Chapter 6
Xavier
Brewd and Butter usually hums with life—clattering mugs, bad jokes, and caffeine-fuelled miracles. Today it’s all static. The coffee is the same, but I can’t taste it.
Everything’s fine, which somehow makes it worse. Outside the fogged-up windows, the biting Madison wind whips across Lake Mendota, but inside the shop, even the vibrant red-and-white 'Go Wolves' streamers feel drained of all color.
I heave out a sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose as the steam from my oversized bucket of coffee makes my skin prickle. My jaw is tight from clenching.
Sure, I’m surrounded by my teammates. Lachlan, our enforcer has our netminder, Colton in a headlock. Oliver and Nate are looking at something on Nate’s phone. Gus is tucking into a pastry bigger than his face. But something’s just… off.
It’s as though the composition of my world has shifted, and everything’s duller, more boring, just… there.
Is this what depression feels like? A weird ‘meh’ feeling I can’t find an explanation for? Everything’s in shades of grey, a series of noughts and ones, and an absence of color. Even the sharp sounds of ceramic scraping and the clang of silverware feels somehow dulled.
I’m not used to things feeling so muted. I’m nothing if not vivid, bright, ostentatious… loud even… and this strange feeling pulling under my skin is so foreign, I—
“Martinez?”
I jerk my head up from staring at the still-full mug. All my teammates’ eyes are on me, like they’re waiting for an answer to a question I haven’t heard.
I’m fine.
I quirk a brow, giving away the fact I wasn’t listening.
I’m fine.
Not missing a beat, my line mate and best friend, Oliver Lindstrom leans forward, studying my face like I’m a fine painting hung in The Louvre. “Who is he?” He points a finger at my face, taking a well-aimed shot across my bow.
I pull a lazy shoulder up to my ear, letting it drop in what might seem to be a casual movement, but my insides are molten. It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell them, to say I have the hots for, and am entirely distracted by, a player on another team, but that might not go down well in this crowd.
Oliver nudges my knee with his.
Loyalty to the team, to the crest on our jerseys comes before all else. I don’t want them thinking that my infatuation with Artemis de la Pena somehow means I’m not on their side.
“You’ve got that look. The one that says you found trouble and kissed it.”
I fucking wish I’d kissed him.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I spaced out. Didn’t sleep well last night.” I pick up my cup, press the warm ceramic against my bottom lip and blow the still hot drink before taking a sip.
“We’re talking about dinner.” Colton gives my toes a kick under the table. “What are you feeling?”
My phone lights up on the table. My heart skips faster than I’d like, and a warm heat races to my toes.
It’s not Artemis, but my stomach still drops like it is. I tell myself it doesn’t matter, then watch the screen fade like an idiot who wants it to light up again.
I don’t. So what, if he doesn’t reply? Like I even care. I swallow another mouthful of lies with the bitter-sweet nectar cradled in my palm.
“I don’t care, whatever everyone else wants is fine.” Wrong answer. And as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I know it.
Oli’s eyes narrow at me. “You… don’t care what we have for dinner?”
Nate snorts. It’s not misplaced, because there’s never been a day in my whole life where I don’t care about what kind of food we have.
But right now, I don’t care what we eat. I can’t stop picturing Artemis’s hands. His mouth. The way he looked across that restaurant table.
Fuck.
I rake a hand through my hair, which makes Oli tip his head to the side, but to his credit, he says nothing.
“Then I vote pizza.” It’s Lachlan that chirps first, and because we’ll all find something on the menu of our local pizza place, that’s inevitably what we’ll have.
When was the last time Captain My Body is a Temple Artemis allowed a piece of pizza to pass through his lips? I can’t help picturing him refusing pizza like it’s a moral choice. The man probably eats sadness and spinach. It makes me want to ruin him with carbs. Cheesy carbs.
I’ve seen him on the team’s social media pages and spoken to his brother about him after the game last week.
Cringe and needy? Maybe. But I want to know him.
Ares told me the guy’s a beast, always in the gym, always eating shit like kale and quinoa.
My face crinkles into a wince without my permission.
But he did give me a couple of insider tips, as well as his brother’s cell number and home address. If I was a serial killer, Ares would have made the worst mistake ever, but for some reason, he trusts me not to harm his brother.
“You dying? You haven’t argued about toppings yet.” It’s Colton calling me out now.
“Buffalo chicken? Parma ham and crispy kale?”
His nose scrunches up at that suggestion, but I’ve thrown in my two cents while I ignore the questioning looks my best friend keeps sending my way.
We’re going to have a talk; there’s no escaping it.
He knows me better than anyone, my teammates, my siblings, hell, even the woman who birthed me. And he knows I’m off balance.
That’s what Artemis de la Pena has done to me; he’s thrown me off balance. As a hockey player who skates on a knife edge every day of his life? That unsettles me.
My leg jitters and shakes while the conversation around me filters into something I don’t need to listen to.
Lachlan’s talking about Thanksgiving plans, Colton wants another Danish, and Nate’s found something on his screen that’s got his face scrunched up in concentration, his tongue poking out to the side.
The guys move on to chirping about ice time, and all I can think about is how Artemis de la Pena licks his spoon, how if he doesn’t text me back, I might actually have to do my homework.
The horror.
My waiting turns into working. I don’t open the group project, though.
Instead, I flick to a hidden folder on my phone—the one filled with messy spreadsheets and a rough draft I’ve been calling Stick Together in my head.
It’s my 'someday' dream: a way to fund gear and ice time for kids who are being priced out of the game.
I am determined to use this finance degree to make sure other kids don’t have to rely on a miracle to play. It’s the only thing in my life that has nothing to do with Roman’s shadow.
By the time I get back to my apartment, I’m filled with unspent energy sizzling under my skin. An idea sparks and catches. It’s dangerous, stupid, and absolutely fucking perfect.
If Artemis won’t text me back, I’ll make sure he can’t ignore me.
One package. One gentle push, hopefully in my direction. I scroll and scroll. Antagonizing the opposition’s enforcer isn’t the best idea, but the idea of it alone sends a thrill through my veins.
Ares gave me the address for a reason, right?
I shouldn’t.
I’m already typing.
I shouldn’t.
Add to cart.
I’m toeing the line, but will the Dark Destroyer bite?
There’s only one way to find out. I put in his address and hit send. A momentary “Oh, shit,” makes my thumb hover over the ‘Cancel My Order’ button, but I decide I don’t care enough to take it back.
Then spend the evening flicking through channels, just waiting, scrolling, grinning like a cat who’s left a dead mouse at the door.
Your move, Ice Prince. Your move. Just don’t make me wait too long.