Chapter 6
Reese
Blood on ice is way more fucking disturbing in person than on TV. It's this stark crimson splash against pristine white, like someone decided to Jackson Pollock the rink with their face. Which is basically what happened when Ramsey turned that St. James player's head into a human mop.
"I still can't believe Ramsey didn't get ejected," I say as we push through the arena exit doors. "He practically decapitated that guy."
Reagan snorts beside me, one hand resting on her baby bump. "Please. That asshole Thompson had it coming."
"I'd say the game was pretty fucking brutal overall," Iris adds, not looking up from her phone. "Did you see the way that ref just let them get away with everything in the first period?"
"That's hockey for you," Oakley chimes in, her voice buzzing with the same energy that has her practically bouncing next to me. "It's like sanctioned violence with sticks. Makes me wonder why the boys went the football route when this seems way more their speed."
I shrug, pulling Ramsey's jersey tighter around me. It smells like him—a mix of cedar, mint, and something uniquely Ramsey that makes my stomach do weird flips. "Maybe they didn't want to learn to skate?"
"Are you kidding?" Reagan laughs. "Penn would've been a fucking menace on ice. Can you imagine him with actual blades on his feet? The casualty count would be astronomical."
"I heard my name and the word 'casualty.' Someone talking about my glory days? I’m reformed and shit now since my time is spent making babies and populating the world with my demon spawn."
Penn's voice cuts through our conversation as he appears behind Reagan, wrapping his arms around her and pressing a kiss to her neck. As the twins are set down by their uncles. Lincoln and Jeremiah flank him, both of them heading straight for their wives.
I can't help but smile as I watch the boys greet their girls.
There's something so freaking adorable about how these supposedly badass men turn to complete mush around the women they love.
Lincoln immediately wraps his arm around Iris's waist, pulling her close as he whispers something in her ear that makes her actually look up from her phone.
Jeremiah practically lifts Oakley off her feet in a bear hug that has her giggling like a teenager.
"Come on, little hellion," Penn says, turning to me with his signature smirk. "I'm taking you home."
Before I can respond, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I fish it out, squinting at the screen in the dim parking lot light.
My Stalker
Tell my cousin to go fuck himself. I'll be taking you home.
My head snaps up, eyes darting around the parking lot. How the actual fuck did he know what Penn just said? I don't see him anywhere, and he should still be in the locker room washing the hockey boy stench off himself.
"Hey, Penn?" I hold up my phone awkwardly. "Ramsey says, and I quote, 'tell my cousin to go fuck himself' and that he's taking me home."
Penn's face splits into a maniacal grin that would probably terrify normal people. Good thing none of us are normal.
"Well, well, well," he drawls, rocking back on his heels.
"Mini-me's got his panties in a twist. Tell him I said he can go fuck himself with a rusty hockey stick.
" He pauses, tilting his head. "Actually, no.
That might give him ideas, and we all know he's already got enough of those when it comes to you. "
"Penn!" Reagan smacks his arm, but he just laughs.
"What?" He holds his hands up in mock innocence. "I'm just saying what we're all thinking."
My face flushes hot. "That's not—we're not—he doesn't—"
"Jesus, you're as bad as he is," Penn interrupts, rolling his eyes dramatically. "You two deserve each other with all that stuttering and denial."
"We're really just best friends," I insist, though my voice sounds weak even to my own ears.
"Yeah, and I'm shooting blanks up in your sister’s womb," Penn snorts.
Reagan smacks his arm. "Don't be that crude."
"Oh, I'm sorry," Penn says, not looking sorry at all. "Should I have said he's finally admitting he wants to rail our sister into next week? Because that's what this is about."
"PENN!" Reagan and I shout in unison, my face burning hot enough to melt the ice inside the arena.
Penn holds his hands up in mock surrender, but the shit-eating grin doesn't budge.
"What? I'm just saying what everyone's thinking.
Mini-me's been orbiting her like the Big Dipper for years.
It's getting sad to watch. He should just give her his Big Dipper, and we can continue our streak of keeping it in the family. "
"Can we not discuss my sex life or lack thereof in the middle of a hockey arena parking lot?" I hiss, mortified.
"So you admit there could be a sex life with my cousin?" Penn pounces on my words like a cat with a wounded mouse. "Interesting development. Very interesting."
Lincoln clears his throat. "As fascinating as Reese’s love life is—"
"Nonexistent love life," I interject.
"—we should probably get going before the post-game traffic gets worse," Lincoln finishes, always the practical one.
"Fine, fine," Penn sighs dramatically. "Tell Rams I expect a full report on his possessive tendencies at dinner this Sunday. With charts and graphs, preferably."
"I'm not telling him that," I mutter, already typing a response to Ramsey.
What they say about brothers being the most embarrassing thing you will ever experience is absolutely true, and the heat radiating off my face could warm an entire home.
The second we're through the door, he drops his hockey bag on the floor with a heavy thud and collapses onto our couch, letting out a groan that sounds like it's been trapped in his chest all night.
His head falls back against the cushions, eyes closing as he sprawls out, taking up way more space than any one person should.
"Fuck, that was brutal," he mutters, wincing as he flexes his battered hands.
I bite my lip, looking at the mess that is his face and hands. "Don't move. I'm getting the first-aid kit."
"Reese, you don't—"
I'm already heading to the kitchen before he can finish his protest. Our first aid kit is practically a small hospital at this point—the result of living with a hockey player who gets into more fights than a professional boxer.
I grab the kit from under the sink and hurry back to the living room, dropping to my knees in front of him.
My breath catches when I get a closer look at the damage.
His knuckles are split open, crusted with dried blood, and there's a nasty cut above his right eyebrow where Thompson must have caught him with a stray fist.
"Jesus, Rams," I mutter, opening the kit and pulling out antiseptic and gauze. "You look like shit."
He cracks one eye open, watching me as I pour antiseptic onto a cotton pad.
"It’s sexy, though." His eyes drift down to where I'm kneeling between his spread legs, and something flickers across his face—something that makes my fingers fumble with the cotton pad.
"Though I gotta say, this view almost makes the beating worth it. "
I feel my cheeks flush hot at his comment. "Don't be an ass while I'm trying to help you," I mutter, reaching for his hand.
"You don't need to do that," he says, trying to pull away.
I roll my eyes and tighten my grip on his wrist. "No, I don't, but I'm gonna because if you get gangrene from that St. James ass, I'm gonna be so mad. So shut up, sit there, and look pretty while I clean you up."
Ramsey's lips curl into a smirk that does dangerous things to my insides. "Yes, ma'am," he drawls, his voice dropping to that low register that makes my skin tingle. "But we're gonna circle back to you thinking I'm pretty."
"I didn't—" I start to protest, but the words die in my throat when his thumb brushes over my skin. I focus on cleaning the cuts across his knuckles instead, trying to ignore how my pulse jumps under his touch.
He hisses through his teeth but doesn't pull away. "Careful, star. I might start thinking you like seeing me bleed."
"Don't be dramatic," I mutter. "You know, normal people use words to solve problems."
"I'm not normal people," he says simply.
God, isn't that the fucking truth. There's nothing normal about Ramsey Blackwood—from his insane hockey skills to the way he can go from laughing to looking like he wants to murder someone in the span of a heartbeat.
I finish with his hand and shift my attention to the cut above his eyebrow. It's not as bad as it looked at first, but it's still oozing blood. I reach up, tilting his face toward the light.
"Hold still," I command, standing up to get a better angle.
He complies, but his hands come to rest on my hips, steadying me as I lean over him.
His fingers dig in slightly, and the pressure sends a jolt of heat straight through me.
I'm suddenly very aware of how close we are—my body between his spread legs, his face tilted up toward mine, those intense blue eyes watching my every move.
I lose my balance trying to reach the cut, my feet slipping on the hardwood floor. "Shit—"
Without thinking, I scramble forward to keep from falling and end up straddling his lap, one knee on either side of his thighs. My hands grab his shoulders to steady myself, the first aid supplies clattering to the floor.
"Sorry, I just—" The words die in my throat as I settle fully onto his lap and feel it—the unmistakable hardness pressing against my inner thigh. Holy. Fucking. Shit. That's not a hockey stick in his pocket.
My eyes snap to his, and the look on his face knocks the breath from my lungs.
His pupils are blown wide, those ocean irises just thin rings around bottomless black.
He's completely still beneath me, his chest barely moving with shallow breaths.
The only movement is the pulse hammering in his throat.
"Rams..." My voice comes out embarrassingly breathy.
He doesn't respond. Doesn't move. Doesn't even seem to be breathing now. The silence between us is deafening, broken only by my own heartbeat thundering in my ears.
I should move. I should absolutely get the fuck off his lap right now. But my body refuses to cooperate, frozen in place as heat floods through me.
"I still need to..." I gesture weakly at the cut above his eyebrow, trying to act normal even though there's nothing normal about feeling my best friend's dick pressing against me.
His jaw clenches so tight I can see the muscle jump beneath his skin. When he finally speaks, his voice is a low, strained rumble that vibrates through my entire body.
"Do what you need to do."
Right. The cut. I'm here to patch him up, not to think about the fact that he's hard as fucking granite beneath me. I reach for the butterfly bandage I dropped on the couch, hyper-aware of every tiny movement, every brush of my body against his.
I lean forward to clean the cut, and the shift in position presses me more firmly against his erection. A small sound escapes him—not quite a groan, more like he's being strangled—and his hands tighten on my hips so hard I'll probably have bruises tomorrow.
"Sorry," I whisper, though I'm not sure what I'm apologizing for.
Focusing on the task at hand even though my fingers are trembling may just be the hardest thing I’ve had to do. The antiseptic makes him hiss, his hips jerking up involuntarily. The movement grinds him against my core, and I have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound.
"Almost done," I murmur, carefully placing the bandage over the cut. I'm hyperaware of his eyes on me, burning into my skin.
"There," I say, smoothing the edges of the bandage with my thumb. "All better."
I should move. Right now. But his hands are still on my hips, and my body feels heavy and hot, like I'm running a fever. The silence between us stretches.
"Rams?" I finally whisper, my voice barely audible. "You okay?"
"Yeah, star," he finally says, voice rough like gravel being crushed under a tire. "I'm just fine, thanks for fixing my hands and my pretty face."
Fucking asshole. He's making jokes while I'm sitting here while he’s got the Washington freaking Monument in his pants. I huff, exasperation flooding through me as I scramble off his lap, my cheeks burning hot enough to fry an egg.
"Just for that," I snap, "I'm not making you anything to eat. You can fend for yourself."
I stomp toward the kitchen, muttering under my breath. "Conceited, cocky, good-for-nothing pretty hockey boys thinking they're God's gift to the fucking universe."
"I heard that," he calls after me, and I can practically hear the smirk in his voice.
"You were supposed to!" I shout back, yanking open the cupboard with more force than necessary. My body is still humming with...something. Adrenaline? Embarrassment? The lingering heat of feeling him hard beneath me?
Dropping the kit back on the shelf, I decide to go up to my room and avoid him for literally the rest of the night because the embarrassment is too damn much to handle.
The worst part of it all is, for one crazy moment, I wondered what it would be like to be his. What if instead of being friends, after I patched him up he kissed me and made me see the constellations?
What fucking if.