3. Athena
CHAPTER 3
Athena
I f this guy wasn’t friends with my brothers, I may consider asking him out. As hockey players go, he’s nowhere near as annoying as my brothers. That’s a huge plus. How he manages to put up with them is anyone’s guess.
“What’s your favorite movie?” Scott shovels M&Ms into his mouth from the emergency stash I keep tucked away in my glovebox and asks between bites.
This isn’t usually how conversations go with me. People want to know what my brothers like, how much my father makes, how big our house is, how much money I have or what I can do for them.
It’s shit, but it’s a lesson my brothers and I have probably all learned the hard way. Which stands in my passenger’s favor, he’s gotten into my brothers’ inner circle pretty damn quickly.
It’s crystal clear that he’s different.
Scott doesn’t seem to be like other kids. He’s seemingly not interested in brand names, or clout, and from the way he’s waiting with an expectant, lop-sided grin on his face, he’s genuinely interested in finding out the answer to his question.
“Top Gun.” My cheeks prickle with heat at the admission that my favorite movie is a 1986 action drama featuring Tom Cruise and Kelly McGillis.
“Classic.” He tosses an M&M into the air and catches it with his mouth. He nods firmly like it’s an acceptable answer to his question, and something almost undetectable inside me loosens. A tinge of relief that suggests I care what this guy’s opinion of me is.
Danger, Will Robinson.
The iconic catchphrase from the old TV series Lost in Space bellows in my brain.
“What’s your favorite movie?” I squeeze the words out around the tightness in my chest.
This guy has everything stacked against him: I’ve sworn off hockey players, my brother’s friends, and guys who have shitty cars. He has the trifecta of ‘no fucking way’ going for him, and yet... yet I want to know more.
He tosses an M&M into the air, it hits the fabric ceiling of my car and drops into his open and waiting mouth. “Goonies never say die.”
“Bullshit.” There’s literally no chance this guy’s an ’80s film buff like me. Zero. He just picked the first film from that decade that came into his head.
“Beetlejuice is a close second. I cry at E.T., can quote every word of the first Back to the Future, and we can’t ignore The Breakfast Club. Judd Nelson messed with the bull, got the horns, and still got the girl!.”
I resist the urge for my chin to drop and hang open in surprise. He has to be shitting me.
“The Shining?” I challenge.
He shakes his head. “Hate horror.”
“Blade Runner?”
“Iconic. Harrison Ford is amazing. See also: Indiana Jones.”
My heart skips a beat. I can’t convince any of my brothers to watch old movies with me. Like, never. I tried to bribe Ares once, offered him twenty bucks to watch Star Wars with me, but he faked being sick, so he didn’t have to endure it.
“Dangerous Liaisons is also a favorite, but I think that’s because Michelle Pfeiffer is hot as fuck.”
Agreed, but I can’t seem to find words to join him in his commentary about classic movies. I clear my throat. “Die Hard?”
He grins. “My favorite Christmas movie.” He holds up a hand. “Nothing you say will convince me otherwise. Field of Dreams gets an honorable mention because, Iowa.”
“And Kevin Costner,” I half mumble as I check my rearview mirror.
“Have you seen Terminator?”
A snort is the only answer he gets to that stupid question.
He hums. “I bet The Princess Bride is another obvious one.”
I try not to react but my nostrils flare just enough to give me away.
“Yeah, I thought so. Who Framed Roger Rabbit?”
My brow twitches this time, it’s not one I’d have thought to ask about, but I can’t say I don’t like it. “An underrated classic.”
He hums his agreement again. “Is When Harry Met Sally too sappy for you?”
My cheek sizzles under the weight of his stare.
“Huh. A closet romantic, are we Ms. de la Pena?” Amusement is laced into his curious tone. He nudges me, making me take my eyes off the road to look at him for a fraction of a second. “I won’t tell anyone. And just to keep the playing field level, I’ll confess that I am too. You can’t beat a good love story. Flashdance, Romancing the Stone, Pretty in Pink, and who could forget the cult favorite Dirty Dancing?” He covers his heart with his hand.
“Swoon-worthy, am I right?” He tosses another piece of candy into his mouth. “Cocktail, The Karate Kid, Risky Business...”
I glance at his thighs to make sure he’s not reading these from a search engine of top romance movies of the eighties on his phone to make fun of me, but it seems to be tucked out of sight.
“Believe me yet? Or should I keep going?”
The corners of my lips tug upward. “You’re good.”
“I get it. Lots of guys pretend to be into things just to impress a woman.” He shrugs. “As far as I’m concerned, a girl will either like me for who I am, or they won’t. Pretending to be someone I’m not will only lead to disappointment and heartache. I am who I am, that’s either good enough, or it isn’t.”
He turns to look out the window, his voice taking on an odd tone, disappointment and sadness intertwined, like he’s walked that road before. He’s too young to have such a jaded view of relationships already, though. If I had to guess, I’d say there’s a story there of someone he knows, maybe his mom or an older sibling even. I imagine if it was lighter in here I’d see an embarrassed redness staining his cheeks.
“Anyway.” He slaps his thigh. “I thought you might pick a fight with me over listing Karate Kid as a romance movie.” He shovels more M&Ms into his mouth, and I make a mental note to do some restocking of my snacks stash.
The rest of the drive is spent discussing ‘80s movies, then movies from the ‘90s, and the differences between the two, and why the ‘80s is the superior decade for pop culture.
I find myself yearning for him to suggest we watch a film together sometime, but he doesn’t, and neither do I. We both know he’s friends with all my brothers, not only friends, but their teammate, so essentially like a brother to them. And, while that doesn’t make him anything to me, it does kind of make him off limits, something I think we’re both hyper aware of.
As we pull into the parking lot of the rink, someone cuts me off. I slam on the brakes, my arm shooting out to protect Scott’s body from snapping in half and cracking his head on the dash, or getting whiplash, or whatever other injury could come from someone punching the brake pedal with force.
My hand presses flat against his chest. Since he stripped off his coat when we started our impromptu road-trip, the rhythmic thump-thump of his heart flutters under my palm through his hoodie. “Are you okay?” I pull into a space next to the door, cut the engine, and turn to check on my passenger.
He doesn’t say anything, after a long, intense moment of staring at me in silence, he glances down at his chest where my hand still lingers over his heart.
Well, now it’s just fucking weird.
A moment ago, in context, I was saving him from an imminent concussion, but now, now I’m just fondling his pec. His really firm, sculpted, athletic pec.
My heart does a weird jumpy thing, and our breath starts to fog up the quickly cooling interior of my car. His heart’s racing faster now than it was when we almost got side-swiped by an idiot. And yet, I still don’t move my hand.
After what feels like an eternity, he reaches up with both hands to take mine from over his heart. The warmth of his hands seeping into me, little zaps of energy zipping from his skin to mine, or mine to his. I’m not quite sure.
Usually, the intensity in people’s stares doesn’t make me flinch, but here and now I’m feeling oddly vulnerable, exposed, like Scott can see inside me somehow. The more he holds my gaze, the more my skin prickles, and to be honest, I’m not sure if it’s a good or bad feeling.
The harder he stares, the more the breath leaves my lungs, tightening my chest, and making my pulse race, thumping in my wrists and ears.
My mouth goes dry, and as soon as my tongue snakes out to wet my parched lips, his eyes drop to my mouth.
We lean into one another. I’m not sure if it’s on purpose, if our bodies are simply drawn to each other’s heat, or it’s something more inherent, like magnetic poles unable to be separated.
With each inch our faces come closer together, my heart rate kicks up faster and faster. There’s a voice in my head somewhere in the far distance whispering it’s a bad, bad idea. Complicating my brothers’ friendship by kissing Scott isn’t a good idea, not at all. And yet, just a little closer, and we’ll be kissing.
Neither of us is stopping this train.
His nose skims against the side of mine, like he’s testing the water, making sure I’m not going to pull my head back from his. When our skin connects, he sucks in a sharp breath, like he feels the buzzing of electricity between us as well.
He tips his head, closing his eyes. I close mine. Our lips are so close you probably couldn’t slide a postage stamp between us. My heart stops in my chest, my breath freezes, and my muscles tense, anticipation seizing my body, holding me hostage.
His bottom lip grazes mine, and I?—
A thunderous banging on the hood of my car startles us both, drawing me out of my cloudy haze. My head snaps up, catching Scott’s nose and making him yelp.
“Fuck.” His hands fly to his face to cup his face, and I reach out to cover his hands with one of mine.
The banging starts up in earnest, and I finally give my attention to the ruckus out the window.
Artemis stands glaring at both of us. He’s fully kitted out for practice, so the hammering on the hood of my car is his gloved fist, making it even more dramatic.
Asshole.
“Fuuuuuuck.” Scott groans into one hand, while his other arm searches for the arm hole of his coat.
Artemis’s glare radiates into the car like fine-pointed laser beams. “Hurry the fuck up,” he barks.
I wave him off, dismissing him with wiggly fingers while I use my other hand to help a now-spooked Scott into his coat. “Ignore him.”
He looks at me with fear in his eyes, real, tangible, honest-to-god, bone-deep fear. A fear so strong it leaches into my skin, sending a shiver along the length of my spine. I force an awkward laugh. “He’s all bark, you know. I know on the ice he can be... aggressive. But out here, he’s a moody bastard, sure, but?—”
“I can’t lose them.” That’s all the explanation I get before he hightails it out of my car, grabs his gear, barely slamming the trunk shut, and without a second look back at me, follows Artemis in the building.
A few minutes pass as I sit in the cool quiet. I press my palm against my own heart in a futile bid to slow the racing organ still squashed against my ribs. I swallow down the bitterness at the back of my throat, once, twice, then thump my chest with the side of my fist, as if that’s going to make a difference.
A caustic laugh burst from my mouth in the darkness.
Guess Scott’s not different after all. I guess he’s just like everyone else, choosing my brothers over me.
Figures.