Chapter 3
Artemis
The water scalds, but I stay under it anyway. Maybe the stinging pain will drown the pulse between my legs, the one that betrays every thought I shouldn’t be thinking.
His stupid grin flashes behind my eyelids, dark eyes alive with mischievous challenge. It shouldn’t make my chest ache. It shouldn’t make my dick fucking twitch.
I aggressively shake my suds-filled hair, trying to dispel the thoughts of the cocky-as-fuck forward who deserved to have my fist in his face for the shit he pulled on my teammate during the third.
Can’t deny he’s hot, but something about the curl of his lip, the mirth dancing in his eyes, and the way his stare speared mine and didn’t let go, has left me shaken in a way I deplore.
He didn’t back down. Everyone fucking backs down. In fact, he seemed to want to go one further, to taunt me, groping around for the thread that he could pull to watch me fray.
Since my relationship dalliances with Claudia, I’ve never been surer of the fact I’m gay, not bi, like I originally thought. Have I slept around? I wouldn’t say that, but I definitely spent the summer sowing my wild oats a little before I got my shit together for the start of the new year.
New school year, new me, and all that bullshit.
While sinking my dick into Claudia was nice and all… it just… wasn’t it. It’s hard to explain, but, as it turns out, my appreciation of the female form is strictly cosmetic. She understood. At the end of the day, she wanted me for the visibility and popularity my name affords, and me?
Well… I had hoped it would stop people from propositioning me. Which went about as well as a plane with no wings. People wanted me even more when they saw I was willing to be in a relationship.
My body’s begging for relief, but I can’t bring myself to get off thinking about that smug bastard. Not him. Not the enemy.
“Hurry the fuck up, man.” Ares slaps his palm on the tiled wall like he’s banging on a wooden door.
After another few painful moments of rinsing out my hair, my brother’s fragile patience finally snaps on a sigh which can be heard over the patter of water. “I’m catching a ride with one of the guys. I’ll see you at dinner tomorrow.”
I grunt my acknowledgement, relief, and guilt tangling in my throat. At least he won’t see the hard-on I can’t seem to shake—or the mess in my head that I definitely can’t. I’m quietly glad that I can go straight to my apartment and let off a little steam in the privacy of my own home.
There’s an odd sense of relief that I’m not responsible for taking him home, too. While he’s more than settled with his girl, Eloise, finally stepping out from under the shadow, Apollo and I cast over his time in college was supposed to be what this year brought for him.
I’d hoped that for at least his final year in college he’d be able to breathe a little easier and let his hair down without the burden of having older siblings hanging over him.
He’s never said anything out loud, probably doesn’t give a fuck knowing Ares, but at the same time… I wanted it for him. I give a fuck.
I dry off, throw on some clothes, and take my hard-on the fuck away from my teammates before someone spots it.
During the drive home, my balls are heavy, taunting, and my dick presses against the seam of my dress pants. Ugh. I come to a stop at a red light and tip my head back against the custom leather seat in my SUV.
My phone chimes with a soft, pingy whoosh sound as the screen lights up. A pop-up appears.
Don’t look.
I do anyway.
The name on the screen—Xavier Martinez—punches through my ribcage like a slapshot.
The sender’s name flashes at me in the darkness of my car. I refuse to look around. I feel him before I see him—like static against my skin, like heat through the tinted glass. Bet the mother fucker is smirking at me too.
AirDrop from Xavier Martinez? Do you want to accept this contact?
My gut tightens. As much as I think the playboy would give more than a good romp between the sheets, that’s not what this year is about.
I press the “Decline” button, ignoring the sinking sensation in my stomach at the fact I’m doing the right thing. The pang of disappointment is unwelcome, because I know it’s the right choice.
Even if he was on my own fucking team and not the enemy, getting myself involved with another hockey player when I’m trying to keep my head down, stay on the straight and narrow, and scrape across the line with my college degree isn’t a good idea.
And I’m nothing if not responsible.
There’s a rev of an engine a split second before his name pops up again, and the phone chimes again.
I clench my teeth. How the fuck is he even sending me anything?
He’s not in my contacts, and as far as I know you have to turn on an ‘Everyone for ten minutes’ option to get something from someone who isn’t on your list. Did someone at the rink fuck with my phone?
Was it Xavier while I was in the shower?
Does it matter?
I ignore him again, dropping my head back onto the seat with more force than I intended. This is the longest red light in history, and my cheek is sizzling from where he’s still staring at me.
A honk of a horn makes me damn near jump out of my skin, but a search in the rearview confirms that no one is behind me. It’s the arrogant fucker next to me, somehow desperate for my attention.
And my still pointing North dick wants to give it to him.
I don’t glance over at his first honk, or his second, nor do I look when the distinct click of a door hitting my car door comes next.
Bastard. If he’s left a mark, he’s paying for it.
My passenger door opens before I can get to the locks, the click of the door freezes me mid-breath. For a second, I think I’m imagining it until the cabin fills with his scent.
Mint.
Sweat.
Fucking trouble.
The traffic light dangling overhead flicks to green.
It’s a quiet night in Cedar Rapids, and there’s no one around us in any direction at the junction, but he leaves the door open, and his car’s still idling, so I can’t just pull away like I’d planned.
“Playing hard to get, Babycakes?” His Texan drawl is even more pronounced in the dim light of the car than it was in the din of the rink.
He leans over, and activates my phone screen, holding it in front of me until it unlocks. He’s close enough that his breath skims my face. My pulse stumbles, but it’s adrenaline, not attraction.
His brow furrows as he types—presumably to put his number in my directory since I didn’t accept his contact.
I turn away, not because I’m embarrassed, but because it’s like staring at the sun, and I don’t want to get burned.
He’s quiet until I give in and look at him. He gives me an exaggerated wink that’s charged with every ounce of southern charm the Martinez boys are famous for, then cuffs my jaw. “That’s alright, Sugar. I don’t mind chasing.”
Heat shoots straight to my groin. I should shove his lingering hand away from my face. Instead, I sit there almost leaning into him, every nerve screaming for more.
He puts my phone back in the dock, leaves my car, and drives away into the night, leaving me sitting at the now red again light. Did that really happen? Did I imagine it?
I look at the contacts list and can’t find Xavier’s name, but another pass shows a contact called “Goal Daddy.” I can’t stop my face from cracking into a smile.
My thumb hovers over the delete button, but something deep inside doesn’t let me erase him from my phone. Responsible men don’t keep numbers from men like him. Responsible men delete temptation.
And still, my thumb doesn’t move. Because there’s no harm in keeping his number even if I don’t plan to use it… right?