Black Knights captain, Magnus Blackwood, are at each other’s throats. That results in all of us in the penalty box at one time or another, defending his ass. I’ve got blood on my face and a yet-to-be-determined number of bruises forming, which I at least try to avoid, because it pisses Tate off.
