24. Chapter 24
Hunter
Nakagawa walks out of the arena flanked by two teammates, a duffel slung over one shoulder, grinning at something on his phone.
I take a step forward.
Atlas grabs my shoulder, pulling me back. “Nope.”
“Let go.”
“No.” His fingers sink into my flesh.
My molars grind as UConn's forward steps onto the team bus. “He touches Jenkins again, he loses his hands.”
“Pretty sure Shin already called dibs.”
I grunt.
“Seriously, drop it. Our boy's coming out, and I guarantee he's not gonna be cool with you going all psycho over a fight he won.”
Except Jenkins exits the arena with his head down, hands shoved into his pockets, and shoulders hunched.
The fuck?
I cut across the grass, Atlas on my heels.
The color drains from Jenkins’s face when he spots us, stride shortening. “I thought you two left.”
Atlas scoffs. “The fuck, Little Jenkins? We were being considerate. Came out here because we didn’t want a Titans fan recognizing us and getting brave.”
Jenkins looks at the ground, toe of his gym shoe digging into the grass. “Just Jenkins, okay?”
I move closer and grip his chin, lifting it until his gaze meets mine. “What’s wrong?”
He pulls away. “Nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
He goes to step around us, but Atlas blocks him.
Jenkins narrows his eyes. “Move.”
“No.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing happened.” He looks at me, chin held high. But his eyes are glassy. Red. Puffy. “I’m tired, okay?”
I cross my arms. “You’re lying.”
“Why are you even here?”
Atlas tips his head back, mumbling at the sky, before glaring at Jenkins. “Yeah no, we drove forty minutes to sit in an arena full of people who hate us just to watch you play, and you're standing here asking us why we came?”
Jenkins snorts.
My molars grind. “The fuck is so funny about that?”
His nose scrunches, and he pokes me in the chest. “You texted two words to me all week. Didn’t even say goodbye after you fucked me. So, yeah. Why the fuck are you here?”
I grab his wrist and tug him forward until his body is against mine. “Because you’re—”
He huffs, rolling his eyes. “ Ours . Yeah, you’ve said that. Numerous times. But what the fuck does it mean?”
“It means you don't fuck anyone else. Anyone puts hands on you, they answer for it. And when we show up, you don't ask why. Got it?”
He gets up on his tiptoes, eyes narrowed to slits. “Fuck. You.”
The corner of my mouth ticks up. “Don’t tempt me, Little Titan. I’ll bend you over right here and make sure everyone knows who you belong to.”
His pupils dilate, lips parting.
I lean in, my lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Is that what you want?”
“Cody?” A woman calls out.
She’s standing a few feet away, a man and kid at her side. I recognize them from the photos on the fireplace mantel in Jenkins’s house. It’s his parents and younger brother.
Jenkins pulls away from me so fast that he nearly trips over his own feet. Atlas bursts into a fit of laughter, snorting every time he tries to inhale. Of course, Jenkins gets pissed and kicks him in the shins.
Atlas grunts, hopping on one foot. “Ow, that hurt.”
“Then shut up.”
“What, are you embarrassed by us? Too bad.” Atlas turns to the family, smiling widely as he waves.
The kid’s eyes go wide, both brows lifting high. “Oh, shit!”
Mr. Jenkins glares at his younger son. “Davis!”
“I know, five dollars into the swear jar. But they’re Serpents.” Davis raises his fists. “Get away from my brother.”
I stare at the boy. He’s small. Weak. Useless. But he’s defending his brother as if he can do something. Same way Garrett did when we were younger.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, sweat beading along my forehead.
A hand lands on my shoulder, squeezing. Atlas presses the side of his body against mine. “Want an autograph, baby Jenkins?”
“I’m not a baby!”
Jenkins pushes between us, huffing. “Can we just go?”
“Aw, Little J, don’t be rude.” Atlas holds his hand out to Mrs. Jenkins. “I’m Atlas Trembley. Nice to meet you.”
She smiles and shakes his hand. “Nice to meet you as well.”
“You boys came to watch the game?” Mr. Jenkins places a hand on his younger son’s shoulder.
I nod. “Yes, sir.”
Davis places his hand on his hips. “More like spying. Doesn’t matter, you’re still gonna lose, and my brother is still going to kick your ass.”
Atlas snorts. “Uh, excuse me. I win all our fights.”
Jenkins drops his bag on the ground. “Like hell you do.”
Not sure what’s worse, the two dumbasses arguing or Davis Jenkins smiling so wide over the two of them.
I grunt. “Save it for the ice.”
Davis pulls out his phone, fingers tapping the screen, then he holds it out. “Cody will kick your ass just like he kicked Nakagawa’s.”
Mr. Jenkins drags a hand over his face. “Davis, stop with the cursing.”
Atlas looks at the screen and huffs. “That’s a crap angle.” He pulls out his phone. “Check this out.”
Davis grabs the phone. “This is better than mine.” He looks up at Atlas. “Why did you take a video of my brother’s fight? Wait, are you friends?”
My heart thumps.
Atlas shrugs. “Yup.”
Davis’s mouth drops open, then he turns to his brother. “You’re friends with the enemy?”
“Un-fucking-believable.” Jenkins takes the phone from his little brother and shoves it into Atlas’s chest. “Anyway, see you around.”
Every muscle in my body tenses.
Who the fuck does he think he is, dismissing us like that?
Atlas blows out a loud, overexaggerated breath as he tucks his phone into his pocket. “I thought we were supposed to hang out. Celebrate the win and all.”
I fucking swear I’m going to beat his ass if Jenkins doesn’t.
“If you boys would like to come over for dinner, you are more than welcome to,” Mrs. Jenkins says.
Atlas beams, batting his fucking eyes. “That would be amazing, ma’am. My family lives in Minnesota, and I haven’t had a home-cooked meal since August.”
Not exactly a lie.
The Trembley household is chaotic. And the last meal we had there was one I made. Not sure Hamburger Helper counts as home-cooked.
Jenkins snatches his bag off the ground, then throws it over his shoulder. “I thought this day couldn’t get any worse.”
My brows furrow as he storms off toward the parking lot.
What the fuck happened after the game?
Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins exchange a look—one I’ve seen the Trembleys do when it came to Atlas on his bad days. Then Mrs. Jenkins turns to me. “Do you need our address?”
“No, ma’am. Cody gave it to us.”
Atlas snorts, and I elbow him.
“See you boys soon.” She walks off with her family.
Atlas practically runs to his bike. “Damn, family dinner. Didn’t think that was happening.”
“What are you doing?”
He pulls on his helmet. “You telling me you don’t want to spend time with him?
And we get to figure out what's eating at him. No way he's opening up over text. The little shit would probably block us again. Then we’d have to break into his dorm —or house again—so going to dinner saves us the trouble. And we won’t be breaking the law. ”
Asshole has a point.
The drive is quick, and we pull our bikes into the driveway. Davis gawks at our motorcycles while Jenkins just rolls his eyes and makes his way inside, not bothering to wait for us.
If he keeps going with that attitude, I’m going to fuck it out of him.
We barely step inside when Atlas drops to his knees, opening his arms wide to the large pit bull bounding over. “Mr. Smooshy! I missed you so much!”
God-fucking-dammit.
My gaze cuts between Mr. and Mrs. Jenkins as one foot slides back, my stance widening.
Mr. Jenkins looks at Atlas, brows furrowed. “How do you know our dog?”
Atlas freezes as the dog licks his face. “Shit.”
Jenkins smirks, eyes narrowing. “Because he’s the asshole who stole him.”
Wrong move.
I step forward, but Atlas springs up, putting his back against my chest as he cuts me off.
He stares at Jenkins, grinning like he's about to annihilate our little Titan. “Only because you smashed the windshield of our truck.” He turns to Jenkins's parents, shaking his head. “Half the school recorded it. Some even posted online.”
The videos came down real fast after we broke some wrists.
Atlas takes a deep breath, then lets it out slowly. “My dad called me six times after he got the bill. Six. And it was my birthday, by the way. Yup. Got yelled at on my birthday. The man was so heated he didn't even say happy birthday until the next day.”
I straighten, staring at him.
Lying fuck.
His birthday is in March.
Mrs. Jenkins’s hands fly to her mouth. “Oh, my. I’m so sorry. Let us know what we owe you.”
I huff, shoving my best friend aside. “No need, ma’am. It’s fine.”
Mr. Jenkins looks at his older son. “Care to explain yourself?”
Jenkins just storms up the stairs, his father following. A moment later, a door slams, then a few soft knocks.
I swallow once, gaze still locked on the upper landing.
Coming here wasn’t a good idea.
I turn toward Mrs. Jenkins. “We should go. Thank you for inviting us, ma’am, but—”
“Nonsense. Come help me in the kitchen.” She turns to Atlas. “You and Davis can take Blue for a walk.”
“Let's go, baby Jenkins. I'll show you how to make Mr. Smooshy do tricks.”
Davis’s face scrunches. “I'm not a baby. And his name is Blue, not Mr. Smooshy.”
Atlas waves him off. “Agree to disagree.”
“You’re such a butthead!”
“Yeah, yeah. Where’s Mr. Smooshy’s leash?”
I exhale through my nose and follow Mrs. Jenkins to the kitchen.
“Plates are in that cabinet.” She nods toward the upper row near the window. “The silverware is in the drawer by the stove.”
I walk over and pull down six plates, set them on the counter, then grab the silverware. Everything matches. Same pattern on the handles, same weight in my hand.
She pulls a cast-iron skillet from the rack above the stove and sets it on the burner. “Hope you like Steak au Poivre.”
“Anything is fine, ma'am.”
I stand there, watching as she puts butter in the pan, waiting for the foam to settle before laying two thick-cut filets in next.
The sizzle is the only sound in the kitchen.
It’s nothing like the Trembleys’, where someone is always yelling, someone's fighting over the last of something, and Atlas won't shut up long enough to chew.
“Do you like to cook?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Finish setting the table, and you can help me with the rest.”
I nod and take the plates to the table, laying out the forks, knives, and napkins the way they belong. The filets hiss behind me, steady and even. When I come back, she has a shallow bowl waiting beside the stove.
She nods to the cutting board. “Crack the peppercorns, don’t grind them. They get bitter if they’re too fine.”
I pick up the knife and press the flat side down until the peppercorns split under the blade. Pepper dust hits my nose, so I wipe it with my forearm and keep going.
“Perfect.” She lifts the filets from the pan and sets them on a plate to rest, then adds the peppercorns to the butter and the browned bits left behind.
The smell changes fast. Pepper first, then butter, then meat underneath it.
My shoulders loosen.
Mrs. Jenkins lowers the heat before reaching for a measuring cup. “This is where people rush it.” She pours slowly, and steam rolls up from the pan. “Too hot, it breaks. Too low, it never comes together.”
The whisk moves steadily through the pan. Slow circles. Same pressure. No wasted motion.
My breathing slows, and the muscles in my back unclench. I lean closer, watching as the sauce turns glossy.
“What’s your favorite dish to cook?”
The tips of my ears heat, and I rub the back of my neck. “Meatloaf. It’s nothing fancy.”
“It’s a good dish. Cody even likes it for sandwiches. But I don’t understand why he insists on using ketchup.” She chuckles. “He used to put ketchup on everything—mac and cheese, pizza, spaghetti.”
The corners of my mouth lift a bit. “Sounds disgusting.”
She looks at me, her smile bright. “You don’t have to tell me. I even caught him squirting the bottle directly into his mouth once.”
For fuck’s sake. He sounds like Atlas.
Mr. Jenkins walks into the kitchen. “Smells good.”
“Hunter’s been a big help.” She leans to the side, and Mr. Jenkins kisses her cheek. “Everything okay up there?”
He looks at her, then at me, then at her.
Her smile falls. “Oh.”
“Ma’am, I’ll talk to him.”
She nods. “Maybe that would help.”
As I walk out of the kitchen, Atlas and Davis come back inside with Blue. I jerk my head toward the stairs, and he follows.
Not sure which room belongs to Jenkins, but only two doors are closed. Atlas opens the first.
Bathroom.
I walk to the second and open it, not bothering to knock.
Jenkins is lying on his bed, tossing a lacrosse ball toward the ceiling. He doesn’t bother looking at us.
Atlas shuts the door. “Hey, Little J.”
No response.
The ball goes up. Comes down. Up again. Then down.
I cross my arms, stance widening. “What’s going on?”
Jenkins huffs, then sits up. “I got a bad grade on something that I actually worked hard on. That’s it. Not exactly a crisis.”
I glare at him.
He rolls his eyes. “Can you not do the whole murder statue thing right now?”
Atlas snorts.
My jaw clenches. “What was the grade?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Atlas leans against the wall, hands in the pockets of his hoodie. “It does, especially if it upsets you, Little Jenkins.”
Jenkins wings the ball at his head. “Stop calling me that!”
I close the distance between us, then grab his throat. “Drop the attitude.”
“Then stop calling me by my last name.” He holds my gaze for a few seconds, then slumps, eyes downcast. “Can you just call me Cody? I mean, you fucked me. Unless it meant nothing.”
My grip tightens as a deep growl rumbles through my chest. “Watch what comes out of that mouth, Little Titan. I won’t warn you again.”
Cody nods, eyes wide.
I brush my thumb over his bottom lip, and he sucks in a ragged breath, his gaze locked with mine. Leaning in, I press my lips to his. Not hard. Not rushed. His mouth is warm and soft, and a shaky exhale pushes through his nose as my tongue slides against his.
He moans, fingers curling into the fabric of my hoodie as I angle his head the way I want it and kiss him deeper, slower, licking into his mouth until he opens wider and lets me take more.
I pull back just enough, then spit into his open mouth. “Mine.”
His eyes fly open, pupils blown, lips glistening.
Atlas grabs the back of my hoodie and pulls me off the bed, my ass hitting the floor. “My turn.”
I grunt, shaking my head.
But Cody chuckles, then yelps when Atlas tackles him. My best friend slams his mouth down onto Cody’s as they roll around on the mattress, pinching and slapping each other as they kiss, like they can't decide if they want to fight or make out.
My heart thumps hard as I watch them.
Both laughing. Both happy. Both mine.
Anything that tries to change that dies.