16. Chapter 16
Cody
The first one was disgusting. Top shelf, glove side, off a one-timer from the left circle that the goalie didn't even move on.
The second was a redirect off a cross-crease pass, which, fine, that's positioning and timing.
But the third was a breakaway where he deked the goalie out of his jockstrap, tucked it five-hole, and glided away like he just checked his mailbox.
Fucker didn't even look like he was trying.
I scroll back to the first goal and watch it again, my thumb pressing into the side of my phone. Michigan's arena is packed, the student section going crazy. The commentators won't shut up about his Hobey Baker campaign and how this is “the statement game” of opening weekend.
I got one assist against Quinnipiac earlier today. In a game we lost.
One assist.
Nobody's making a highlight reel out of a puck I passed to Walsh behind the net. Nobody's tagging me in anything.
“Dude, stop moping.” Doyle holds up a wrinkled button-down, sniffs it, then shoves it back into his suitcase.
“I'm not.” I don't look up from my phone.
“Uh, yeah, you are.” He pulls out a different shirt, tugs it on, and checks himself in the mirror on the closet door of our hotel room. “You and Henneman were solid out there today. I’m the one who fell at the blue line. That shit was so embarrassing.”
Solid.
Nobody gets named First Team All-American for solid.
“You sure you don't want to come? Couple of the guys want to get lobster rolls.”
I stare at him over my phone.
“Dude, it's Boston. The lobster rolls up here are supposed to be insane.”
“I’m good.”
Doyle whacks my foot with his sock. “So, you’re not gonna eat?”
“Not hungry.”
He huffs and shakes his head, sitting on the bed across from mine, putting on his clean socks. “We play Boston College in the morning. You’ll need the energy.”
Maybe I should grab some food. Really would like to win tomorrow’s game and put up some more points. But my stomach’s knotted up.
Can’t believe I missed all five opportunities I had to score.
The worst part is I wasn’t even close to hitting the net.
I shot wide every fucking time. Surprised Coach Nieminen didn’t bench my ass.
Then again, I created plays. Poked the puck away one time, Walsh passed it to Knight, who took it on a breakaway and scored.
I even blocked a few shots, keeping the game close. Coach Harper said I was doing fine.
Except fine is invisible. Fine is what people call you when they can't remember what you did.
Isaksen doesn't get called fine. Brayden doesn't get called fine. Those two make everything look like breathing.
Some people's shit just works.
I go back to scrolling through my IG feed, but stop a few posts later. The Serpents are playing UConn tomorrow. Hopefully, they lose. Last thing I need is for Rua and Shaw putting up points before I get a chance to fix mine.
My teeth sink into the inside of my bottom lip as I stare at the post. It’s been almost two weeks since those assholes broke into my house, and they’ve gone dead silent. No texts. No showing up. Nothing.
Doyle heads into the bathroom, and the sink turns on. I close Instagram and open my texts, as if maybe those assholes sent a message in the last ten seconds. Why does it bother me so much?
I grunt, lock the screen, then toss the phone onto the bed.
Doyle comes out and grabs his jacket. “Last chance. You sure you don’t want to come?”
“Think I’m into guys.”
Shit.
Did I just say that out loud?
I shoot upright, heat flooding my face.
Doyle’s brows furrow, and he scratches the back of his head. “Like you’re gay?”
I shake my head, picking at the hem of my shirt. “I like girls. Just think I might like guys too.”
More like two very specific, pain-in-the-ass guys. But Doyle doesn’t need to know that. I have no idea what the hell he’s thinking right now. And I’m not dumb enough to say out loud that the guys in my head are our rivals.
But why now?
Kincaid makes sense. We barely interacted last year. He focused more on Knight and Henneman. But Trembley's been in my face since day one of last season. Fighting me, chirping me, grinding me into the boards every game.
And not once did I think about anything except breaking his nose.
What the fuck changed?
Doyle rolls his sleeves to the elbow, checking his phone at the same time. “Doesn’t bother me who you like.”
“That’s it?”
“Is there supposed to be more?”
“I don't know.” I drag my fingers through my hair. “I've got like a thousand questions and no one to ask. And everything else is already a mess.”
“You've got teammates who are into guys. Two of them are literally married.”
“You want me to talk to Walsh ? I'm not looking to die.”
“Then talk to Henneman.”
I throw my hands up. “Seriously? I just said I’m not looking to die.”
He picks up his wallet and puts it into his back pocket. “Why don't you ask—Actually, no. Don't ask Knight.”
“Wasn't planning on it.”
“Novotny?”
“Absolutely not.” I shake my head. “I'm trying to figure my shit out, not announce it to the whole locker room because you know that's exactly what that motherfucker would do. There'd be dick balloons everywhere, and he'd probably bring a cake.”
Doyle shrugs into his jacket. “Do you think I'm attractive?”
“No.”
“Well, fuck you then.”
“Why? Are you into guys?”
He shakes his head. “Nah.”
“Then why are you complaining?”
“You said 'no' too fast.” He points to his face. “Like, what, am I ugly or some shit?”
I bark out a laugh. “You’re a jackass.”
“And you’re the asshole who could’ve at least hesitated.” He walks over and daps me up. “I’m here for you, bro. Anything you need, I’ve got your back.”
My throat tightens. “Thanks.”
I flop back the second the door clicks shut, then throw an arm over my eyes.
Can’t believe I told Doyle. It just slipped out. On the plus side, my chest feels less tight than it has all day. Maybe all week.
Still got a thousand questions. But at least I'm not carrying it alone anymore.
My phone chimes, and I grab it.
Kincaid.
Now he texts? After two weeks?
My finger stabs at the screen. A sharp breath punches from me when the attachment opens, and the phone almost slips out of my hand. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
Heat floods my face, neck, and groin as I stare at an image of Kincaid from the back.
And he’s naked.
Very, very naked.
Unknown Number: Isn't it a great view, Little Jenkins. You're welcome for the visual
Trembley.
My lips press into a thin line.
These psychotic assholes decided to break the silence by sending a nude. Are they fucking kidding me?
Another image comes through. Same angle. Same body. Except now there's a red handprint on Kincaid's left ass cheek.
My dick thickens, and I reach down to palm it.
Unknown Number: He wouldn't give me your number so I stole his phone
Unknown Number: It was nice knowing you. Hunter's about to beat my ass
Unknown Number: I won't survive. Make sure you mourn me. Oh, and have sexy dreams about me too
Me: you deserve it
Unknown Number: Aww, will you really have sexy dreams about me?
Me: I was talking about Hunter murdering you
Fuck, why am I smiling?
A minute passes. No response.
I drag my teeth over my bottom lip, reopen up the first photo again, then enlarge it.
Kincaid is massive.
Not just tall. Wide. Thick through the shoulders, back stacked with dense muscle. Tattoos cover both arms. Full sleeves. Somehow, they make him look bigger. Meaner. Like there’s not one soft thing about him.
My hand slides into my sweatpants and wraps around my dick as I zoom in on his ass. It's round and tight and just as massive as the rest of him. The tops of his thighs too. There’s so little body fat, I can see the separation between the muscles.
I stroke up slowly. Base to tip.
My thumb drags through the precum already collecting at the slit, and I smear it down my shaft. The wet drag sends a pulse through my balls, and my breathing picks up.
I stroke faster, eyes locked on the screen.
All of that was on top of me. Pressing me into the dirt. Holding me down.
My hips rock up, and I grunt, my grip tightening as the heat in my groin spreads down into my legs. My toes curl against the mattress.
I can still taste him. Feel him stretching my lips. My throat.
A broken moan tears from me, and I fuck into my fist harder, wrist twisting on every upstroke as my balls draw up tight. “Oh, god. Ohhh, goddd. Hunterrr. ”
Every muscle from my stomach to my thighs locks up. I curl forward, a strangled noise ripping out of my throat. Cum pulses into my sweats, thick and hot, my hand still working my shaft because I can’t stop, my whole body seizing through the aftershocks until my abs ache and my wrist gives out.
I said his name.
Out loud.
Fuuuck.
My grip tightens on the phone in my hand. I stare at the dark screen.
Two can play their stupid game.
I tug down the waistband of my sweats, point the camera, and snap the picture. Then I go to the bathroom and clean myself up.
After flopping back onto the bed, I spend a few minutes online until I find the perfect website. The corners of my mouth curl as I upload the picture of my cum-covered dick, adding a pair of lips around it.
The finished image is fucking unhinged. Realistic enough that whoever opens this will have a very bad night.
I upload the image to the text thread and send it.
Me: enjoy
Then I block their number.
Good luck texting back, assholes.