10. Chapter 10
Hunter
I run my thumb over the smooth edge of the GPS tracker in the pocket of my joggers while Professor Whitmore talks about socialization.
Should have enough time after class to get to Crestwood and back before off-ice training.
As long as this goddamn island cooperates.
Half the time, a thirty-minute drive turns into an hour because some asshole rear-ended someone on the expressway.
Whitmore changes slides. “Mead argues that the self isn't something you're born with. It's built. You learn who you are by watching how people react to you. This will be on the test in two weeks, so if you haven't started the reading, now would be the time.”
I grunt.
Got a paper due in English Comp the same week, but it’s half done. I'll finish it this weekend. The test is just memorization, and most of the material is already in my head, whether I want it there or not.
Reyes’s phone buzzes on the desk beside me. He glances at it. “Este huelebicho.”
“Shaw?”
He rolls his eyes and nods, typing back one-handed.
“What'd he do?”
He tilts the phone, and I snort at the picture. Shaw is hanging from the second-floor railing of the student center by one arm, eating an apple speared on the end of his knife. Rua is below, shirt off, swinging it like he’s at a striptease.
“Leash them.”
Reyes quirks a brow. “Who do you think sent the picture?”
I glance back at his screen, eyes narrowing when I spot the contact’s name. I grab my phone and unlock the screen.
Me: Get your fucking ass to class
Atlas: Cap is such a snitch
Me: Now
Atlas: Fine
I put my phone down. Been keeping him on track since high school, ever since he tried to convince me that a paper on the American Revolution was optional. It wasn't. He got a D, and Mrs. Trembley took our Xbox away for a month.
Whitmore scans the room. “So, if Mead is right and we develop our sense of self through social interaction, what happens when those interactions are absent? When a child grows up without consistent social feedback?”
Nobody answers.
She waits.
A girl near the window raises her hand. “They'd probably be really shy? Like introverted?”
She’s wrong. A kid without feedback doesn't get shy. They get quiet. They watch. They learn what's safe and what isn't by paying attention because nobody is telling them.
Someone in the third row raises a hand. “They'd, like, probably have trouble with social skills? Like understanding norms and stuff?”
“That's a start.” Whitmore nods and changes the slide.
I write whatever she mentions will be on the test, leaving the rest. The material isn't hard, and the textbook covers the same stuff. No need to read and write the same shit.
Twenty minutes later, class is done. I close my notebook, slide it into my bag, and stand. I face Reyes as I pull my bag onto one shoulder. “Got an errand. Atlas gets out of Calloway in a few.”
“He went?”
“He knows what happens if he doesn’t listen.”
Reyes snorts, shaking his head. “Yeah, I’ll get him.”
“Thanks.”
The sun is shining when we exit Harmon Hall, meaning the quad is packed. The coffee cart near the student center has a line ten deep. We pass a couple of guys tossing a football on the grass, then Reyes goes left while I go right toward the parking lot.
I slide my phone from my pocket.
Me: Reyes is meeting you at Calloway
Atlas: Why
Me: Got something to do
Atlas: ?
Me: Talk later
Atlas: :middle finger emoji:
I pocket the phone, pull out the key fob to the F-250, and unlock the door. An empty Gatorade bottle rolls off the seat onto the pavement. “Goddammit, Atlas.”
I pick it up and toss it into the back, three more already there, with a granola bar wrapper and a crumpled napkin. I blow out a breath. He is never going to clean this truck.
After tossing my bag onto the passenger seat, I climb into the truck and buckle my seatbelt. There's an orange ring on the dashboard from another bottle. “I swear to fucking god.”
Tossing it aside, I start the engine and punch the address to Crestwood into the GPS. Forty-seven minutes with current traffic. Enough time to make it there and back without being late for off-ice.
I wait for some kid to walk past, face buried in his phone, when I catch sight of the 906 sticker on the back of a red Prius a few spots ahead. My gaze lowers to the license plate.
Michigan.
My knuckles go white on the steering wheel, every muscle across my shoulders tightening. Haven’t seen those three numbers since I left Ironwood that night.
I shake off whatever crawled under my skin and pull out of the spot, glancing at the Prius one more time in the sideview mirror. The car is small and wrong for the U.P. in every way.
The phone rings just as I pull onto the parkway. Atlas’s name pops up on the truck’s touchscreen. I hit the green button to answer. “Yup.”
“Where are you going?”
“Errand.”
“What kind of errand?” Atlas drags out the last word.
“Don't worry about it.”
“Whatever. Can you grab me Raisinets? The big bag, not the little theater box ones. Those are a ripoff.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah, clean the truck. It's disgusting in there.”
My jaw clenches. “It's your mess, Atlas.”
“Semantics.” Something rustles on his end.
“Reyes got you?”
“ Yesssss , he's right here.”
“Gotta go.” I end the call before he finds something else to talk about. Always does that when he’s not with me.
I pull the GPS tracker from my pocket and place it into the cupholder. Running into Jenkins Friday night was lucky. But I don't do luck twice.
Not when some motherfucker had his hand on what’s ours.
Ours.
Don’t know why I said it the first time. The second time is easy. Atlas is interested. More interested than I’ve ever seen him. And I’ll make sure my best friend gets whatever he wants.
But Jenkins is different for me too. Can’t explain it. Every hookup I've had, I forget their face by the time I'm done. My cock doesn't care who they are. It cares that they're there, and then it's over.
Except I didn’t even get off with Jenkins.
Getting off to the thought of him is a different story. After both encounters with the little Titan, I jerked my cock raw. He’s even the goddam reason I walked out on that couple.
Friday night was the worst of it.
Between watching Atlas palm himself and Jenkins humping my damn hand, I’d been riled up. Especially after Jenkins turned into my touch. His body pressed against mine, those little squeaks he made—for me.
And for Atlas.
But then he ran off, and I wasn’t about to chase him down again.
Atlas admitting he wants Jenkins pushed me over the edge. Barely got my jeans down the moment I walked into the room. Laid on the bed and watched porn, not that I needed it. But I don't like any one person having that much influence over my cock.
My hand was flying over my cock when the damn phone slipped, falling between the mattress and nightstand. Took me three tries to get it, the lamp Mrs. Trembley gave me shifting with each attempt.
Barely started stroking again when the thumping next door started. This is our third year at South Shore University, and I have never heard Atlas’s bed hit up against the wall like that.
My cock twitches in my jeans, and I groan.
Can’t think of him that way. I won’t.
Atlas is attractive. Always has been. I'm not blind. But my best friend is my whole fucking life. I will not blow that up.
Except his moans. They were loud and wrecked. And I fucked my goddamn fist to it.
I reach down and squeeze my semi-hard cock.
Fuck.
Two years ago, at The Pit, some of the team joked about us being a couple because we’re always together. They’d never understand our relationship. Never understand what we went through. No one will.
Of course, the subject wasn’t dropped. And Atlas, being drunk, only pushed it. He even suggested we should fuck. He was grinning, one side of his mouth pulled up, eyebrows raised. The same face he makes before every prank and every bad idea.
And it was a bad idea.
So, I shut it down.
Plus, Atlas deserves more than me. Especially after what my family did to him.
But Jenkins.
We both want him. And wanting him together doesn't threaten anything.
I pick up the GPS tracker from the cupholder and turn it over between my fingers. This small piece of hardware will tell me where he goes, when he stops, and how long he stays every time he leaves campus.
Jenkins doesn't know we're coming. Doesn’t know he’s ours yet. But he will.