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The deep moan in my ear was sexy last night when I was drunk, but now it makes me cringe. Not because he’s a dude but because of who he is.
“My brother will kill you.” “Westly? Please, he never stays mad at me long. He loves me.” I know. That’s why I fucked Ezra in the first place.
Alcohol is an evil mistress. It takes those devious “what ifs” and turns them into reality.
I don’t even know where my hostility comes from half the time. It could be a number of things.
If West can give up his career in the NHL for them, I can postpone mine.
Until then, my life is no longer just mine but also West’s, Zoe’s, Rhys’s, Hazel’s, Bennett’s, and Emmett’s. Okay, maybe I do know the source of my hostility, after all, but that doesn’t change anything.
Acknowledging I’m being an irrational shithead doesn’t make me stop being one. It’s impossible to rein in the asshole inside me. I’ve given up trying.
“Why are you still here?” “You were a lot nicer last night.” “Alcohol makes me nice. Get. Out.”
“Why are you the way that you are?” West starts.
Though it’s not like I have anything better to do. The only friend I made this last year is moving to Montreal. Without Cohen, my social life is pretty much nonexistent.
Even though our mom died when I was too young to remember, I do remember being told my whole life I need to find healthier coping mechanisms than my “outbursts.” It used to be hockey. Now it’s sex. And adrenaline. That feeling of pissing someone off so much to the point where I don’t know if they’re going to hit me or not. I long for that.
Of everyone in this world, my younger siblings are the only people I can honestly say I love.
When I told my parents I was gay, they hugged me and said they love and support me. When I told them I was quitting hockey? Dad barely spoke to me for a month.
“In my defense, without Foster Grant, I really didn’t think Dad’s team would make it to regionals last year.”
It may not seem like it, but Coach Hogan is a family man, and it’s amazing to see that not only are he and Mom still together, but they actually like each other.
That’s what I want one day. Not so much the traditional marriage and kids, but someone who’ll be there for me the way my parents are there for each other.
and for the love of all that is good on this earth, when it comes to hockey players, remember Momma’s rules: look with your eyes, not with your hands.”
At home, he’s always been warm and calm. On the ice, he treated me like any of his other players. It’s not like I wanted special treatment, but Dad in coach mode is intense and intimidating and someone I didn’t like very much. It made me resent playing, but Dad could never understand that.
Note to parents everywhere: don’t judge your kid based on what you like.
“No offense …” Beck says, sounding exactly like he’s about to be offensive.
“Coach Hogan speaks highly of you.” “I should hope so. He’s my dad. It would be kinda shitty of him to talk down about me.” For some reason that makes Dalton hesitate.
“My brother Asher plays on the team. He’s an excellent player but a bit of a loose cannon. The problem is your dad won’t keep him on the roster if he gets into shit.” “That’s not my problem. That sounds like yours.”
He’d probably be good-looking if he wasn’t scowling, but with a single, menacing look, one thing is clear: Asher Dalton is trouble.
The familiar need to fight someone flares up. At least if they’re distracted by my being an asshole, they won’t focus on how weak I am. I’d rather people hate me than think I’m a joke.
And this year I’m your equipment manager, so if you need anything, let me know, and I’ll give it to you.” My cock twitches.
That thing where I said I love my siblings? They make it really hard sometimes.
I made friends last year … well, friend. But I can do it again. Maybe. Cohen seemed to like me in spite of my attitude. I tested him and his boyfriend repeatedly with my stupidity. They both took it in stride, though I’m fairly certain Cohen’s boyfriend wanted to punch me a few times. I would’ve welcomed it if he did.
“Hades was god of the underworld. If my dog hasn’t mastered death, I don’t know who has.”
Normally, I’m great at small talk. I can hold a conversation with anyone. Professors, my friends, the researchers at my internship. When you grow up ugly, you learn to accommodate.
“I’m gay, by the way. I always make sure I get that out there early on, because I don’t have time for assholes.”
“Sounds to me like you’d have plenty of time for assholes. Literally.”
First Coach Dalton, then Dad. Why is everyone acting like Asher is a lost cause?
I don’t know what Coach Dalton expects, but if Asher’s determined to live up to his reputation, nothing I do will help.
Beck skates over to us. Last year this guy was playing with us. Now he’s an assistant coach.
I liked him better when he wasn’t an authority figure.
My head hits the cold surface, but I don’t feel it. Stupid helmet saving my life and whatever. Simms manages to land a punch to the left side of my face, and I’m thankful my helmet at least doesn’t have a cage because I can feel the entire force of his fist. It hurts. It burns. Most importantly, it reminds me I can actually feel pain.
Here comes the guilt again. The high I get from hurting never lasts long. It’s always replaced quickly with Why the hell did I think that was a good idea?
He wants a reaction from me, and I’m confused about whether he’s telling the truth or whether he’s trying to shock me. I get the feeling with Asher it could go either way.
“Is your whole starting lineup queer?” “Only last year.
“Ah, so you slept with him to make your brother angry. Were you hoping he’d hit you too?” “Westly doesn’t hit. Believe me, I’ve tried.”
“Are you checking me out?” I jump at being caught, but he’s smiling again. “Just objectifying you.” “And that’s better because …” “It’s not personal. You have a nice butt.” It might be my imagination, but I swear he flexes.
“This is hockey. Literally everyone here has a nice butt.” “And I’ll objectify them too.”
“You were eye fucking my ass.” I shrug. “Again, it’s a nice ass.”
“Hey, do you wanna be friends?” “What is this, grade school?” “Forget it.” “Asher.” I can’t help laughing at how ridiculous he is. “Yes. We can be friends.”
Coach Dalton doesn’t make a move to follow him. “I can’t believe you did that.” “What?” “Stuck up for Asher.”
“Sometimes I think I’m the only one who’ll fight for him. And I mean the only one because he won’t do it for himself.”
I barely know Asher.” Though I’m starting to suspect no one does.
He’s … lonely. Well, that, at least, I can help with. Asher Dalton just gained a new best friend. Whether he wants it or not.
Kole’s head pops up from a table near the door as I enter, and … whoa. Kole’s wearing glasses. Black, square ones that frame his eyes, and all my blood flows south. If you’d asked me two seconds ago if I had a nerd kink, the answer would have been hell no, because someone like Foster’s boyfriend, Zach, would have come to mind. But this … tall, chiseled features, and glasses? I’ve found my new weakness.
I don’t have a learning disability or anything like that, but it’s hard for me to retain information on things that I find mind-numbingly boring.
