Monstrous Serpent (South Shore Serpents #1)

1. Chapter 1

Cody

The d in fundamentals swaps places with the m for the third time.

God-fucking-dammit.

I've been staring at this same paragraph for twenty minutes.

The words keep rearranging themselves, letters sliding out of order the second I think I've got them locked down. It’s saying something about market segmentation and consumer behavior, but whatever sense I managed to pull out of it two minutes ago is already gone.

And the goddamn tutoring center is closed today, meaning I get to spend my Saturday riding the fucking struggle bus.

“—and five minutes after you left to do video review with Coach Harper, Walsh just bodied him. Full speed. Didn't even hesitate.” Doyle shakes his head as he toes off his sneakers. “Henneman hit the boards so hard I felt it in my teeth. And Walsh just skated off as if nothing happened.”

“Mhm.” I drag my highlighter across the last sentence, pressing harder than I need to.

“You're not even listening.”

“Walsh hit someone.” I flip the page, hoping the next one will cooperate better. It doesn't. The textbook might as well be written in another language for all the good it's doing me right now.

“He checked his husband into the boards.” Doyle throws a sock at me, and it lands on the textbook, which honestly is an improvement. “It's weird.”

I close the book. Not because of the sock. Because the letters are winning and I'm done pretending they aren't. “What’s weird is he was dating what’s her face, and then we come back from summer break and find out he’s married to a teammate he never said two words to last year.”

Doyle snorts, dropping onto his bed. “You think it's a real thing? Like, they actually—”

“It's none of our business.” I don't give a shit about Walsh and Henneman's situationship. I've got my own problems. Like the fact that I've read the same paragraph nine times and couldn't repeat a single word if someone put a gun to my head.

I snatch my phone off the nightstand. Forty-five minutes until I pick up Cindy. Time to get ready.

Swinging my legs over the side of the mattress, I stand, roll my shoulders, then walk over to the closet, kicking a basketball out of the way. “Think you should clean up a bit?”

Doyle glares.

I shake my head. “It looks like a bomb went off in a Dick's Sporting Goods. Your shit’s everywhere.”

He pulls out his phone and starts scrolling. “Don’t take your bad mood out on me.”

“What?”

“Dude, you’ve been giving Walsh a run for his money with the attitude lately. Especially when it comes to Cindy. Where are you two going tonight anyway?”

I open the closet and pull out a dark-blue button-down. Cindy likes the color. She says it makes my eyes pop, whatever that means. “That Italian place in Cold Spring Harbor.”

After grabbing a pair of chinos, I head to the dresser for a plain white T-shirt. Figure I can layer the button-down open on top with the sleeves rolled to the forearms.

“Didn't you guys just go there like two weeks ago?”

I shrug. “She likes it.”

And maybe this time my girlfriend will actually be present, unlike the last three times we've hung out when she looked at her phone more than me. “What about you? Hitting Vortex?”

“Probably. Depends if anyone else wants to go. You know how it is. Hockey first, everything else is just killing time.”

That's what I always say—hockey first, girls are just for fun.

Cindy was supposed to be a summer thing.

She was easy and entertaining. Exactly what I needed after a season of getting my ass kicked in practice.

We took road trips to Jones Beach, her legs on my dashboard, singing along to songs.

She laughed at my jokes, didn't ask too many questions, and the sex was good.

Really good.

I made sure of that.

But when we returned to campus, shit changed.

I got busier with hockey, classes, and going to the tutoring center three days a week.

Nobody outside of my coaches knows I need academic assistance regularly because the second someone finds out, they make that face, which is usually followed by pity.

And after comes the realization that I'm not who they thought I was.

That I'm less.

Which is why I’ve made sure Cindy never has a reason to look closer than she needs to. I keep things casual, busy, distract her with sex if I need to. And the one time she saw me walking out of the tutoring center, I told her I was struggling with an assignment on Shakespeare.

Except now she’s become distant. She takes longer to text back. Cancels more often.

My fingers tighten on the cotton fabric of the T-shirt as I pull it on. “Doyle?”

“What?”

“You think Cindy’s pissed I don’t have as much time for her?”

“Wouldn't be surprised. Why don't you just end it?”

Because ending it means I wasn't enough to keep someone who wasn't even asking for much.

I shrug. “She's fun.”

“Fun doesn’t give you headaches, man. Unless it’s from a hangover.”

Jackass.

My phone buzzes.

Cindy: Hey babe, so sorry but my dad dropped by to surprise me.

Cindy: Have to cancel tonight. Rain check? Xoxo

I read it twice.

Cindy’s dad lives in Westchester. She complains about him constantly, how he never makes time, how everything must be planned two weeks in advance. Even called him a “pathologically organized deadbeat” once, like it was his job title. A surprise visit from him would be a minor miracle.

Sure, maybe he could be trying to turn over a new leaf. Except three days ago, a registration confirmation popped up on her phone while it was charging on my nightstand. It was for some event at the Pine Barrens called Don't Look Back. And the date was for tonight.

I wasn’t snooping. The phone was right there. So, I looked.

And then smiled.

I figured she was planning something both of us might like, not that I have any idea what Don’t Look Back even is.

I thought about looking it up but didn't want to get my hopes up if it turned out to be another only-Cindy-will-like-this situation.

So I made dinner plans as a backup. Either she'd tell me about the event and we'd skip the restaurant, or she wouldn't and we'd eat Italian.

Either way, I wasn't sitting around waiting.

I read her text again.

She’s lying.

But why? Why not just say she has plans with her friends?

Fuck this.

After opening the web browser, I punch in Don't Look Back Pine Barrens Long Island and click the link to their website. A dark page pops up with a tagline that reads “Are you brave enough to face what's in the dark?” in a creepy font.

Huh, must be some kind of immersive experience, like a haunted run or horror event where people chase you through the woods. I would enjoy something like that.

I scroll down the page. Of course. Registration is closed.

My teeth clench together. I close the page, then text my girlfriend back.

Me: ok have fun

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah. Plans changed.” I toss the phone onto the mattress. “Going for a drive instead.”

“Uh, okay.”

I grab a black hoodie from the closet and a pair of joggers. Once dressed, I grab my keys and wallet from my desk.

Doyle drops his phone onto his chest. “You sure you're good?”

“Just need air.”

“Don't do anything stupid.”

I shove my feet into a pair of sneakers. “When have I ever done anything stupid?”

“Literally today at practice when you—”

“Rhetorical question, Doyle.”

“Be safe, man.”

I don’t respond, just walk out of the room.

There might not have been an exact location on the website, but I know the Pine Barrens. Dad and Brayden ran the duathlon out there last spring. They talked about it for weeks after. Couldn’t shut up about the brutal terrain, how they pushed each other, and their finish in the top ten percent.

I wasn't invited. Not because they excluded me. Because it didn't occur to them to ask.

Whatever.

The hallway outside our room is quiet. Most guys are either out already or getting ready to leave. Saturday night at Crestwood, everyone's got somewhere to be, someone to see, something to prove.

I take the stairs two at a time, my footsteps echoing off the old wood. Young Hall used to be a rich family's mansion back in the day, all chandeliers and leather chairs and shit that's supposed to make you feel important.

It doesn’t.

Not when you aren’t a choice, just the default.

Outside, I practically speed walk to my Range Rover in the half-empty parking lot. I unlock it, slide in, and start the engine just as my phone buzzes again.

Another text.

Cindy: Miss you already! Maybe tomorrow instead?

Another lie.

She thinks I'm too dumb to figure it out.

Wrong fucking bet.

Because I'm the guy who notices everything. Every shift in a defenseman's hips. Every tell on a girl's face. Every time someone's tone changes when they realize I'm not tracking the conversation. I see all of it, and nobody gives me credit for it because it's not the kind of smart that counts.

Well, it counts tonight.

The tires squeal as I pull out of the campus lot, turning onto the main road that leads out of Rosewood Bay. I press the accelerator and watch as the speedometer climbs.

My girlfriend wants to treat me like I'm an idiot?

Let's see how that works out for her.