Chapter 3
“Are you ever on time?” Griffin Hawthorne—defenseman for the HEAU Legends men’s hockey team—greets me with a chuckle, drops of sweat peppering his forehead.
I flip him off, smirking. “I’m here before practice has even started. Doesn’t sound like I’m late at all.”
“Mmhmm. Dean was here thirty minutes ago.”
Rolling my eyes, I groan, “Good for him. Not all of us are as perfectly punctual as the prince himself.”
“I heard that,” Dean calls out behind me, strolling into the locker room, geared up and sweaty after his warm-up. “I tried to get you to leave with me.”
Trying to seem as if I’m not panic dressing, I take a quiet, deep breath. “Fuck off. I had shit to do this morning.” Shit that I’d rather not admit to anyone in this room at the moment, like sleeping through every single alarm. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
“Always got a smart-ass comment locked and loaded, Ash.” Griffin chuckles again as he walks over to Dean, the two of them turning on their skate guards to leave.
My lips part with a quip at the ready, but I seal them shut, trying not to prove him right … again.
Finishing getting ready, I make my way to the ice to join them, goose bumps breaking across my arms in anticipation.
It doesn’t matter how little time has passed since my last skate; I miss it all the same. I didn’t used to feel this way.
I had quite the love and hate relationship with hockey, growing up. But since my mom’s passing and my dad’s personality replacement, nothing is better than gliding across that smooth surface. It’s like my mind quiets, even if it’s only temporary.
Joining the rest of the guys, I glide onto the ice, my stick finding a loose puck almost instantly. My body works through the muscle memory, dribbling it back and forth.
“Sleeping Beauty’s finally here,” Malik Ravenwell—forward for the Legends and sarcastic asshole—chirps at me, lifting his stick and tapping my upper thigh.
“Fucking dick,” I scold, knowing damn well he missed the target—my cup—on purpose.
But the second time, his aim flies true.
“Shit,” I curse under my breath as my balls retract into my damn stomach.
Dean laughs from the other side of him, not bothering to hide any amusement.
“I should’ve stayed home,” I groan, mindlessly firing the puck toward Finn Rutherford—one of our goalies—positioned in front of the net.
“You’re better than that,” Dean reminds me, dishing his puck toward me.
With my wrist, I glide it back and forth before sinking it in the back of Finny’s net. “Unfortunately.”
Our head coach blows his whistle, and everyone hustles over, ready for his command.
He’s a good coach. Personable but strict. He’s one of the reasons we’ve dominated as of late. I hope he’s the reason we win the championship this year too.
After a quick speech about what we’re doing well and what needs work, he splits us up into two groups for warm-ups. Half of us head to one end for three-on-twos, and the other half to the other end for a different drill.
“So, Malik, how’s your love life going?” I smirk as I pass the puck to him, knowing this will push his buttons. “You and Alora still going strong, or is it time for me to swoop in?”
“Watch yourself, Ash,” he warns me sternly.
“Ooh.” I catch the puck on my stick and fire, missing just wide, and I skate past the net toward the boards. “I’m scared.”
When I turn, my skeleton nearly jumps out of my skin.
Malik’s standing there, smirking at me through his cage mask. “You should be.”
“I should be.” I mock him with a downturned mouth. “But I’m not.”
“Are you sure about that?” He fakes me out, thrusting his face toward me.
My body betrays me, flinching.
“Knew it.”
“Yeah, yeah. It’s a body’s natural response to a psychopath.” I roll my eyes, skating around the next group running the play.
“A psychopath?” He cackles and slowly lets his smile fall, his eyes darkening.
“Real funny,” I tease him.
“I know,” he sighs arrogantly. “I’m fucking hilarious.”
“Griff,” I call out to him in line in front of me. “Griffin, help! Malik’s being bad!”
I skate to Griff, who tucks me under his arm. “Malik! Don’t be mean to the child!”
I scoff, untucking myself, “Child?” My voice cracks at the worst possible time, causing everyone around us to laugh. Pinching the bridge of my nose, I groan, “Whatever. I’m done.”
They continue to giggle like children.
Even Dean enjoys the chance to make fun of me. “I mean, you brought it on yourself, Ash. You know better than to provoke Malik about Alora. He’s a possessive monster when it comes to her.”
“You mean the love of my damn life? My everything?” Malik corrects him. “Then, yes, I’m a possessive monster about her.”
Rolling my eyes, I catch the puck from Finny, as it’s my turn up in line. I lead our trio against the two defenders, doing my best to focus on practice. But I also can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever find someone I can share that intensity with.
First, Griffin found Blair, and they complete and balance each other so beautifully. Then Malik and Alora … those assholes are damn soulmates. When is it my turn? Or Dean’s for that matter?
I don’t even know if letting someone in right now is possible after losing our mom. My heart feels like a statue in my chest, unable to beat properly or at all. I’m sure Dean feels the same way.
I can nearly hear our mom’s voice, telling us that love always finds you when you least expect it.
Maybe that’s true.
My problem is … I’ve never been very patient.
I don’t even realize how much time has passed until my daily reminder pops up on my phone to set my alarms for the next morning.
It’s not abnormal for me to get lost in my laptop and work, whether I’m learning more about coding or doing my actual homework for school.
Aside from hockey, computer science is my second biggest passion. I love learning anything and everything I can about it. I feel like I understand it better than I do English some days.
Hockey is my main purpose in life, and I want to play with my brother at every possible level. We’ve already done World Juniors together, and now college. Professional is the next step, and we already know where we’d like to go if we have a choice.
We do have some sway, being HEAU Legends. It’s like hockey royalty in the sports world. But we’re also realistic at the same time.
Ideally, we could be signed as a bonded pair, like pets in an animal shelter. But if we get to play professionally in any capacity, we’ll take it.
Shutting my laptop, I toss it beside me on my bed before swinging my sore and stiff legs off the edge.
Coach must’ve had a vendetta against someone on the team today from how hard he worked us at the end of practice.
I know he’s getting us ready for the season, but I may break completely before we even begin.
A slew of curse words and grunts leave me as I walk toward my door, my legs stretching out for the first time in hours. To be fair, I have been sitting cross-legged in my bed, hunched like a goddamn shrimp over my computer.
Dean and I were going to watch a movie tonight in the theater down the hall, but he didn’t grab me, which means he’s isolating himself in his room, and if I had to guess who the culprit of this is … it’s our father.
Dean’s door is shut when I stride the few steps deeper into our wing. I knock a couple of times and hear him mutter something indiscernible. I wait for him to open the door or repeat himself, but nothing happens. So, I take matters into my own hands.
Grabbing the doorknob, I twist and push the door open. My heart knots in my chest.
He’s on his bed, flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling with a haunting emptiness in his stare that’s becoming far too recognizable as of late. Repeatedly, he tosses a squishy ball to the ceiling before catching it.
Leaning against the doorframe, I give him time and space to respond, taking this conversation at his pace.
Recently, I think he’s been disappearing into his mind more than he’s present. I don’t blame him.
I’ve been coping with everything in my own ways. But I know he deals with more shit from our father than I ever see. It’s because of him that I’m shielded from it.
It wasn’t his fault that he was adopted first. But he’s the older brother, by only three months, and therefore, he was chosen to be the heir of the Kensington empire.
Declared so by the king himself.
We were raised with different expectations, and honestly, we both like the roles we were assigned. We used to at least.
Our father allows us to go to school and pursue our passions, including hockey, with an understanding that, eventually, when Dean’s hockey career is over, he’ll take over as the head of the companies.
But that understanding has waned since our mom’s passing. The kingdom and the crown seem to have darkened since then.
Expectations are higher.
Tempers, shorter.
Rules, more overbearing.
Instead of joy and laughter echoing through the corridors, it’s silence—or worse, our father’s disappointment. I don’t know who he’s become in the recent months, and I don’t know how to stop him from being stuck in this new persona.
Dean and I both know that’s not who he really is. But he’s not ready to listen to us about it. So, for now, we deal with it.
He’s on borrowed time though because there’s no way in hell we are letting our dad marry someone new after our mom passed only months ago.
We don’t have a reason to distrust Adrianna, but there’s something off about her. A lack of genuineness that lingers behind her smile.
Dean and I both agree that there’s more to her than meets the eye. Maybe we’re biased because we miss our mom. Maybe Adrianna is secretly evil. Only time will tell.
If we’re right, the problem will fix itself. Our father may not see her true colors yet, but people like that can’t help but to peek through their mask.
He claims to be marrying her for the family dynamic and for the success of the family name, but none of that will matter if we break the fourth wall and tell everyone that their love is a lie, a facade.
If it comes to it, we’ll force his hand, make a public scene.
But we’ll wait, up until the day of the wedding.
But not a moment more. We won’t let her destroy our already-fractured family.
“You just gonna stand there all day, you fucking creep?” Dean mutters, not tearing his gaze from the ball and ceiling.
At least he’s still himself.
I laugh to myself. “Are you going to sulk all night or what?”
Slowly, he drags his hand down his face and drops the ball on the bed. “Probably, yeah. Got something else in mind?”
A smirk tips the corner of my mouth up. “Wanna go for a ride?”
This catches his attention, and he rolls his head on the comforter to face me. A soft smile drifts across his mouth, lifting his face.
It’d break the house rules, going out after curfew—a new addition of our father’s expectations.
Home no later than ten p.m.
Unless, of course, it’s for an event we’re expected to attend.
“I’m in.” He sits up, jumping out of bed with newfound life, adjusting his joggers before striding toward me. “Fuck it.”
“Relax, tough guy. Breaking rules is a gateway drug,” I warn him, feigning concern that he may turn into me.
I like to think of the curfew as a suggestion while Dean has never broken it during the last month of its enforcement.
The heel of his palm digs into my shoulder as he plows through the doorframe. “Shut up, idiot.”
Laughter bubbles out of me as I run behind him, throwing my arm over his shoulders.
“Race you.” I shove him back down the hall as I take off, racing out of the double-door entrance to our wing of the house. “Loser buys ice cream.”
The best part about this place is the thousand doors leading outside. Our easiest, stealthiest escape is through the servant wing, which is exactly where we’re heading.
It takes us a few minutes to get downstairs, through the foyer, past one of the sitting rooms, one of the dining rooms, and into the corridor that leads to the staff wing.
While none of them would likely snitch on us, we still do our best to stay quiet as we stride past the lounge and turn down the long office hallway that leads to the exit.
The cool night air feels more inviting than ever because Dean is breaking the rules to go on a ride with me.
“Let’s go,” I whisper excitedly as the door closes behind us.
Like stealthy spies, we sneak around the side of the building, slowly making our way to the front, where our two black Ducati bikes are parked.
Our helmets are still hanging on them from earlier. Thankfully, it didn’t rain.
We both slip them on and mount our bikes, revving the engines to life. We’re not too worried about our father hearing them, as his wing is on nearly the opposite side of the house.
“After you.” I gesture before flipping the visor of my helmet down.
A smile slips free from his restraint as he does the same before taking off and leading us down the long, winding driveway toward the front gate.
Holding my hand up, I signal our new attendant, Roy, to be quiet about our little late-night escapade.
He smiles sweetly, mimics my gesture, and opens the gate, setting us free.