Chapter 4
4
RHYS
W ind whips through my hair, stings my eyes, and blasts my face as I zoom down the small, secluded roads that cut through the thick forest surrounding Cedar Shade.
Nothing feels more freeing than this. Being out here, alone on my motorcycle, empty road stretching ahead of and behind me, nothing to my sides but the dense and impenetrable Vermont woods.
I love being on the ice. Gliding across the smooth surface on my blades is its own kind of freedom, its own kind of high. But there, I have responsibilities. I have to think, strategize, analyze. On the ice, I have a game to win, an enemy to defeat, and teammates I need to not let down.
Out here, though, it’s just me, the machine purring between my legs, and nature. I can clear my head, forget my responsibilities, and silence the gnawing doubts and worries that never shut up anywhere else.
At least, usually I can.
Today, though, there’s one gnawing feeling that I can’t shake off. One voice whispering in my head that I can’t tune out.
The feeling is guilt, and the voice whispering in my head is telling me I’m an asshole—because ever since Maddie Larsen, my best friend’s little sister, sprawled herself out on my bed Saturday night, I’ve fisted my cock twice a day to the memory of it.
Just thinking about it this much has my jeans growing tight. The vibration of my seat creates enough friction that, in spite of myself, I’m imagining driving home and getting myself off for the third time today to the mental image of Maddie’s smooth, slender legs and how perfectly hemispherical her tits look as she lay on my bed.
I try to wipe the thought from my mind, but the spell of the ride is broken. I drive back into Cedar Shade, slowing my speed as I wind through the narrow streets lined with local shops and restaurants.
I roll into the short driveway in front of our house and push open the kickstand with my foot. Four of my teammates and I live in a large Victorian house just two blocks off campus.
When I walk through the door, I see my best friend and fellow first-line defenseman of the Brumehill Black Bears, Lane Larsen, sitting on the big couch in our living room.
But he’s not alone. There are two people I don’t know, one guy and one girl, sitting on the couch adjacent to Lane, both of them holding notebooks.
My brows knit together with curiosity as I gently shut the door behind me and stand in the foyer, not wanting to disturb … whatever this is.
“So, overall,” the guy with the notebook is saying, “you’re optimistic that this won’t be a Larsen-free season for the Black Bears?”
I put two and two together: they must be journalists from the student paper interviewing Lane for the year’s first issue. Hockey is massive on campus, and the paper loves to run as many stories about the Black Bears as they can.
“Extremely optimistic,” Lane answers in his signature team captain voice. “I’m also optimistic that this won’t be a championship-free season, either. If not for this damn leg,” he playfully pats his right leg that he broke in the middle of the Frozen Four championship game last April, “we would’ve bagged it last year. There’s no way I’m leaving Brumehill College without hoisting that trophy over my head.”
That’s exactly what readers of the student paper are going to want to hear. Competitive pride beats in my chest at his words, because they’re exactly how I feel, too.
We had an incredible season last year. Everything was clicking. If not for Lane’s injury, I’m positive we would have won that championship game. Just standing here, my blood pumps thicker with determination.
It’s senior year for me, Lane, Hudson, and Tuck, and I know each of us is dying to go out on top.
“Alright, last question. Not hockey related,” the girl from the paper adds with a grin. “If you had to pick, which of your single teammates would you be okay with dating your sister?”
Lane laughs at the question—but I stiffen. The fine hairs on the nape of my neck stand up, and there’s an unsettled feeling in my stomach.
“None of them,” Lane answers jocularly.
Instantly, I feel my jaw muscles ticking. A bitter taste seeps into my mouth.
“Come on,” she urges, “you can’t think of even one?”
Lane responds with a good-natured chuckle. “No way.”
I tell myself he’s just giving them the right answer, the answer that’s going to make for the most amusing exchange when it’s printed. Lane always knows the right thing to say in any circumstance, after all. Always knows how to play his role.
Or … maybe he really feels that way. Maybe he instantly recoils at the idea of any player on the team dating his sister.
Me included.
Hell, there’s no maybe about it. That’s exactly what he thinks. And forget about me included —more like me at the top of the list.
Even though we’re best friends, he knows my background. What kind of neighborhood I come from. What kind of family I come from. He doesn’t want a guy like that for his sister. Hell, who would?
Frankly, it’s good to be reminded of that fact every now and then. It keeps my imagination from running away with me.
Lane stands up from the couch, beaming his pearly white team captain smile at the two student journalists. He shakes their hands and walks them to the door.
“Oh, Rhys!” he exclaims as they step past the couches.
I lift my chin. “Hey, bro. Just got back from my ride.”
Lane bids the two from the paper goodbye and closes the door behind them. It only stays shut for about two seconds before it flies open again, and Tuck and Hudson enter. They must be coming back from a run, because they’re both drenched in sweat.
Tuck, sweaty as he is, immediately steps uncomfortably close to me. I arch an eyebrow and flatten my lips at him.
“Rhys, who smells worse, me or Hudson?”
All I can do is blink at him mutely.
“ Tuck ,” Hudson groans, rolling his eyes.
“Come on, Rhys,” Tuck urges. “Me and Hud have money riding on this.”
“No, we don’t,” Hudson deadpans. “And stop calling me Hud.”
“Yes we do!” Tuck argues. “I bet you ten dollars that I don’t smell as gross as you when I’m sweaty after a workout!”
Hudson crosses his beefy arms over the sweat-stained front of his shirt. “And I never took the bet because it’s a ridiculous thing to even talk about, much less bet over.”
Lane laughs at our two roommates’ antics, and I take a big step away from a very sweaty Tuck McCoy.
Lane and I may be sort of an odd couple as best friends, but we’ve got nothing on Tuck and Hudson.
The two of them being friends at all is something no one would have envisioned last year when Hudson moved in with us after transferring to Brumehill.
Tuck is ridiculous, happy-go-lucky, extroverted to the extreme, and possesses nothing even approximating a filter. Hudson, on the other hand, is introverted, reserved, and still a bit of a grump, even though he’s not nearly as prickly as he was this time last year.
But now they’re genuinely best friends: besties , as Tuck loves to say, and Hudson very much doesn’t love to say.
“What are you two doing just standing by the door anyway?” Tuck asks, thankfully forgetting what he was just talking about.
“Just got back from a ride,” I say.
“On your motorcycle?” Hudson asks.
I nod.
Hudson’s lips draw thin, his brow lowering as he looks down at my empty hand. “No helmet?”
My lips twitch. Hudson may still be a grump, but there’s a heart of gold under there, and if you pay attention, he makes it clear that he cares about the people close to him.
“Usually don’t wear one,” I shrug, knowing full well I should.
“You know, Rhys,” Hudson says, “you should really …”
“I know, I know, I know,” I spurt. “I should wear a helmet.”
“I’ve been telling him that for years,” Lane sighs.
“Here’s an idea,” I say, “how about you guys stop lecturing me on safety, and we get something to eat? I’m fucking starving.”
Tuck’s face lights up like he’s a puppy who’s just heard the word catch . “Bestie double date?”
“Please don’t call it that,” Hudson groans.
“Come on, Hudson.” Tuck pats our grumpy goalie on the chest with the back of his hand. “Let’s go up and put on some dry shirts. We need to look our best for our bestie double date .”
Hudson grumbles as he trudges up the stairs after Tuck, who’s practically bouncing up them with glee.
“Should we ditch them and just go ourselves?” I ask Lane once they’ve reached the second floor. “Or at least ditch Tuck?”
“Tempting,” Lane answers. “But what kind of team captain would I be if I agreed to something like that?”
“A cool one,” I say, pushing my fingertips underneath his ribs as I walk past him to get a drink of water from the kitchen.
“Ow!” Lane yelps, jumping back. “Asshole.”
A couple minutes later, the four of us are walking out the door ready to get some grub. When we step off the porch, we run into our fifth roommate.
“Sebastian!” Tuck exclaims. “We were just about to get some lunch. Sadly, we can’t invite you to join us, though. It’s a bestie double date. You understand.”
“Tuck!” Lane pushes Tuck’s shoulder. “Of course you can come, Sebastian.”
Sebastian chuckles. “Nah, I’m good. Just ate a little while ago, actually. I’m just gonna hang out and finish my book.”
Sebastian’s a year younger than the rest of us, a junior while we’re all seniors, and he’s a total bookworm. Hell, he’s more than a bookworm, he’s a fucking intellectual . Reads all the time about everything under the sun, gets A’s in all his classes, even teaches himself foreign languages just for fun.
Most people would guess he’s studying to get a PhD in Literature or something rather than an athlete, but he’s one of the best center forwards in college hockey.
We leave him behind to walk to Chiyoda Ramen, one of our regular spots in Cedar Shade.
I try to focus on the pangs of hunger in my stomach. They feel better than the pangs I get in my chest when I remember the end of the conversation I just overheard.
None of them, Lane’s words echo in my head.
Could he think of even one teammate of his that he would approve of dating his sister?
No way.