Chapter 2
Xavier
(LATE SEPTEMBER)
Visiting the Den in Cedar Rapids always gets my blood pumping, even before the game starts, adrenaline charges my veins.
It smells of sweat and victory with notes of cheap beer and spilled popcorn.
There’s something special about skating rings around these snooty little rich boys that brings a deep sense of satisfaction. I feel it in my calves—sharp and bright, the kind of burn that tastes like winning before the first puck of the game even drops.
Last year was the most fun I’ve had on the ice since I started playing. And I can only imagine how much fun it’ll be this year now that one of the de la Pena twins is repeating his final year. Talk about embarrassing. Guess money can’t buy everything, huh?
For a minute I thought I’d have to find a new adversary. The outskating de la Pena brothers were supposed to graduate and move on. And my older brother, Roman, is an NHL goalie—so that rules out antagonising the youngest de la Pena, Ares, while he’s protecting his pipes.
The idea alone makes me cringe. If I started even thinking that shit, Roman—who just signed a three-year deal with the New Orleans Phantoms—would fly to the University of Wisconsin and beat the ever-loving shit out of me with his goalie stick.
I still have a photo tacked above my dresser of him in his first NHL jersey.
Little Roman with chipped front teeth and eyes too big for his face.
When I was little, I wanted to be a goalie, just like Ro, but once I realized I’d spend my life being compared to him, I opted to be the top goal scorer for every team I graced with my Martinez presence.
If I was going to be compared to the guy who stopped the pucks, I was going to do my level best to net as many as possible.
Now he’s a poster boy on ice rinks and contract pages. He’s the face of globally recognized brands and is on track to be the best goalie the NHL has ever seen.
For now.
A deep sense of pleasure surges through me, replacing the bubbling jealousy of my older brother’s accolades. The bright, lights bloom over the ice, the crowd exhales their collectively held breath, and I turn that sound into a wide grin. This game is ours.
We skate onto the ice for a quick lap before we settle into the opening face off formation.
There’s a sizzle in the air, an expectation.
Apprehension. Excitement. Almost entitlement, in spite of the fact there’s nothing serious riding on this game.
It’s not a title clincher, it’s not a playoff final, it’s an early game in the season.
Nothing of consequence. That’s just how they roll here in Cedar Rapids; they deserve to win.
For the fans in the stands, something rides on every game.
The Raccoons have put together a strong team this year. We—the Wisconsin Wolves—haven’t played them yet to know that, but we also don’t have to. The names on the roster say everything they need to. And as long as Artemis de la Pena keeps his grades up, he’ll be the biggest fish to fry this season.
Guy’s a fucking beast.
I flick my gumshield out and grin at no one in particular, popping the plastic between my teeth like a smoker lighting up; it’s my ritual before the chaos of the game. I can’t fucking wait.
My sister, Sofia, tells me she thinks I have a secret death wish, like I prod at the biggest, baddest, bastards in the league until they snap and beat the shit out of me.
What can I say? I’ve always been kind of a brat. Kind of. The world sees the Texan Titan with a death wish, but behind the Texan drawl and my southern charm is a nerd who guards his 3.5 GPA as fiercely as he guards the puck.
I play with a bratty smirk to keep people looking at the surface, but I study twice as hard just to prove I’m more than a shadow of my brother's NHL legacy.
The whistle blows, the puck drops, and everyone on the ice bursts into a flurry of activity.
This is where I thrive.
It might needle me that Ro found his calling first, and I’m almost a consolation prize, but there’s no denying I was born to play.
Adrenaline surges through my muscles, urging me forward. The crowd shouts. My heart hammers in all my pulse points.
Push with everything I’ve got, digging deep, chasing every puck, and rinse and repeat until my teeth rattle and my legs burn like fire. The game blurs past, and before I know it, we’re ten minutes into the third, down two-to-one and a bitter taste filling my mouth.
The youngest de la Pena has stood on his head all fucking night, robbing me left, right, and center of the three potential goals that had my name on them.
You don’t own the goals until they’re in the net, Roman’s voice taunts me.
Every save is a needle in my ribs. I taste copper with each miss from how hard I clench. Ares, the smug bastard, grins at me as I cross the line into our offensive zone and pat the puck back and forth as I approach him.
He skates out to meet me.
It would be so easy to throw a shoulder and knock him on his ass, take him down a peg or two. All Daddy’s money in the world means nothing right here on the ice.
I swallow down the sourness, no, envy, simmering at the back of my throat. Roman makes a killing playing for the NHL, but beyond that, we come from humble roots.
I still remember my mama’s chipped teacups. She spent years skipping meals and pulling extra shifts to cover my fees and the cost of equipment for not one, but two quickly growing hockey players who couldn’t even share kit because they weren’t playing the same position.
This sport is a constant, painful reminder that talent shouldn’t have a bank-account requirement, even if it’s built for kids with chauffeurs.
We have a hardworking mom, a modest upbringing, and despite Ro’s millions, as a family, we aren’t accustomed to the lavish lifestyle the de la Penas are very publicly reported to have.
I ignore the intrusive thought to shunt Ares on his ass, but when my shot goes wide, and I chase the loose puck into the corner, I throw my shoulder into whatever flash of green-shirted Raccoon that comes into my periphery.
The hit sounds like a thrown trash can against a wall, a helmet clangs.
The arena blinks for half a beat as the plexiglass sways.
I wince, quickly schooling my face, trying not to react to the fact whoever I hit goes down in a crunch of pads against the boards. A whistle blows and play stops. But there’s a presence looming on me, an aura I feel before I see, and I know I’m about to have an unpleasant collision with a fist.
To be honest, given the hit I just landed on his teammate, I don’t blame him. And I’d be lying if a thrill doesn’t shoot through me. Goading the Dark Destroyer, Artemis de la Pena, into a fight sounded like a good idea at the time, but when I turn to face his stony expression, I have regrets.
The dude is huge. He easily has a couple of inches on me in height, and he’s built like a tank. Sweat beads on his temple, slides into the crease near his scar, and glints on the hair of his jaw.
The scar that splits the hair above his top lip, is not pristine. It’s the only imperfection I can see, which he must hate, because everything else about this man is… fuck. He’s gorgeous up close.
His beard is well trimmed, his chocolate-brown eyes are swirling with something I can’t define, but it looks awfully like I’m about to lose my life.
He says nothing, which is almost worse than having him snarling and chirping at me. He’s controlled, poised; I’ve never seen him snap. Has anyone?
He drops the gloves when he needs to. He keeps people in check with his sinister glares and his mere presence, which… if I’m honest is doing things to me below the waist.
Does a river of molten lava run beneath his composure?
There’s a cold, focused fury in the way he moves—he’s not just playing a game; he’s taking something internal, something deep out on the boards.
He doesn’t chirp or showboat; he just hunts with a terrifying, silent precision that makes you realize 'The Dark Destroyer' isn't a nickname—it’s a way of fucking life for this guy.
Does the Dark Destroyer erupt like an earthquake? Or is he even measured when he loses control? There’s a something about him that says controlled danger, like a bomb with a long fuse. How long?
I search his face as he just… stares. My breath hitches in my lungs as he looms, my muscles tight, waiting for him to shove me, or punch me… or… something.
“What’s the matter, big guy? Coach got your tongue?
” It’s a cheap shot, suggesting maybe his coach has him on a short leash this season because he’s repeating the year.
“Are we behaving ourselves because we didn’t graduate?
” My tone drips with condescension, mocking, and the more he stands like a giant, gorgeous fucking statue, the more I want to make him unravel.
What’s it like to be trapped underneath all that decorum?
The air tastes of anticipation, and the crowd’s roar at my check ricochets off the inside of my skull.
Carrying the family name is something I can relate to.
Being Roman Martinez’s brother lies heavy on my shoulders.
The constant comparison, the subtle comments, the sighs of exasperation that I’m not more like my brother.
But this man? Artemis carries himself so tall, so broad-shouldered, that it can’t be natural. Or easy.
What would it take to make him break?
The refs are hovering, waiting to jump in and separate us if the need arises, and part of me really hopes the need fucking arises.
The only reaction to my snide remark is the subtlest twitch of his cheek as he clenches his jaw. It’s impressive.
I cock my head to the side. “Or is it Daddy Warbucks? Has he got your tongue?” When in doubt, go for the aerospace mogul, the man who cheated on his mother, the man who has—on a number of occasions—stated his public disappointment over his children.
The man—from the flare of fiery loathing that just flickered and disappeared in the eyes of the man before me—who Artemis probably hates with every fibre of his well-kempt being.
Artemis’s father is a renowned, irredeemable piece of shit.
“Scrooge McDuck… Montgomery Burns… or is he more like Lex Luthor?”
Artemis inches closer, so near to me his breath is warm on my face.
It’s like the still-stopped game behind us—because the guy I checked into the boards is getting looked over by the medic, and the rest of the Raccoons lurk not too far behind Artemis, ready to hand my ass to me for taking out their teammate—fades away the more Artemis stares into my eyes.
“It’s shit, isn’t it?” His voice is low, freakishly calm, restrained, and reflects every bit of his outward poise.
I tip my chin, challenging him to do his worst. There’s nothing he can say that I haven’t heard before. “What?”
“Constantly living in the shadow of a greater man.” An almost secretive smirk pulls at the edges of his cupid’s bow lips, making his scar crinkle.
My hand twitches toward his mouth, and I pull it back like a fucking coward. My teeth ache with the idea of dropping my glove tracing the scar, brushing away those still trickling beads of sweat from his lip, his brow, his beard, and licking them off my thumb to fuck with him.
His words are well aimed, sharpened by years of taking fire from the same verbal bullets shot at me, even from inside my own ranks. I do what I can to keep the same level of composure that’s reflected at me in his breathtakingly handsome features, but my insides shake at his words.
Not because he’s saying something new, something that strikes like a tuning fork, vibrating deep and unsteady inside me. But because, while his voice is flat, his eyes shine with what feels like understanding. A common ground.
Of course, he’d know what it’s like to live under the pressure of someone else’s success. His father is a millionaire, set to become a billionaire by the end of the year if the stories online are to be believed.
Artemis doesn’t punch me. And for a blissful moment his intense stare flicks to my lips, like he’s contemplating what it might be like to taste me, like he’s allowing himself a single moment to entertain the idea of brushing his painfully close lips against mine.
“What’s the matter, Stud? Forget how to throw a punch?” Come on. I deserve it. Let’s dance, rich boy.
His face turns passive, disinterested, like I’m not worth the effort of swinging his fist. And that strikes deeper than any well-placed chirp he could have come up with. Insignificance rings through my muscles, making me clench and unclench my fingers.
“What’s the point? You’re just looking for attention.” He sighs. “I have better things to do with my time than rearrange your face.” He looks entirely bored, like a parent dealing with an unruly child, and something lights in my veins, surging through me at speed.
Out of nowhere a flash of him on his knees, begging for my leaking cock rushes to the front of my mind, and my already semi-hard cock perks up like he’s going to suck me off right here on the ice. Fuck, that’s not in any way pleasant in a cup.
He turns to leave, and I grab his arm to stop him, a jolt of something electric spearing through my arm. He jerks back like I’ve burned him through his shirt and pads. “The fuck, Martinez?”
The way he sneers my name is even more electrifying than our contact, or the way his eyes flicker with that ember of fire. What gasoline can I pour on it to make it an inferno?
He arches a brow as if to say fine, if you want me to hand your ass to you, I will. But before he can get near me, the linesmen intervene and pull us apart.
I stay on the ice when they separate us—because part of me wants him to turn, wants the unfinished to become something louder. I want him to crack.
As he casually skates to the bench with his brow still curved high and his nostrils flared, not breaking eye contact, a snap decision is made somewhere in the darkest recesses of my chest.
I want to watch this man unravel.