Splitting the D (Cedar Rapids Raccoons #7)
Chapter 1
Artemis
(SEPTEMBER)
The problem with everyone thinking you’re an infallible god, is that when you flunk out of your final year of college, no one knows what the fuck to do with it.
My thumb runs over the edge of my steering wheel, the leather warm from the sun, like maybe it’s the only thing that still believes I’ve got this handled.
They didn’t see it coming. To say that everyone around me is shocked that I failed, and angry that I kept it silent, would be a gross understatement.
Their silence hums louder than the campus traffic outside—like judgment can travel through the Cedar Rapids airwaves. No one knows what to say to me.
Except for my twin, he’s choosing not to say anything at all. And my older sister, who—if physical violence were legal would beat the shit out of me with her six-inch pointy stilettos—yells at me every time she sees me.
Everyone else can’t figure out what went wrong. What they don’t seem to realize is, nothing went wrong, I’ve always been this way. I’ve just been really fucking good at pretending.
Heaving out a sigh, I stare out the window of my SUV toward the University campus. A group of students walk past the hood of my car, laughing, backpacks slung low. My stomach tightens.
I shouldn’t be here. I should have graduated with my class and be off doing a ‘real job,’ like damn near everyone else I know.
Even though I already have a bunch of ‘real jobs,’ it’s not the same.
I should be following in the footsteps expected of me, not starting another year of school.
With my youngest brother to boot. And the man who brought me into the world is being smug as hell about the whole thing.
I always told you that playing hockey was a waste of your time, Mijo.
He calls it a waste of time, but the ice is the only place I can finally turn off the deafening sound of his disappointment.
In the boardroom, I have to be the surgical architect; on the ice, I get to be the wrecking ball.
Every puck I bury and every body-check I land is a release for the man who thinks I’m nothing more than a spare part.
Maybe you’ll listen to me now, eh? You need a college degree. One of these days that cyber-crypto-shit you deal with is going to crumble, and then what will you do?
His voice echoes like a voicemail I can’t delete, dripping with smugness. He thinks I’m just playing with numbers on a screen, unaware that those 'algorithms' have already funded two manufacturing plants and a fleet of cargo transports.
He likes to call it 'cyber-crypto' because he can't wrap his head around the fact that I’ve out-manufactured him using better tech and all from the back row of a lecture hall.
He thinks if he can't see the sparks flying from a welder's torch in my hands, it isn't real construction, which is rich considering he’s never worked a day of manual labor in his life.
I don’t know why I need a college degree at this point; I’m already set up for life, off my own back. But my father’s hot-and-cold transactional love demanded it. From all of us.
While my International Business degree is a formality to placate him, my real mettle was forged mastering the corporate architecture and data-mining algorithms needed to build an aviation empire that will dismantle his. Soon.
The laptop is just my interface; beneath the code sits a physical infrastructure of hangers and logistics hubs I’ve spent two years staffing with specialists who don't care that their boss is finishing a degree.
I did what I had to do, for the family. Because that’s what he wanted from his four children. We couldn’t risk being out of Alonso de la Pena’s favor and out on the street.
Not that my siblings would have ever let that happen, or Mamá, for that matter. But I couldn’t be the drag on the ticket. I couldn’t be the fuck-up, the one who couldn’t figure his shit out, the one that needed everyone else’s help to make it.
So, probably before I was even old enough, I took my allowance, learned how to invest it, and made shit happen.
Just in case. From an early age the threat of losing the de la Pena favor was strong.
But now? If my father cut me off tomorrow without a cent, I wouldn’t be bothered in the slightest. In truth, I’d probably be relieved.
But that’s baggage I’m not ready to unpack as I sit staring at a re-run of my final year. Bitterness swells in my gut as I watch students bustling by out the window. The phone on the console pings—a notification from my CFO. I don’t even glance. Not now.
The familiar itch of not having had an outlet over the last couple weeks scratches under my skin.
In the off season, when the noise of the boardroom becomes too much, I retreat into the silence of the Silverpaw Sanctuary.
Where the world narrows down to the steady draw of a bowstring or the calculated placement of a wooden wall in a game of Quoridor.
My father sees both my time on the ice and in the great outdoors as 'distractions,' but for me, the archery and the games are the only places where I’m not just the ‘spare.’ I’m the architect of my own peace.
And helping those who need it. Giving back somehow for all the misery my father has caused in the world.
I’m going to ruin that bastard.
Not for my own benefit, but for everything he’s done to Mamá, and for every time he dismissed my older sister as a trivial little woman with no serious prospects in life. Not that it ever slowed her down even for a second. She’s likely to be the most successful of us all, but that’s not the point.
My phone buzzes again, and again. I’m loath to look at the screen, unsure of what text delights are waiting for me.
Is it Athena, reminding me yet again that I’m an idiot for throwing away a year of my life?
Is it my father, making threats without consequence about my playing hockey this year?
Heh. It could be a weather alert for a storm rolling in. But the ball of guilt, tangled with the voices of disappointment from those I love most, bubbles in my stomach acid, making my gut lurch.
The clock ticks closer to 9AM, and the anxiety tightening my chest ticks right along with it, like an olden day rack, stretching every cell in my body with each turn of the wheel. Click. Click. Click. Tick. Tick. Tick. My pulse syncs to the rhythm until I can’t tell which one’s the clock anymore.
The silence in the car is stifling. Last year, I was surrounded by my brothers, my hockey family. Now I’m just… alone. And the more I wait for the feelings of resentment and sourness to pass, the worse they get.
I glide my tongue along my top lip, lingering on the scar from the lip repair surgery I had as a child. Another reminder that I’m not the flawless son.
The scar pulls faintly when I smirk—like even my body doesn’t buy the act.
It seems I haven’t yet reached the figure in my bank account where I don’t care that I’m the back-up, the one with imperfections, the eternal disappointment. Does that figure even exist?
That’s what it’ll say on my tombstone when I die: Here lies Artemis. Grumpy bastard. Eternal disappointment.
The clock ticks over to nine o’clock, the final seconds of the countdown seeming somehow louder than the rest, announcing I can’t procrastinate any longer. I’m officially late for my first day.
Mustering a strength I don’t feel, I heave my bag from the passenger seat and groan. It’s time for a second chance to complete my degree, tick the damn box, and stop stewing in my misery.
The car door creaks open, and the now morning air slaps me in the face. It’s brisk and a wakeup call. If nothing else, maybe if I’m really lucky, I can at least help the guys win the championship this season.
It’s the only thing that gets me out of the car.