Chapter 3
SYLAS
I massage my right shoulder the way I’ve been instructed to do by both the team’s physical therapist and athletic trainer.
One would have sufficed, but Dad not only insisted, he demanded they both be there to show me how to correctly massage and exercise, despite already having developed a personalized treatment plan for me.
My shoulder wouldn’t be fucked in the first place if he had listened to them and let me rest. But he pushes and pushes because he can, because he knows better, because his son has to be the best and to be the best, resting doesn’t exist.
He had me up at four this morning to train with him for almost two hours, and right after that, I had skill work followed by team weight lift. We have an away game so it was light, but my body is still reeling from training with Dad.
I prop my head on the bus window and continue to work my fingers along my shoulder as I scroll through my notifications. I roll my eyes at the messages that pop up from my parents.
Dad: You’re not known as the best power forward in the country for nothing. Play exactly as I showed you and stop fucking around in defense. I will see you after the game.
Dad: Don’t ruin my legacy, Sylas.
Mom: So excited for tonight! Florence is coming with us. She loves to watch you play. Why don’t you get her one of those special jerseys? She would love that.
Ignoring them, I switch over to the security cameras. My parents pushed for them to be set up, since people would be coming and going to clean or whatever it is they do when I’m not around. It felt stupid at the time, but now I’ve never been more grateful.
I haven’t cared to look because nothing has ever gone missing. But after my conversation—or whatever it is I should call it—with Anna, I’ve been wanting to see her again.
Shocked is an understatement of what I’d felt when I found she’s been cleaning the penthouse and how she went off on me. I know I’m the dick of the century for what I did. I’m stupid for not remembering her and realizing why she looked so familiar at Clover’s.
I never meant to blow her off three years ago, but when I dislocated my shoulder, Dad started his bullshit, and I was hit with a panic attack.
It took me days to recover. It’s still shit, and I get why she’s mad.
I tried to apologize, but she was done listening to me.
She had her earbuds in, music probably at max because I could hear it playing.
And she wasn’t there long because she finished five minutes after she chewed me out.
On the screen, the elevator doors slide open and she walks in with cleaning supplies and another girl beside her. I don’t recognize her, but what would I know? She probably goes to KYU too. I probably forgot her the same way I did Anna.
I pop in an earbud, but hesitate before I turn up the volume. Is this wrong? They’re in my home, so it’s not technically stalking or invasion of privacy. Right?
Turning it on, I watch them. Based on the topic of their conversation, they either know there are cameras and don’t care, or they have no idea there’re multiple small ones placed everywhere.
“…I don’t know, I’m still waiting to get a call from Michael letting us know we’re fired and blacklisted from New York.”
Her friend laughs, and between the two, she’s the bubblier one. “That’s dramatic. I don’t think Michael holds that much power. But enough about that, so…”
“No, Jenny,” she reproaches with a groan. “Don’t even think about it. I’ll take the terrace and you—”
Jenny’s smile widens, and she places a hand on her hip. “You’re so lame. You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”
“I do, and I’m not going to answer.” She grabs a plastic bag from the cart they brought filled with supplies.
“I just want to know. I promise I’ll stop asking.” Jenny interlocks her fingers, bringing them under her chin, and juts out her bottom lip.
Anna wets her pink lips, her chest rising like she’s breathing in deeply. “Okay, ask me.”
“Is he as attractive in person as they say he is?”
Is she talking about me? She has to be talking about me. I sit up and raise the volume.
Anna pauses, like she’s considering how she wants to answer that, then rolls her eyes. “Yeah, he is, and it’s annoying because he’s also tall. Like, really fucking tall.”
Jenny’s face gleams with excitement. “And the accent?”
She clicks her tongue. “Deep and as nice as you’d imagine.” She sounds pained to have said that.
Jesus Christ, talk about an ego boost.
Her friend hums in appreciation. “I’m jealous.”
“Jealous?” Anna’s face twists in a grimace. “There’s nothing to be jealous about. He’s gross, he smokes, and he’s obnoxious. You don’t need that.”
My smile falls. I didn’t used to smoke, but I needed something to take the edge off. Anyway, it could have been worse. I could have taken up smoking crack.
“Come on, we need to hurry up. My shift at Clover’s starts at two.” Anna grabs a few other things and heads toward the sliding glass door that leads to my terrace all while my eyes gravitate to her ass.
Fucking hell, she’s got the roundest ass I’ve—
“What are you looking at?” Marcello “Marc” Galante, my best friend and right winger, plops down on the cushioned chair next to me.
“Nothing.” I quickly shut off my phone, tucking it in my pocket. I take out my earbuds and place them back in the case.
He hums and gives a knowing nod. “Told you to stop watching porn on the bus. Wait until we get to the hotel.”
“Fuck off.”
He’s always saying the stupidest shit.
“You look guilty.” He shrugs, searching my face. “You still thinking about your cleaner?”
“Her name is Anna, and shut up. I’m done talking about that.”
Marc had been downstairs in the living room when Anna went off. He has not shut up about it since it happened, and he told our closest friends because he’s an asshole. And they’re just like him, so they’ve brought it up. A lot.
But it’s whatever. She’s just a girl. She means nothing to me.
Friday, December 6
I intercept a pass, taking possession of the puck, and quickly skate past Michigan’s defense. I stutter step the pass to Marc, giving me enough space to swerve before I wrap around the net and seamlessly shoot the puck.
The horn blares, the spotlights scatter around the arena, the marching band plays our anthem, and the sea of black, silver, and white goes manic, celebrating my second goal of the night.
“That’s right!” I wave my arms, amping up the already loud, rambunctious home crowd sporting our university colors.
As my teammates swarm me, I skate backward, dropping my stick as my back hits the plexiglass and I bounce back. I smirk as they corral me, spreading my arms wide.
“The Punisher strikes again!” my teammates call out, hugging me and slapping my helmet and shoulder.
“That’s right!” Marc bumps his chest with mine once the rest of the guys have peeled off me. “You did that, baby!” He hypes me up, slapping my shoulder and cheering.
We skate toward the bench, slapping our teammates’ gloved hands before skating back to the center for face-off.
The last few minutes of the third period go by too quickly and disappointing for Michigan with a 4-0 shutout.
After interviews and our showers, we’re still reeling from the post-game high. But it and the happiness I was basking in evaporates the moment Coach Viktor Ivanov utters the words “Christmas Auction.”
Marc snickers, knowing how much I dread this stupid tradition KYU insists on continuing every year. I don’t know exactly when it started, but it was decades ago.
Every December, the school’s male athletes are picked to be part of the auction. People bid on them, and the money goes to charity. I know I sound like a dick for complaining about it considering the money is going toward a good cause, but it’s the intention behind it that annoys me.
People bid thousands upon thousands of dollars just to show off that they can, using the guise that they’re doing this to build connection with the players while helping the community.
It’s laughable because most of the players here have connections and the means to bid—or at least outbid—on ourselves. But that’s not allowed and we have to participate whether we like it or not.
I’ve managed to avoid the auction twice. Freshman year, I dislocated my shoulder. Sophomore year, I got a stomach bug. It wasn’t an especially good time, but it got me out of being part of the auction.
Now in my junior year, I’m—I can’t believe I’m saying this—unfortunately not hurt or sick, so I have no other choice but to participate. It’s not been announced who will have to, but as captain, I know I’ll be one of the four picked.
“I know you’re all dying to find out who will be the four to join the other athletes on the stage,” he voices flatly, probably feeling about it the way I do.
“If I call your name, I don’t want to hear it and no, I can’t be bribed.
Dress up, show up, and kiss ass if you have to.
” His eyes scan each guy in the locker room, then he glances down at his phone.
“Everett Frost, Marcello Galante, Rowan Jovanovi?, and Sylas Lenoir Alves.”
He has an excellent read on me because as he speaks my name, he looks up.
“It’s one night, so make the best of it,” Coach instructs us, but based on his stern expression, I know it’s me he’s singling out.
I swallow back the grumble that threatens to leave me as he switches the conversation to tonight’s game. After giving us his usual celebratory speech, he bids us good night and leaves the locker room.
“Cheer up, princess.” Berlin St. Clair, our defenseman, smirks. “You act like this is the worst thing in the world. It’s a win-win if you ask me. You do your due diligence and you get laid.”
My scowl only deepens as my teammates break out into laughter. “Fuck you.” I turn, giving them my back.
Berlin might not consider it a nightmare, but I know who will be bidding on me.
“You know…” Frost, our center, tugs his jersey over his head. “You could always pay someone to bid on you. You have the money. I don’t see why it would be an issue, and no one would have to know.”
Why didn’t I think of that? Sure, there’s the risk of it backfiring. They could end up keeping the money or find a way to actually get me to go on a date with them, but…
“You’re not actually thinking about it, are you?” Berlin cocks a brow, humor lacing his voice.
I shrug. “I don’t know…it’s not the worst idea.”
Rowan, our goalie, regards me with a patronizing look but stays quiet.
Marc laughs. “You’re fucking stupid. It’s one night with Florence.”
I flip him off, not saying a word to him but still consider Frost’s idea.
“Stop mulling it over. It’s not until next week.” Marc drapes his arm around my shoulder as we step out of the locker room. “We got more important things to think about. Like skipping dinner with our parents to go to Salt. How mad will your dad be? Mine already threatened me.”
“I guess I’ll find out tomorrow.”
He’s going to be furious, but I’ll think about the consequences later.