Page 58 of Monstrous Serpent

Solid.

Nobody gets named First Team All-American for solid.

“You sure you don't want to come? Couple of the guys want to get lobster rolls.”

I stare at him over my phone.

“Dude, it's Boston. The lobster rolls up here are supposed to be insane.”

“I’m good.”

Doyle whacks my foot with his sock. “So, you’re not gonna eat?”

“Not hungry.”

He huffs and shakes his head, sitting on the bed across from mine, putting on his clean socks. “We play Boston College in the morning. You’ll need the energy.”

Maybe I should grab some food. Really would like to win tomorrow’s game and put up some more points. But my stomach’s knotted up.

Can’t believe I missed all five opportunities I had to score. The worst part is I wasn’t even close to hitting the net. I shot wide every fucking time. Surprised Coach Nieminen didn’t bench my ass. Then again, I created plays. Poked the puck away one time, Walsh passed it to Knight, who took it on a breakaway and scored. I even blocked a few shots, keeping the game close. Coach Harper said I was doing fine.

Except fine is invisible. Fine is what people call you when they can't remember what you did.

Isaksen doesn't get called fine. Brayden doesn't get called fine. Those two make everything look like breathing.

Some people's shit just works.

I go back to scrolling through my IG feed, but stop a few posts later. The Serpents are playing UConn tomorrow. Hopefully, they lose. Last thing I need is for Rua and Shaw putting up points before I get a chance to fix mine.

My teeth sink into the inside of my bottom lip as I stare at the post. It’s been almost two weeks since those assholes broke into my house, and they’ve gone dead silent. No texts. No showing up. Nothing.

Doyle heads into the bathroom, and the sink turns on. I close Instagram and open my texts, as if maybe those assholes sent a message in the last ten seconds. Why does it bother me so much?

I grunt, lock the screen, then toss the phone onto the bed.

Doyle comes out and grabs his jacket. “Last chance. You sure you don’t want to come?”

“Think I’m into guys.”

Shit.

Did I just say that out loud?

I shoot upright, heat flooding my face.

Doyle’s brows furrow, and he scratches the back of his head. “Like you’re gay?”

I shake my head, picking at the hem of my shirt. “I like girls. Just think I might like guys too.”

More like two very specific, pain-in-the-ass guys. But Doyle doesn’t need to know that. I have no idea what the hell he’s thinking right now. And I’m not dumb enough to say out loud that the guys in my head are our rivals.

But why now?

Kincaid makes sense. We barely interacted last year. He focused more on Knight and Henneman. But Trembley's been in my face since day one of last season. Fighting me, chirping me, grinding me into the boards every game.

And not once did I think about anything except breaking his nose.

What the fuck changed?