3. Roman
Roman
First day of the semester and I’m in a fantastic fucking mood.
Not really.
When I open my eyes on the first morning of the new semester, it feels like someone’s taken a sledgehammer to my brain. At first, I can’t remember why, and then it slowly comes back to me. The bar and the fight with a guy who couldn’t even throw a decent punch if his life depended on it.
My head is pounding like a fuckass drumline thanks to the half a bottle of whiskey I downed to ease the pain in my ribs. Big fucking mistake, I know. But I needed to be numb and not think for five goddamn seconds.
I groan and cover my eyes with my arm to block out the sunlight streaming through the blinds. It feels like my body was run over by a truck, and then the truck backed up to finish the job. Honestly, I probably deserve this.
“Fuck,” I mutter, dragging myself up and hanging my head in my hands. The room tilts and it feels like the emptiness in my stomach wants out. Shit, why do I keep doing this to myself?
A flat hand bang sounds against my door and I groan louder. “Get your ass up, Bishop! Practice starts in an hour!”
“Fuck off!” I shout back, but he doesn’t respond and in Killian Speak, that means I have about ten minutes before he barges in here to drag me out by my hair. Yes, he has done that before, the fucker.
With a groan, I get to my feet and the world tilts again. Everything fucking hurts, goddammit. My cheekbone is tender from the hits I took, my knuckles are scraped raw, and my ribs ache like a motherfucker.
But then again, I play my best when I’m in pain and if that doesn’t make me fucked-up, I don’t know what does.
I shuffle to the bathroom that adjoins Killian’s bedroom, and I look at myself in the mirror. I truly look like shit. Dark circles under my eyes, a bruise forming on my cheek, and a split lip. I can’t help but laugh because the dumbass couldn’t even break my nose or give me a fucking black eye for all my trouble.
After a quick shower, I brush my teeth then throw on my black ripped jeans, a band tee, my sneakers, and my Timberwolves hat pulled low over my face. Hey, I’m not trying to impress anyone.
By the time I make it downstairs, Killian’s waiting with a protein shake in one hand and his phone in the other. He looks way too chipper for someone who was drinking with me last night, but that’s Kill for you. A fucking psycho.
“You look like shit,” he says without looking up.
“Thanks, Mom,” I grab a granola bar from the cupboard and lean against the fridge. “Why are we doing this again?”
“Because Coach will rip us a new one if we’re not ready on time.” He says and finally looks up at me. He scans my face and I can see the way he clenches his jaw. “Nice souvenir there, Death Wish. Planning on collecting more?”
I scoff. “I told you I had it handled.”
“Yeah, you looked like you had it real handled when I dragged you out of that bar,” he says and hands me the other protein shake from the fridge.
“Shut the fuck up and let’s go,” I say and he rolls his eyes before grabbing his keys from the counter.
None of the other guys are up this early, not even Thorn Knight, and he’s part of our team. We live in this massive house with eight other guys, all different athletes ranging from football to basketball to soccer. It’s easier to split the rent between ten guys, even if Kill’s family owns the place.
People at campus call our place The Sin Bin, for obvious fucking reasons.
By the time we get to the rink, the team is there already, including Thorn, who I guess was up before me anyway. We head to the locker room, where we start gearing up for practice. The process of putting on my gear is automatic; it’s muscle memory at this point.
“Bishop,” Coach barks as soon as I step onto the ice. “You’re late.”
“Barely,” I say as I skate past him. He doesn’t look amused, but he doesn’t stop me either and I join the others on the ice. I skate a lazy lap around the rink, my mind not drifting for once and I’m thankful.
“Hey Bishop,” Thorn says as he skates up next to me. “How’s the face?”
“Better than your passes,” I shoot back, earning a laugh from him.
Killian, Thorn, and I grew up together back in Michigan, played on the same high school team, and all three of us got full rides at Blackthorne. We’ve earned a rep and nickname for how well we play on the ice.
The Royal Trinity. Stupid as shit, but hey, it means we’ve sort of made a name for ourselves.
We run drills for an hour; passing, shooting, and running plays until my muscles scream in protest. It’s fucking brutal, but it’s the kind of brutal I can handle. The ice is the only place where my brain shuts up, where I don’t have to think about anything but the puck and the sound of my skates cutting through the ice.
The three of us take turns running plays, our timing perfect. That comes with years of playing together and knowing the other so intrinsically that there’s no room for mistakes. By the time practice ends, I’m drenched in sweat and my ribs feel like they’re on fire, but it’s worth it.
The walk to my first class is hell. My body feels like it’s been put through a meat grinder and rearranged wrong. I’d kill for a fucking nap right now, but I doubt any of the professors would allow me to slack off. Film and Media Studies might not sound like a big deal to most people, but the professors here treat it like we’re training for the Oscars.
I drag myself through the quad, not wanting anyone to touch me because I’m completely fucking overstimulated right now and the wrong move could make me snap. The noise in my head is loud, my body hurts, and I just want to be fucking left alone but it’s not even 9 a.m. yet.
It’s gonna be a long fucking day.
The lecture hall is already half full when I get there and I take a seat toward the back. Not because I’m trying to be invisible, but I don’t want anyone breathing down my goddamn neck. The last thing I want is to be triggered here; I’m already known as Blackthorne U’s wrecking ball.
A couple of students glance at me and whisper to each other. I know what they see, or what they think they see: Roman Bishop. Right Winger. Blackthorne Timberwolves.
I hate that fucking look.
The professor starts the lesson by talking about narrative structures and how every story follows the same basic template, but I’m not present. I have my phone on voice record in case I miss anything since I’m extremely fucking spacey right now.
Hockey’s always been my thing—an outlet for shit I can’t deal with and a way to get hit without the other person feeling guilty about it. But this is for me alone. Shooting scenes, cutting footage, and getting lost in the details of a frame like nothing else exists.
But I can’t focus today.
The professor wraps up some spiel about our first project, but I’m out the door before he finishes. My next class is in fifteen goddamn minutes and it’s all the way across campus. Just an overall great fucking day.
By the time my final class for the day comes around, my brain is mashed potatoes and gravy. I’m buzzing with new projects, scene ideas, and deadlines, and for the first time in ages, I don’t watch where I’m going and walk into someone.
“Oh, shit, sor—” I cut myself off when I look into the eyes of the person I just walked into.
Damon fucking Ward.
If I wasn’t so terrified of the asshole, I would find him hot. God, he is hot, but there’s no way in fucking hell I’m going down there. Dark curls hang messily in his eyes, green eyes that send ice down my spine, and a smirk that could make a fucking nun blush. It doesn’t help that I remember the guy being ripped as fuck underneath those black clothes.
He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t react save for the small smirk on his face. “No worries,” he says, brushing imaginary dust from his leather jacket.
“I didn’t see you there,” I say, clenching my jaw.
“Clearly,” he says, his green eyes raking up and down my body in a way that makes my skin crawl. “You look like you’ve had a rough day.”
I huff out a laugh, feeling uncomfortable as fuck. “Yeah, well. First day and all.”
He steps closer to me, just enough to make me feel claustrophobic. “And here I thought you were invincible, Hotshot,” he says with a grin, the old condescending nickname grating on my nerves. “I guess even the Roman Bishop has his limits.”
The way he says my name feels like an insult and I take a step back from him. The fucker is trying to get under my skin and it’s working.
“Everyone has their limits, Damon,” I say while casually sidestepping him. “Was there something you wanted or can I head to class?”
He doesn’t answer me, so I turn my back on him and start to walk, but then his voice stops me cold. “Do you ever think about him?”
My hands curl into fists and my heart starts beating faster. “What?”
“My brother,” he says, but I can’t look at him. “Do you ever think about him?”
“Every damn day,” I murmur before walking away from him.
My last class passes in a wave of static. I don’t hear a damn thing, I don’t retain a damn thing. The only words going through my mind are the ones in Damon’s question.
Do you ever think about him?
How do you stop thinking about the other half of your soul? How can you erase the memories you either want to forget or always want to remember? They say your first love always sticks with you, and that’s exactly what Caleb was before I failed him.
By the time I get home, my head is pounding again and all I want to do is crash, but the house is buzzing with noise. Killian yelling at Thorn over a video game. Luca, Julian and Eli arguing about their football stats. Someone, probably Damien, is blasting music upstairs.
I’m crawling out of my fucking skin.
I head to the kitchen and grab a Gatorade, finishing it halfway before leaning against the counter, my head resting against the top cupboards.
Killian walks in a few minutes later, his hair a mess and his face red from yelling. “You still look like shit, brother. Eat something,” he says before pulling a soda from the fridge and eyeing me. “What happened?”
Fuck, I hate how well he knows me. Even if I were to lie, he’d know. I sigh and run a hand through my hair. “Just ran into someone I didn’t expect.”
He narrows his eyes. “Who?”
“Damon Ward.”
Recognition flashes across his face and he visibly winces. “Fuck, he’s back? What did he want?”
“Yeah, he’s back and I don’t know yet.”
“Do you think he knows?”
My entire body immediately locks up at the thought. Caleb and I were careful, no one would have known about anything. “I honestly don’t fucking know.”
“Fuck,” Killian says, running a hand through his hair. “This isn’t good, Roman.”
“You think I don’t know that?” I ask, my voice rising. “He asked me if I ever thought about Caleb, Kill. If he doesn’t know anything, he damn well fucking suspects something.”
He rubs his hands over his face and he takes a breath. “Alright, chill. We can’t jump to shit. But if you want to know why he’s really back, maybe you should just ask him?”
I can’t help but laugh at that. “Yeah, because that will go down well. ‘Hey, Damon, did you know Caleb and I were in a secret relationship for three fucking years before he decided to kill himself?’ He would be fucking thrilled to know about the shit we got up to in that house.”
Killian leans back against the counter and crosses his arms over his chest. “Alright, maybe don’t phrase it that way, smartass. But you can’t sit around and wait for him to make the first move. If he’s here to fuck with you, then you need to figure out how to fuck with him right back.”
I roll my eyes and crush the Gatorade bottle in my hands, the plastic crumbling under my fingers. “What the fuck do you want me to do, Kill? Invite him over for coffee and have a heart-to-heart?”
Killian snorts. “Nah, you’re too much of a jackass to pull that off. But you’re good at getting under people’s skin. Push him. See how much the fucker knows.”
“And what if he knows everything?” I glare at him. “You think he’ll just sit on that shit? Damon Ward isn’t exactly the picture of mental stability, Kill. If he finds out, I’m fucked.”
He looks at me for a moment, those blue eyes of his picking me apart the way only he can. “If he wanted to destroy you, he would have done so by now. The fact that he’s playing coy means he’s feeling you out. So, play back. Don’t give him the power to make you sweat.”
I scoff. “You make it sound so fucking easy.”
“It’s not, but you’re Roman fucking Bishop. Blackthorne U’s resident wrecking ball who doesn’t take shit from anyone,” he says, slinging an arm around my neck. “Don’t let him see that he’s got you rattled.”
I don’t answer right away, because I fucking hate that wrecking ball moniker.
Don’t let him see he’s got you rattled . I’m pretty damn sure he knows I’m rattled.
I shove him away and toss the crushed bottle in the trash. “I’ll deal with it,” I mutter more to myself than Kill.
He arches a brow. “Deal with it how?”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, heading toward the stairs. “Just stay out of it, okay?”
“Like hell, I will,” he calls after me, but I’m already halfway up the stairs. I shut the door when I get to my bedroom and lean back against it. The noise from downstairs still filters through, but it’s not as hectic as it was before.
I find myself slowly calming down as I head to my bed and faceplant, then immediately regret it because of my aching ribs. But as I lie there, my mind starts replaying everything.
Killian is right. I need to find out what Damon really wants and why he’s here before he decides to make a move. But the thought of facing him again, to look into those eyes that remind me so much of Caleb, makes my stomach twist in the worst way.
I grab my phone and scroll to Caleb’s number. I still have it saved even though it’s long been disconnected, but the urge to call him is so fucking strong, it hurts. Instead, I toss the phone next to me and breathe out a sigh that makes me hurt all over.
The knock on my door makes me flinch and I look up to see Killian poke his head in. “You good?”
“Yeah,” I lie.
He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Look, I know you don’t want to hear this again but don’t let this guy fuck with your head. You’ve already got your own shit to deal with.”
I glare at him. “Thanks for the pep talk, dad.”
“You’re welcome, son,” he says without missing a beat, smirking like I didn’t just glare at him. He lingers for a moment before he shrugs and walks out, finally leaving me alone with my own thoughts.