Chapter 14 ~ Bellamy
He's messing with me, and I find it hot
––––––––
He’s a hockey god; there is nothing else to describe what I witnessed with my own two eyes from the bench while Minho won us yet another game after the last two he’s played since joining.
“Maddox!” Noah's voice cuts through the noise around me and my racing thoughts; his hand slaps my shoulder enough to sting through my jersey. “Smile, man, we won.”
I give him my best smile, but I know as well as he does it doesn’t quite reach my eyes, and how could it when I wasn’t even on the ice to win with them?
“You need this more than I do.”
“Thanks,” I grunt, taking the beer he shoves into my chest, letting the cold burn down my throat when I take a swig before my eyes are already scanning the room, searching for the one person I can’t seem to find.
Or perhaps I can find him perfectly; I just don’t know what I'm supposed to do when I do.
Minho’s standing at the far end of the locker room, surrounded by half the team, his jersey half off and slung over his shoulder like he’s never left the hockey scene. His hair, which he dyed a bright red a few days ago, is still wet from sweat and slicked back.
He laughs at something Marcel says, and I hate the way his laugh makes my jaw tighten every time I hear it, hate that I’m not the one he’s looking at, genuinely smiling at.
And worst of all, I despise not knowing whether he knows I am watching and is trying to get a rise out of me, or if he truly doesn’t know I’m looking.
I’m almost tempted to walk up to him, grab him by the throat and kiss him in front of the entire team so not only do they know he’s mine, but so he knows. I want to congratulate him on his win, and what I covet most is to stand by him while others pat him on his back and laugh with him.
He deserves all the praise after all. Scoring two goals—two, the first one being a tip-in from a shot Noah fired wide, which redirected so perfectly that the opposing team's goalie didn't see it coming. The second, a breakaway Minho generated himself by stealing the puck from Archibald U’s elite star defenseman at our blue line and skating the length of the ice like it was a walk in the park.
I don't think I have ever seen Coach Walker smile so proudly until tonight, while he watched his son make the crowd scream and cheer like they were watching a gladiator movie or something. And Minho playing well meant other eyes were on him, onlookers—agents and scouts he cared nothing for because this is all a dig to rub in my face, a reminder he can and will do anything to prove he’s better.
I can’t fucking stand how easily he’s messing with me, and worst of all? I still find it hot as hell, if not arousing enough to want to put him in his place and beat him at his own game.
“Holy shit, do you know who that is?” Ollie sat on the bench next to me, still in his goalie pads, face red as a tomato.
I glance up in the direction Ollie is looking to see a well-dressed man with light brown hair, intoxicatingly beautiful greenish-blue eyes and rings decorating his fingers standing beside Minho, arms crossed and smiling at something my stepbrother says before placing a hand on his shoulder.
I shrug, taking another long pull of the beer. “Who is that?” I set the bottle down on the other side of the bench, fists clenching. The dude looks familiar, but I can’t recall where the hell I have seen him.
“That’s Armani fucking Valentino,” Ollie says, excitement written all over his face when my sights shoot back in his direction, brows rising.
“The model?”
He’s nodding like I’ve dangled a toy in front of him. “The one and only who also happens to be one of the three top pornstars on Dreamboys.”
I grit my teeth. “What is he doing here?” I ask. “And talking to my boy—stepbrother?”
I glance in my friend's direction from the corner of my eye to see if he caught on to what I nearly said, but he seems as clueless as ever.
Thank God.
Minho is not my boyfriend.
Not yet, anyway.
“Who knows, man, but um...” Ollie points in Minho and Armani’s direction, and I wish I hadn’t, for when I look, Minho is kissing the sexy model who aggressively kisses him back in return.
What the actual fuck?
A few of our other teammates catch on to what is going on and start cheering, whistling or barking.
At the same time, I feel my head spinning even when Minho and Armani stop kissing because my evil, wicked obsession is grinning right at me before wiping his lips and giving me a wink as he goes in for another kiss, licking Armani’s lips and then devouring him.
I make a move to get up when Noah appears and places a hand on my shoulder, keeping me in place.
“Okay, boys, enough of that in my locker room,” Coach barks.
Everyone gets back to what they were doing while the entertainment breaks apart; Armani whispers something in Minho’s ear, and he nods before the model is out of the locker room. And all I can think is fuck Yeseo’s plan.
I am going rogue now.
By the time the celebration thins out, Minho and I are the only ones in the locker room—well, he’s in the shower, and I am still sitting on the bench nursing what might be my third beer with questions spinning in my head.
How does he know Armani?
Are they friends?
More than friends?
Fuck it.
I have been too nice, and now Minho thinks he can fuck around with anyone he likes. Rafe is one thing, something that doesn’t bother me, but someone well-known? Absolutely the fuck not happening while I am still breathing.
When I storm into the showers, I half expect to find him finishing up, not standing under the spray of water, back and bare ass to me.
I feel heat creep up my neck seeing him fully nude in front of me, the butterfly tattoo on his neck, the one in a language I believe to be Hangul running along his spine with blue flowers, two fish mid-circling each other are at the bottom of the text and then of course the ones I may have requested—no, suggested Rafe put on Minho’s ass.
Well, I am guilty of “Fuck” and “You” tattoos, but I had nothing to do with the lips. I fear that is Rafe’s doing, and one I can’t say I am mad at.
I chuckle, accidentally alerting my greatest weakness to my presence.
And I’m ready for him to scream at me for being a perv or throw his bottle of shampoo at my head, but instead he turns around, causing me to swallow hard now that every inch of him has blessed my eyes—his piercings, his glistening chest, the way his hair is plastered to his forehead.
When our eyes meet, he’s smirking. “Can I help you, Bells?”
God.
He has no idea what that nickname does to me, the meaning behind it, the singular thing helping me cling to hope for us—a reminder of the day we met, when a few mutual high school friends of ours and I found the old bell tower near Eden’s famous waterfalls, and he found us foolishly exploring the rickety place.
That was the day we met, right after the party at the lighthouse.
Back when our little rivalry was all about who could get better grades, who could make more friends than the other, silly things kids did to one-up each other.
When life had been simpler.
“Bellamy?”
“Yeah, beautiful?” I clear my throat. “Yes?”
Minho turns off the water and glances at me over his shoulder before facing me fully and leaning against the tile, not even bothering to wrap the towel he has on the bench around him.
Okay, two can play at this game. I stroll over to him until we are chest to chest, eyes locked on each other.
“Enjoy the—”
I wrap a hand around his throat, squeezing enough to add pressure but not enough to bruise. “Don’t you fucking dare,” I growl.
He chuckles, utterly unbothered by the placement of my hand as he leans in, and my eyes betray me when they lower to his lips and then lower to his semi-hard cock.
“I did it for you, Bells,” he taunts, licking his lips.
“Do you know how hard it was to get my friend here to mess with you? Thankfully, Armani loves to put on a show.”
I scoff. “Since when are you two friends, and is that all you are?”
It’s a genuine question and one I desperately need the answer to before I go hunt down the model and break his legs.
“Jealous?”
I tighten my hold around his neck, and he whimpers—fucking whimpers, oh my god, he likes this, being manhandled. I can't stop the grin that spreads across my lips because fuck, I can work with this.
“You don’t want me jealous, Minho.” It’s a warning and one I hope he takes seriously because I won’t warn him again, and he won’t like how I punish him—or he will by the lust he doesn’t even try to mask in his eyes.
“I don’t know,” he laughs, tilting his head to the side as best he can while in my hold. “I think I like this side of you, like a dog off his leash—it’s refreshing.”
Fuck all of it.
I can tell him he played well next time.
“You can go back to hating me tomorrow,” I breathe.
“What–”
Before I can think it over, or talk myself out of it, I do the one thing I hope he would do. I close the distance between us, pressing my lips to his, and it isn’t gentle as I take full control. My hand slides to the back of his neck, pressing him into me more, needing him as close as possible.
I put everything into the kiss, the years I wasted trying to be an adequate rival, someone who could match his cunning mind.
My fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him into me as if I am trying to consume him whole.
For one terrible second that feels more like an eternity, he doesn’t move; his lips are frozen against mine, and I think I have made a mistake; perhaps this’ll end with him shoving me away and walking out—that I will lose him all over again.
“This doesn’t change anything,” he says firmly. “We are not friends, Bellamy; there will be no sexy benefits after this, no repeated secret hook-ups for you to look forward to, none of it; this is only because I’m bored.”
We’ll see about that.
“For one, I agree with you, baby.”
“Shut up.”