Cross the Line (Los Angeles Comets #3)

Prologue

ELIJAH

SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD

Being on the road used to be my escape. It was a window into the freedom I wanted so badly. I could explore the world outside Havenview and learn what normal life is like. Outside the town and away from The Fellowship, it feels easier to breathe and laugh.

Even if the guys are unsure of me after Presley told them all my father is a preacher.

For some reason, they all think that I’m going to condemn them if they talk to me.

It sucks, but it’s way better than always being stuck in the same place, doing the same things, pretending to fit in, and conforming to laws that don’t make sense to me.

When Ryker joined the team, I was afraid that this escape would be taken away from me. Presley has a habit of ruining the best parts of my life; I don’t even know why.

It’s the reason I had to make it very clear to him that if he breathed a word about Ryker being gay, it wouldn’t just be me who suffered the consequences. His father would be forced to take him out, too, and his chance at a pro career would be kaput.

Thankfully, it worked. Even if he thinks that now he has to work extra hard to put me back in my place so that he remains the kingpin.

Stuffing the last of my kit in my bag, I ignore Presley’s wolf whistle when one of his cronies bumps into me straight from the shower. Steam hangs heavy; the room’s a blur of skin and red and orange tiles.

A tight, quick beat starts in my throat, the kind that says I need to get out of here STAT.

“Go get it, girl,” Presley heckles over the cacophony of conversations, instantly silencing every person in the locker room.

All the sound sucks inward. Martins doesn’t even care that his naked body is still glued to me as he clocks the sudden hush.

When I pull back, eyes are everywhere. Heat needles my neck.

Before I can untangle my kit bag from his towel, he shoves me full force into a locker.

Metal pops in my ears; I bite down on a curse as his towel catches on the strap of my kit bag.

The more he shoves me, the more impossible it becomes to hold myself up with the bench pushing into my calves and the back of my knees.

Fuck.

The floor’s slick; balance goes thin as a skate edge.

Suddenly, my shoes slip on the wet tiles, and I drop to my ass.

My pulse rockets at the situation. Martins’ dick is pressed to my chest while my face is glued to the top of his stomach. Every time he yanks at his towel, it gets worse. Confidence can’t fix physics; I just need an inch of air and one clean move.

Keep it together. You’re fine. Get clear, then walk.

If I don’t take control, this is going to escalate until it becomes the new source for Presley’s insults.

After I beat his ass last week, he’s vying for a way to get at me.

Even though nobody cares about his jibes anymore—they’re getting old and tired, and every guy on the team knows that Ryker and I are only friends—I’m doing my best to keep my head down and avoid any more drama with him.

It’s not the reputation I want with the team.

“Stay still,” I yell into Martins’ wet skin. My voice breaks with my panic and frustration, which only makes me sound breathy.

“Awww, look at that,” Presley instantly pipes up, “he’s flustered.”

“Shut up, Asshole,” Ryker snaps at him as I shove Martins away from me and untangle his towel from my kit bag, throwing it at his crotch so his dick isn’t in my line of sight anymore.

“Jealous, Hallman?” Presley taunts Ryker while I get up and sling my gym bag over my shoulder again, ignoring all the eyes on me.

Last time we were on the road, he was shitting himself that he might have Chlamydia. Apparently, he was pissing through a fire hose. Turns out the moron can’t tell the difference between an STD and a minor UTI.

And they call me a pussy.

“Don’t stress, Hallman, the only ass I’m into has tits,” the idiot sniggers.

“Yeah, I doubt any ass will go near your riddled cock. Speaking of, how’s The Clam treating you?

Are you even able to get it up?” Ryker snarks at him, grabbing his stuff.

When he catches up to me on the way out, he slings his arm around my shoulders.

“They say that’s a side effect, you know? That you can’t get a chub afterwards.”

The guys laugh behind us, spurring Ryker on.

“Yeah, Motherfucker, good luck with that one.”

When we’re out of the locker room, I extricate myself from him.

I would never do it in front of the guys—I hate the thought of embarrassing Ryker when he’s already got so much adversity to deal with.

It’s ridiculously unreasonable that his sexuality diminishes his character when he’s a decent guy… with a loose tongue.

“Why do you antagonize them like that?” I ask while we wait for everyone to gather at the meeting point. “It just makes it worse, you know?”

Ryker chuckles at me like I’m clueless. “If you don’t stick up for yourself, they’ll always fuck with you. It’s Bully 101. Don’t take their shit, and stand up for who you are.”

I know he’s right. But honestly, I don’t care what Presley says because nobody believes him. No one even likes him. And I can’t be bothered with his power games.

There’s only one game I care about, and that’s hockey.

Of course, it doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about killing him once or twice.

Especially in the last week. Since he put his hands on my girl.

I know it’s wrong, but every night since, I’ve gone to bed asking myself why I didn’t throw him in the pool and leave him to drown under the cover like he would’ve left Finley.

The bus to the hotel is quieter than usual. Even the A-hole squad has their heads down. It’s so strange and uncharacteristic of them that Coach keeps looking around, trying to figure out what’s wrong with his team after we just beat Colorado, the team tipped to come first.

The background music mutes when Coach taps the microphone to grab our attention as we’re pulling up to the hotel.

“Okay, boys,” he hollers, making the speakers screech, “you know the rules. Celebrate how you want, so long as you don’t break the law and you respect the other guests.

If you have any problems, you know where to find me and Coach Murray.

I do not expect to be called to the front desk because you’ve decided to slap shit around in the hallways. ”

Sullivan, another of Presley’s besties, laughs, and Coach Murray twists in his seat to glare at him. “I’ll break all your fuckin’ sticks and send you home myself. Don’t fuck with me, Sully.”

“What he said.” Coach nods at his second in command. “Be respectful. Be smart. And…”

“Be safe,” we all finish in unison, so he knows we’re listening.

“Fantastic. Dinner is waiting in the restaurant. Do not use fake IDs to order alcohol because I will know and I will send you home.”

“Do you think he realizes we’re going home tomorrow morning?” Ryker groans at Coach’s empty threats.

“Who knows at this point,” I chuckle, following behind him when we start exiting the bus.

Everyone heads to the restaurant. While the coaching team sits together, we spread out in the designated area for the team. As usual, Ryker and I sit at a small table alone, exchanging perspectives on the game.

Nobody ever bothers us or comes to talk to us. Which is why we’re both stunned when the resident party organizer stops by our table tonight.

“BYOB, remember?” He drops a small folded note on the table, much to Ryker’s delight. “And don’t be late or you’ll be locked out.”

“Okay,” Ryker agrees quickly while I observe Hughes’ posture.

He keeps looking over his shoulder at Presley’s table. I can’t tell whether he’s nervous to be seen with us, or if he’s been sent by them. Either way, he won’t catch me at his party even if our rooms are next to each other. The invite buzzes like a gnat; my instincts swat it away.

“Please… pretty please… please…” Ryker pleads with me the instant Hughes is out of earshot.

“No way.” I push the folded note away without looking at it. “I don’t want to go.”

“Well, I can’t go on my own, so… I guess that’s that.” Ryker sulks for the rest of dinner, making me feel like the worst human in the world.

Maybe I am. But I don’t believe for one second that those guys want us at their party for any nice reasons. This is all too weird, and I don’t like it. A knot sits under my sternum, growing tighter by the second.

Ryker leaves the restaurant before I’ve finished my plate. Skulking away without a single word. I hate it when he’s like this. I’ll spend the rest of the evening on eggshells around him.

“Trouble in paradise?” Presley barges past my chair, hitting my phone out of my hand and onto my plate. “Fucking faggot.”

The grate of my chair is the only warning when I push up onto my feet and grab him by the collar of his shirt. Glacial eyes fix on mine. Unmoving. Unfeeling.

I hate him so damn much that I’m physically sick with it.

“What’s your problem?” My anger spits from my lips with all the frustration that’s wrenching my gut.

His hands grip my shoulders on either side of my neck while his forehead butts into mine. We’re like that for a moment. The roil of his blue eyes hitting my last nerve.

Presley doesn’t make a move. With the curl of his lips, he narrows his eyes. “You know. You fucking know, pervert.”

“I should’ve drowned you.” The words are acrid and blunt with the vicious twist of my grip on his shirt.

Maybe I’ll make up for it now and strangle his leering breaths out of him.

“Yeah,” he chuffs, “you should’ve. Now, you better watch your back, pretty boy, ‘cause I’m coming for you. I’m going to fuck you up so bad, you’ll beg me to hold you under that pool while the whore watches.”

My fist rears back so fast, I don’t know what I’m doing until my hand hits flesh.

“Enough,” Coach barks, squeezing my fist as he forces it down to my side.

“All right, boys, break it up or go to bed,” Coach Murray pushes us apart. “Whatever this is, it’s done. Now.”