Chapter 23
Xavier
At what point in our lives do we abandon all our childhood fun to become adults?
Not even the fluorescent buzz of the overhead lights or the faint smell of cheap beer can drown out my inner monologue tonight.
It’s a weird question I’ve wondered throughout college. Mostly because all around me, my peers seem to be stripping their childhood magic like peeling the skin off an orange. And what’s left is a serious adult.
Not the hockey team, however. We refuse to let the fun go. Is that because we’re a bunch of technically legal adults who live together and who love playing pranks on each other?
I mean, we’re not Marc-Andre Fleury level pranksters, but, come on, who is? That guy will go down in history for more than being one of the best goaltenders the NHL has ever seen. And those pranks? Chef’s kiss. I can only dream.
Tonight, the guys and I did the local arcade. Is there anything more fun than Skee-ball, Whac-a-mole, and gaming cult classics like Pac-Man and Space Invaders? If there is, I haven’t found it yet. Other than being on the ice, I mean.
Except for the enforcer-sized itch between my shoulder blades I’ve been trying to ignore all fucking night.
There was something freeing about hanging out with the guys and playing competitive games with no stakes other than bragging rights. As usual, Ollie wiped the floor with most of us. Oliver Lindstrom is a master at all things gaming. He’s like, a genius, or something.
Truth be told, I needed the distraction tonight. Every day has been the same, and it’s driving me closer to doing something stupid like getting my ass in the car and driving to Iowa. Again.
Isn’t stupidity doing the same thing over and over and expecting different outcomes?
I’ve been so intent on holding the line, staying on the right side of Captain Restraint’s fucking boundary, that I’ve turned back into the model student. I haven’t missed a class, I haven’t failed a fucking test, I have even done more than my fair share on group projects.
I’m basically a saint.
My room was a cramped shrine to my GPA, the desk light illuminating stacks of ledger paper that competed for space with my vintage Pac-Man lamp that Sofia gave me for my birthday a couple years ago.
Was it tempting to give Artemis’s number to every kid in the arcade tonight and tell them it’s the number for Santa’s hotline? Absolutely. Anything to ruffle those perfectly pressed feathers of his.
I’m half asleep in the backseat of Colton’s car on our way back to the hockey house, my face pressed against the freezing cold window as we’re cramped in the back seat.
Three giant hockey players crammed in the back of his Matchbox car would make anyone laugh.
Colton taps the brakes a little too sharply to pull me out of my near slumber. “Prick.”
He grins at me in the rearview. “It was just a love tap.”
“I knew I should have gone in the other car.”
He smirks. “You hate Lachlan’s music.” He has me there.
One thing I’ve been working on over the last couple weeks is not being quite so obsessed with watching my phone screen light up while waiting for a certain delicious hockey player to message. With mixed results.
But I’ve managed to ignore the burning brick in my pocket for most of the night.
As I get out of the car, I give in and fish it out, and damn near trip over my own feet because his name is on my screen.
My heart hiccups, my body threatening to keel over because even the sight of his fucking name has thrown my body out of whack.
Artemis: Where are you?
As I open the chat, he starts typing again.
Artemis: Never mind. You’re back. Don’t go inside.
My stomach tightens, and I resist the urge to dislocate my neck to look for him while I hang back from the guys.
“You coming?” Gus hooks a thumb at the house.
“In a bit.” I can barely keep still, but I busy myself by unlocking my phone screen and being a dick back to Artemis. Just ‘cause.
Goal Daddy: Did you get lost?
Goal Daddy: You’re not in Iowa anymore, Toto.
My stomach sinks after I hit send. What if something’s wrong?
What if he’s hurt, or needs a friend? Guilt swirls through my chest as I turn to see him leaning against the driver-side door of his SUV parked outside the hockey house, with a casual smirk on his usually serious face.
His energy hits like a sudden drop in temperature tingling against my face. I don’t think anything is wrong.
Artemis: I know exactly where I am, Xavier.
That alone sends a chill zipping up my spine, my breath catching in the cool winter air. I’m definitely reading too much into it. But that feels like a threat, or a promise, I can’t determine which.
Artemis: Hurry the fuck up, Xavier.
Something about his little demands makes my cock stand to attention, so every step toward him becomes more and more painful. My footsteps crunch with every step, it’s not snow, yet, but that bite is in the air, making my breath steam.
Goal Daddy: Why?
Goal Daddy: In a rush?
I stop just out of arm’s reach, taking in how the night shadows still manage to highlight his strong features and make him look like a striking angel of darkness.
A low growl rumbles deep inside him as he looks me dead in the eye.
He’s bubbling with energy, an intensity radiating from him that I haven’t seen before.
“I am actually.”
I can’t help it. I poke the tall, dark, and handsome bear.
“Oh, yeah? Got tickets for a late show or something?” I tip my head to the side, something I’ve noticed drives him a little mad.
He always flares his nostrils, clenches his teeth, or wiggles his fingers like he wants to reach out and put my head back upright.
“The more you talk shit the less I want to fuck you.” His voice drops. He examines his nails like what he says is no big deal, but from the way his chest heaves, I can tell he’s doing all he can not to rail me right here where we both stand.
And I don’t believe him, I think the more shit I talk, the more he wants to fuck me.
My dick is now very interested in the conversation. It’s practically reaching out to the man standing in a winter coat looking at me right in the fucking eyes. It’s breathtaking. Having his entire attention rips into my chest and jiggles all my organs around.
I want to have chill. But I have zero chill around this guy. And it’s clear I can’t breathe until I get this out of my system. And by this, I obviously mean… him. Fuck. He’s here to fuck me? Really?
He certainly looks like he’s ready to eat me alive, and I can’t take my eyes away from the way he drags his tongue across his bottom lip.
“Get in the fucking car, Xavier.” His precision is turning feral, fraying at the edges right in front of my eyes.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say something funny, to push back, make him wait, make him work for it.
But I don’t want him to flee. It’s taken a lot for him to come here, I know that much.
And I also know that I want to fuck him, or be fucked by him.
Either way, I want the fucking. So I go against my natural instinct to be a punk and get in the fucking car.
The drive to wherever we’re going is quiet, strained with so much sexual tension I almost blow my load in my pants. But one of us has already done that, and I’m not generally one for following where someone else has already been. I like to blaze my own path.
Streetlights strobe through the windows, catching on my pant leg as my knee bounces. I’m not the only one affected, Artemis is gripping the steering wheel just a liiiiittle too hard. Does he want to touch me as much as I want to touch him? Is that why his knuckles are so white?
By the time we pull up in front of a house in the burbs, my whole body is quivering with anticipation. I’m half-convinced this is a dream. A suburban porch with a light, a Christmas wreath already on the door, and two beautiful poinsettias welcome us to whatever bizarro world I’ve stepped into.
I barely have the car door open, and he’s tugging me out of the vehicle, down the garden path, and through the front door, which he opens with a fucking key. Interesting.
I don’t ask, but I want to. Does he own this place?
If so, why? A more likely situation is that he hired a temporary rental as it’s less public than a hotel.
A barb of shame and frustration at the fact he’s hiding me slithers under my skin, but not even that is enough to counter the buzzing heat fluttering and growing through my entire being.
The door is barely closed behind me, the sound echoing in an empty hallway, when he pounces.
He slams his palm against the door next to my head, as if to ensure its closed, but the frustrated grunt that accompanies it tells me there’s a little piece of him that doesn’t want this or regrets it before it’s even happened.
That leaves me with a choice: do I walk away knowing he’ll probably ghost me all over again tomorrow? Or do I say fuck it and dip my toe in the holy fountain of de la Pena?
His breath tickles the shell of my ear as he sucks in shaky mouthfuls of air.
His strong palm cups my throat, not choking, just a little pressure and the thrum of my pulse against his hand.
He forces my chin up, and my head to rest against the heavy wooden door.
He scans my face, seemingly looking for imperfections, or the answer to an age-old question, who the fuck knows?
I shift under his unrelenting stare. No one has ever… observed me, no, studied me like this before, and I’m not sure what to do with that.
His grumbling chest rumbles against mine, sending little lightning bolts of a deep, aching desire dancing all over my body. I don’t know which part of me is more turned on, they’re all lighting up at once.
He drags his thumb across my lips, his mouth moving, mumbling something too low for me to hear. “What secrets lie behind these lips, Martinez?”
I’m called Martinez all the time. It’s something my teammates have called me since I started playing hockey, but this? The way he snarls it at me? So. Fucking. Hot.
I bite my bottom lip, stopping whatever stupid as shit thing is right there begging to come out. I’m not putting him off doing anything to me by saying something dumb. And yet, the urge to poke at him is still right there…
He leans closer, dragging his nose up the length of my cheek and into my hair, then closes his eyes like he’s an addict who has just taken a hit of something potent.
When his eyes snap open, a wild man stares directly into my soul.
His lips twitch. His jaw hardens, and he gives one solitary shake of his head.
His hand tightens around my throat. “Fuck it.”