Chapter 22
Artemis
Last night, I hung up like I touched a live fucking wire, and I didn’t sleep a wink—as is reflected by my bloodshot eyes and the dark circles underlining them.
I’m drowning in emotions. Desire, denial, fear, and I spent the whole night with a raging hard-on that no amount of stroking—or pleading with—made go away.
I’m bone tired. Shocking, I know. Most people don’t sleep well after they hang up on someone they might actually like. I stared at the ceiling until the sun crawled in like even it was judging me too.
By the time I get to the rink, my mask is welded back on. Or I think it is. Turns out? I am mistaken. Because the moment I walk into the locker room, the noise level slaps me in the face. Everyone’s chirping, loud and obnoxious, high on caffeine and brotherhood and testosterone.
Normally, I eat that shit up. Or can at least tone it down through a filter in my mind and keep my cool exterior unflappable. Today, it grates. Today? Today, I’m flapped.
“Morning, sunshine.” Rico tosses me a protein bar. “You look like you spent the night solving world hunger.” He pauses, tipping his head. “Did you? Because if anyone is going to fix a problem like that, it’s going to be our silent assassin.” He nudges me, eyes wide with expectation.
“Something like that,” I mutter.
He pauses, actually studies me, and that alone is enough to make my skin crawl. I don’t like being observed at the best of times, especially not when my brain is a crime scene of dirty memories, and my dick is a filthy, Wolf-wanting traitor.
Shirking his attention isn’t easy, but I direct him to bug Ares and Mikko, our goalies huddled together in a corner.
I change, lace up, pretend I know how to be a functioning human being. We hit the ice for a mandatory light skate and scrimmage, and that’s when the first crack in the mask appears.
Hudson bumps me—lightly—and I snap. “Watch it,” I bark. Shit. Shit. That was definitely too sharp. It was also too fast, too loud, too… everything. I’m the composed, stoic, role model the younger guys aspire to be and look to for my calm presence.
Hudson skids back, his face pale. “Holy shit, dude. What crawled up your ass?”
Xavier Martinez. That’s what crawled up my ass. Or… I fucking wish he crawled up my ass, then I’d have gotten this itch out of my system. But he’s around it. Near it. Adjacent to it. I don’t know, my brain is soup.
“Just tired.” It’s a pathetic excuse not even I buy. “Sorry.”
None of the guys seem to believe me either, and my brother gives me a wary stare from between the pipes, but everyone lets it go. Because I’m a big, bad bastard, and they’re all afraid of me.
Xavier’s not afraid of me.
Jesus fucking Christ I need to get that man out of my head.
Practice ends. Showers happen. I avoid eye contact with literally everyone because if someone looks even a few degrees too closely at me, I might spontaneously combust. Or punch them.
That wouldn’t end well when I’m working on staying inside the lines at school and in hockey.
Rule number one for a hockey player is pretty much never punch your teammate.
Eli claps a hand on my shoulder as we’re pulling on hoodies and winter coats. “We’re getting food. You’re coming.”
It’s not a question. And I go, because refusing would raise even more red flags. I might be a bit of a loner, the quiet, scowly one in the room, but when it comes to my hockey family, I show the fuck up. Always.
We smash into a booth at a bar, and the pulsing behind my eyes gets even worse. The boys are loud, laughing, ordering obscene amounts of wings. I fucking love wings. Does Xavier like wings? Most people do, right? Could I even date him if he didn’t like wings?
Date him? Ha. Nope. That thought doesn’t last long because I try to insert myself into the conversation. Keep it light. Normal. But my phone buzzes. Just once, that’s it, just one vibration. And my heart stops like someone yanked the plug out of the wall.
I shouldn’t look. If I pick up my phone, I pick up the check. Not that I’d let one of the rookies pay for the entire table when things are more than tight for a couple of them, but it’s the principle of the thing, right?
Leading by example means not picking up your phone to talk to someone who isn’t here at the table.
It’s being present, ignoring the vibration, ignoring technology and the outside world entirely—unless we’re somewhere with gaming pads, and we can all kick each other’s asses over trivia questions while we eat.
I shouldn’t even breathe in its direction. But my traitor eyes flick down.
Goal Daddy: How’s the rage spiral?
Another buzz.
Goal Daddy: It’s really rude to hang up on someone and not pick up the phone when they call back, Artemis.
Goal Daddy: If your upbringing wasn’t already so *public* I’d think you were raised by wild animals.
My fork slips from my fingers. A metallic clatter rings out around the booth, everyone looks.
Ares raises an eyebrow. “You good?”
I nod maybe just a little too fast. “Fine.”
His brow arches, his eyes narrow, and his fingers drum the table next to his plate. He knows I’m lying. The more he stares at me the more exposed I feel. It’s like he can see that inside I am a glitching computer program.
But I can’t shake the thoughts loose.
Why is Xavier texting me?
Didn’t hanging up tell him I was done? That whatever this thing might be between us is over before it’s even caught fire? The better question is why does my stomach flip like a teenager’s at the sight of his name on my screen?
I don’t answer. I flip the phone face-down on the table and pretend wings are super interesting. But my brain? It’s humming. Buzzing. Pulsing like a live wire. Betraying me with every sensory detail it can recall from the night in the back seat of my SUV.
The boys are talking about fantasy hockey league and holiday plans and whether Levi can grow a beard—he cannot, as the last two Movember attempts have proven—but it’s like listening through water.
My pulse is in my throat as I think about Xavier’s surprisingly delicate touch brushing against my cheek, the way he slid his fingers into my hair.
The phone buzzes again. I don’t fight the urge to flip it over, but I glare at Ares who smirks.
“I didn’t pick it up, just flipped it over.”
“Po-tay-to, free wings-o.” He’s grinning like the cat that got the cream.
Goal Daddy: Ignoring me? Rude.
Goal Daddy: Want me to come to Iowa and fix your attitude?
Fucking hell. I choke on a sip of water.
“Jesus, Arte.” Levi hands me a napkin. “What is wrong with you today?”
Everything. Absolutely everything is wrong with me today.
“I’m fine.” Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie. Liar, liar pants on fucking fire. I tell myself to put the phone away. Turn it off. Launch it into a glass of water. Flush it down the toilet. I have self-control. I do. I pride myself on my control, my poise, my ability to compartmentalize.
Except I’m not in control, and this shit is not compartmentalized. Xavier Martinez is an invasive species, and somehow, he’s managed to breach my first line of defense. I almost snort. First line? Dude’s commanding my every thought without even trying. Multiple lines.
What would it be like if we actually fucked?
Shit. No. Rewind. Put that thought back in the tube and screw the lid on tight.
No fucking. No dating.
I pick up my cell in the middle of some stupid team debate about Christmas movies and type before thinking:
Artemis: You’re insufferable, Xavier. I’m busy. Some of us have more to do than sit around waiting for their phone to light up.
He reads it instantly. The three little dots appear. It’s the moment my mask fully cracks, falls off, shatters on the floor. Because I want whatever he’s about to say like I want my next breath. The boys could be singing the Canadian national anthem around me, and I wouldn’t hear it.
The reply arrives.
Goal Daddy: Xavier. So formal.
Goal Daddy: Wings with the team? What’s the matter? Can’t multitask?
Goal Daddy: You didn’t sound like you were thinking about your job last night when you had your hand wrapped around your dick.
My entire spine locks. I look up because someone’s talking to me, asking something I can’t quite hear.
I nod automatically. The restaurant is too warm.
My legs bounce under the table, something Ares picks up on because he does it too.
He kicks me, but it doesn’t still my jittery limbs. I can’t breathe right. I text again.
Artemis: Don’t bring that up again.
He immediately replies, again, almost as quickly as I hit send.
Goal Daddy: It’s always up for you, boo.
I shove the phone away like it’s made of TNT.
Levi leans in. “Seriously, man. You’re vibrating. What’s going on?” He speaks quietly. He’s too perceptive. His concern is mirrored in my younger brother’s eyes as they stare at me from across the table.
And for a second—just a second—I almost tell him, them. I say out loud that I did something last night I can’t stop thinking about, that I let someone touch a part of me I didn’t know was there. That I liked it. I like him.
But I snap the mask back into place, thin and brittle as fresh ice. “Stress,” I say. “Work.” I qualify.
He studies me, nodding slowly. Other than Ares, the guys on the team don’t know the in-depth details of what I do. And something like concern flickers in my teammate’s eyes. “Want to go out again tomorrow?”
“And every fucking day after until you stop looking like a haunted poet.” My brother is flying too close to the sun, he’s about to get his wings singed.
I huff a laugh. Barely. “I’m good. I need less time out, more time finishing up some things for work.” I knead at the tense muscles at the back of my neck. “Really. I appreciate the concern.” I’m talking straight to Ares now. “But I’ll be okay once I get past the next few weeks.”
There is a package waiting for me when I get home. Of course there fucking is. It sits on the sofa next to me for the hour I catch up on emails, and the second hour I accidentally fall asleep, but I can’t fight the urge anymore.
I know before opening it, who sent it. And when I find a pillow with Xavier’s beautiful face on it, I finally let the truth hit. I am not okay. And I want him.