Chapter 14
Xavier
My phone clearly woke up this morning and chose violence. I open social media after my run and—boom—Artemis’s scowling, stupidly gorgeous face fills my screen.
UCR Raccoons: Our Captain.
Of course he got the big C. He was always the obvious choice. Did the universe need to make him look that edible in the announcement photo? Absolutely not.
What I am surprised at is his self-restraint.
It’s November, and whatever wildfire had sparked between us during that kiss? Apparently someone—him—dumped a whole bucket of ice water on it. He dodged meeting up again. Then he had the nerve to send me pie.
Not just pie—the pie. The pie I had to threaten teammates over. The pie I hid the last slice of in the back of the freezer with a “touch this and perish,” warning.
He sends me the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth… and then goes dark. Rationally, I get it. He’s busier than a college student should legally be allowed to be. But I still find myself rereading our texts like a love-sick idiot, pretending the ache in my chest is something normal.
Who the hell sends pie and then ghosts? This bitch, apparently.
I drop my head to the dining room table with a satisfying thunk at the same time my phone rings. Roman. Shit. That’s a hard pass. A nightmare in brother form.
Coach said he wants to move me to a different line because my ‘focus is off.’ And no matter how hard I try I can’t seem to turn it back on again. Roman probably watched my game last night and is calling to bust my balls.
Not today, Satan.
Big BroRoRo Your Boat: Pick up your phone, dickhead.
He sends me a stream of eggplant emojis, then calls back.
“What?” It’s a groan.
“I saw the game.”
Another groan. Of course he fucking did.
“What’s going on with you Xavi?”
“I’m having an off moment, it’ll pass. We all get them.” I recite the usual motivational poster bullshit. I stop myself right before saying everything happens for a reason, because even I’m not that far gone.
“Right, and it has nothing to do with you fucking the Cedar Rapids’ enforcer?”
My stomach plummets. “What the fuck, Ro? Nobody’s fucking anybody.”
Not for lack of my dick campaigning for it.
“You sure? You’re practically drawing I love Artemis hearts all over your fucking binder, man.”
That’s an option I haven’t considered. Is PDA his kink? Should I hire a blimp and declare my thirst to the entire Midwest? It’s definitely an option.
“This isn’t a smart play, Xavier.” Aw fuck, he’s bringing out the full name.
“You’re going to bomb your midterms because your brain is full of a moody millionaire.”
I snort. “I’m not failing school over a guy.”
“It’s not funny. Worst-case? You’ll get benched. After everything you’ve worked for, is that what you want? To warm the bench because you’re distracted by the enemy captain?”
My chest tightens. Dramatic? Yes. But… is he wrong?
It’s beautiful, predictable chaos. Do I have the luxury of an off week? Fuck. No. I don’t.
I breathe through it, shaky and annoyed. “I’m not fucking him, but I did kiss him.” It feels nice to get that off my chest. Confessional booth energy, minus the forgiveness.
“You couldn’t have fallen for your own teammate?”
“Like you did?”
He chuckles. “Or better yet, someone who hates hockey entirely?”
I gasp. “I could never.”
“I know I sound like the bad guy, Xavi. I’m just trying to have your back.
The fallout from this? It could be huge.
Distraction. Rival team. Sooo much spotlight.
I just needed you to remember that.” His voice sounds tired, like a weary parent telling their child something they should already know. For the eleventh time.
He falls quiet for a long moment. “For the record, he could do a lot worse than taking a chance on you, though, Xavi.” It’s one of the nicest things my brother has ever said to me.
“Just… tread softly, okay?” There it is. The barb. The reminder that I’m one wrong move from embarrassing the family. Same old song.
Did someone give Artemis the same cautionary speech? Is that why he’s been ignoring me? Fear disguised as discipline.
The great and terrifying Artemis de la Pena… afraid? That’s new. It’s an angle I hadn’t even considered.
I go through the motions with Roman just to get him off the fucking line and give my head some peace to think. The more I think, the itchier my fingers grow to send Arte something new.
Am I going to antagonize him into dating me?
Maybe. He doesn’t have any pigtails for me to pull at recess—from the way he moaned when I clutched his hair in my knuckles, he’d be into it. But I can needle at him in other ways. I need to poke the bear. Actually, I need to poke the bear until he snaps me in half.
Goal Daddy: You send me pie but ignore my existence? Rude.
He opens it immediately. Leaves me on read. On. Fucking. Read. Again. The audacity of this bitch. Does he like being chased? Because I am seconds from climbing into his DMs with a blowtorch.
My dick is still hard—traitor—reminding me that he wanted me, too. I felt exactly how much he wanted me pressed against my thigh. I know he’s holding back. He admitted it.
I just have to find the right trigger to blow up those stupid self-imposed monk rules.
Fine. If he wants to play glacier-cold? I’ll turn up the fucking heat. Next time we’re face-to-face, he’s not walking away. Until then? I’m going to be the climate change that ruins his life. I don’t just schedule care packages; I go for the jugular.
I pull on my Wolves practice jersey—the one that’s a little too tight across the chest—and take a selfie in the mirror with just enough of a smirk to be dangerous.
I don’t post it to my main feed; I put it on my Close Friends story, where the only viewer who matters is a certain scowling captain in Cedar Rapids.
The caption reads: Missing the Den. I hear Raccoons are a protected species... maybe I need a personal tour?
I hit share, knowing the 'Ice Prince' is probably staring at a spreadsheet right now. I want to see if his stupid rules can survive a Martinez in his DMs. If he’s going to ice me out, I’m going to melt him from the inside.