Chapter 4
Xavier
“Xavi?” My brother Roman nudges my foot under the table a little too hard, making the silverware on top of the table clink. “Earth to Xavier?”
I swear I can still smell his cologne under the steakhouse garlic—smoky cedar and stubbornness.
A hand waves in front of my face, and I don’t even reach out to flap it away.
My heart’s still skipping along too fast in my chest, those piercing, bottomless brown eyes staring at me in the dull light of the front of his SUV.
When I continue staring at the glass of iced water I’m delicately spinning between my forefinger and thumb, my brother clears his throat.
“Are you dying?” His voice is sharp, and pierces through the fuzzy haze of whatever warmth that’s engulfed me after my evening of encounters with the Dark Destroyer. He didn’t feel dark, though. Not on the ice when he loomed over me and not in the car when my fingers itched to touch him.
Dark implies cold, distant, aloof. That man… well, he’s anything but cold.
Every time I blink, I see that stare, and my stomach free-falls like I’m going over the boards head-first. I snort. “Am I… dying?”
“You’re never this quiet.” He huffs out a breath. “It makes a nice change to be honest, but it’s also a little concerning.” He takes a drink. “Unnerving. Either you’re dying or you’re plotting world domination.”
“Those are your options? I can’t simply be having an introspective moment?” Not that I’d ever admit the truth: I can’t stop seeing those eyes.
He guffaws, tearing a piece of still-warm bread from the basket between us and throwing it into his mouth. “I’ll be honest with you man, I didn’t even know you knew the word introspective.”
Something uncomfortable slithers under my skin at his joke.
“How’s the gang?” I ask about his relationship, knowing he’ll take the bait instead of pressing me harder for info about what’s going on with me.
My brother’s in a polycule with two of his teammates and a third teammate’s sister. It’s unconventional for many, and for a long-held beat we thought their relationship might implode the entire New Orleans Phantoms team, but it’s all come good. And I’ve never seen Ro so happy in his whole life.
A pang of jealousy spears my soul. My brother’s got a love life that works like clockwork. Meanwhile, mine’s a car crash in overtime. A string of one night stands because anything more would only invite trouble.
A warm smile lights up his face, but he shakes his head. “Not letting you deflect by bringing up my favorite subject to talk about.”
Damnit. “You could have brought the guys tonight, you know?”
The Phantoms don’t even count as ‘local-ish’ for an NHL game, so when my travel calendar aligns with Roman’s, or he’s playing somewhere even vaguely considered ‘close,’ we do our utmost to get together—usually for a meal, sometimes for an early morning coffee before flights or bus rides pull us apart.
With him in Louisiana, me in Wisconsin, and our family based in Texas, things get kind of crazy, so it’s nice to make sure we have touch points, so we never drift too far apart.
My brother nods. “I know. They send their love.”
“But?” I tip my head to the side.
“But.” He grins at me. “I want to spend quality time with you when I have you. They’ll see you at Thanksgiving, or Christmas, or whenever. I like keeping these meals just us, you know?”
His eyes are warm and genuine when they meet mine. Out of all the big brothers in the world, my siblings and I really lucked out when we got Roman. He’s the best, and his words curl around my heart, giving it a loving squeeze.
He seems completely oblivious to the fact I live in his shadow, and regularly tells me I’m a stellar player in my own right, but that’s his job, right?
It’s probably right at the top of the big brother manual.
But he’s our safe space, has boundaries, and invested in my future by running drills with me day and night at our local arena back home.
I give him a smile. “I do too, but if you ever felt like bringing them along, I wouldn’t be mad about it.”
The server brings our appetizers, and a flash of thick, black hair being seated a few tables away brings back Artemis de la Pena’s face to my mind. I follow the path of the flow through the tables, and when he sits, I could swear from his profile that I’m staring at the side of his face.
Fuck.
My fork slips, clanging against the expensive porcelain.
I rub my hand over my face. Upgrading from my water, I take a slug of beer and do my best to shake it off all while under the inscrutable gaze of my brother, who may be so chill he’s horizontal, but he never misses a fucking thing when it comes to his younger siblings.
Is that something they hardwire into the oldest kid? Is Artemis’s big sister like that too?
Another glance to my left and my heart grinds to a fucking halt, my breath stops right on its way into my lungs, and dizziness threatens to take my brain hostage. Fucking hell, it is Artemis.
Of course it’s him. Because the universe has a sick sense of humor and a hard-on for my humiliation.
He’s sitting right in my eyeline at a table with his siblings. My lips twitch. I may have dropped the fact I was going to Ember and Oak into conversation with Ares when I asked him to open Artemis’s AirDrop for me, but I didn’t expect for them to all show up.
My evening just got markedly more uncomfortable, because now I’m sporting a goddamn stiffy in this fancy steakhouse while at a table with my brother.
Awks.
Roman turns over his shoulder to follow my line of sight. “No.” It’s one word, but it’s laden with caution, and laced with something that sounds almost like gleeful amusement.
“No, what?” I casually pick up my beer and guzzle a few mouthfuls to wash down the lies brewing on the back of my tongue.
“Stay away from the de la Pena’s, Hermano.” He points his beer at me. “Whoever you have your eye on, they’re taken.” He shakes his head, his dusty hair falling across his forehead. “Happily. And from what I gather, their other halves will fillet you if you try to steal their boos.”
My jaw drops. “I’m not a homewrecker, Ro.” The indignation in my voice is loud at the accusation I’d try to steal someone else’s man. I’m a player, but that’s not who I am. “And they’re not all taken.”
At least not if what Ares told me is true. I did my homework.
Ares is my kind of guy. He’s always been decent to me both on and off the ice when my Wolves are visiting from Wisconsin.
I wouldn’t say we’re friends per se, but we have a working relationship.
We share the occasional non-alcoholic beverage after our games when we have time, shooting the shit over the states of the hockey world.
And for some reason, he wanted to help me get into his brother’s pants as much as I want to.
My dick stirs at the mention of Artemis’s pants. I feel like the challenge of getting them undone will be more than I first anticipated, feels like it’ll be more rewarding when I do, too.
Roman shakes his head as the server clears our apps plates. “Are you ready for your entrees?”
We both nod. I’m always ready for the delicious farm-to-table food of Ember and Oak. No matter where I am in the country, I can’t find a steak that compares.
We’re surrounded by the typical dark wood paneling, leather booths, and white tablecloths with exposed brick and Edison bulbs you’d expect from a steakhouse. There’s a viewing window to the grill station and local Iowa art on the walls.
But there’s just something comfortable about the atmosphere here, a wholesomeness, a warmth that comes to the table with the bone marrow butter and the truffle mac and cheese. It almost feels like home.
Am I staring at my surroundings, noting painfully banal details to avoid looking at Artemis again? Maybe, but if I admit it to myself, that might open a door I’m not prepared to open.
Something stirs in my chest as my phone lights up in the middle of the table. Ares’s name appears but I can’t make out what it says.
“If you pick that up, the bill’s on your card tonight, Xavi.” Roman’s one of the few people who can get away with calling me that. There’s a childishness in it that needles me the older I get, but I ignore it, because he doesn’t mean any harm by saying it. It’s filled with affection.
He arches a brow. “But Ares, eh? I wouldn’t have pegged you for being a goalie kind of guy.” His nostrils flare as he smirks, taking a slow pull of his beer without breaking eye contact.
“Not Ares.” The pull of staring at the stoic God a mere twenty feet from me is too strong to ignore, but the more I’m drawn, the more my brother looks like he’s about to crease up laughing.
“His girl might be small, but don’t let that pixie-esque appearance distract from the fact she’d have my balls on a plate.”
Definitely not Ares.
If there’s one thing I can’t resist, it’s a challenge. And if that challenge happens to have broad shoulders and a smoldering face made for sin, sue me.
Mercifully, the server brings our food, allowing me to shovel a few huge bites in so I don’t have to talk, but I know he’s not going to let it drop.
“Be careful, Xavi.” His voice holds the typical edge of big brother caution. “Their family is tumultuous. They’re tight. They don’t do drama—”
“Other than their asshole father dragging their family name through the mud.” Neither of us need the reminder that the de la Pena family are an internationally newsworthy name, doesn’t matter if it’s Roman in Louisiana or me up in Wisconsin, there’s no escaping their reach.
Roman nods at my insertion.
“The kids don’t fuck around. They’re locked down. And they sure as shit won’t cross enemy lines to fuck a rival.” My stomach dips at my own words because they’re true.
His stare is hot and heavy on my face. “Whatever you’re concocting, just… tread carefully, okay?”
Enemy lines were made for crossing. Preferably while shirtless.
And sucking on what has to be a God-like cock if the rest of him is anything to go by. I swallow a groan with another mouthful of beer.
We revert to our comfort zone, talk of the game, his girlfriend and boyfriends, our siblings and family. But I’m barely dialed in to the conversation, constantly fighting the tug of the man whose lips I can’t get out of my mind.
Right after Roman signs the check and we’re making our way through the restaurant to leave, I swipe my confiscated phone from my brother’s clutches.
I ignore the thank you for the dinner rec message from Ares on the screen, unlock it, and type out a message to the number Ares gave me before we left the rink earlier.
Type it. Delete it. Type it again because cowardice isn’t sexy. And I might be a great many things but cowardly has never been something I’ve been accused of. I’m not starting today.
Goal Daddy: I know you might be tempted by the bananas foster prepared tableside with dark rum and flambé, but I can’t recommend the apple pie enough.
It’s made with Iowa honey crisp apples, sharp cheddar crust, and served warm with cinnamon ice cream.
I hit send, letting out the breath I’d held in my chest for a beat too long.
Roman’s chuckling as we stand next to our cars, making my skin prickle. “What?”
“You have a crush on Artemis de la Pena.”
I don’t even try to deny it; he knows me too well to protest so I simply jut out my chin. Instead, I ready myself for whatever ‘he’s out of your league,’ message that’s about to come my way.
What I’m not prepared for is the firm grip he takes of my shoulder, and the unwavering stare he gives me when he says, “He could do a lot worse than taking a chance on you, Xavi.”
Yeah. But somehow, I already know I’m the one getting absolutely wrecked.