Chapter 33
Artemis
I’m not a blend in and go unnoticed kind of guy. Thankfully, most of the fans around the rink don’t pay attention to me. A few people stare for long moments before they shake their heads like they must be wrong.
Surely a dirty Raccoon wouldn’t randomly stroll into the Wolves Den for no reason, right?
This was a fucking mistake. The sharp tang of the ice mixes with the faint sweetness of hot cocoa from the concession stand, and all I can think about is the way Xavier owns this damn rink the way he owns my attention.
The second the cold air hit my face, regret punched me square in the sternum. I should’ve stayed home. I should’ve lied. I should’ve faked pneumonia.
I’m sitting up out of the way, and yet I feel like I’m under a magnifying glass. No amount of telling myself I’m just watching a hockey game is helping. I’m sitting rod-straight in these stupid, uncomfortable chairs built for people half my size.
During warmup, it’s so fucking hard not to stare. But emails on my phone can’t pull my attention away from my boyfriend. That’s what he is now, right? Shit.
I have a boyfriend?
I have a boyfriend.
Panic wells as he warms up, oblivious to the fact I’m having an identity crisis in the stands because we have a label now. A fucking label. One that I gave to us. Me. Mr. No men or distractions from hockey. Mr. Stick to the plan. Mr. Ten Rules.
Dios mío.
On the ice, Xavier is confident, skilful, and skating rings around his teammates. I fidget with my jacket, try to refocus on my phone but every pass pulls my gaze back to the man who seems to be handling my heart the same way he handles the puck.
He winds up for a slap shot, and I swear I feel the vibration in my chest before the puck even hits the net. If I pretend hard enough that I don’t care, maybe he won’t notice how I keep looking anyway.
I get snacks before the game starts. If my hands and mouth are occupied, I won’t be tempted to stand up, beat my chest, and scream to the masses that he’s my guy. There are too many people… too many chances for someone to look at me long enough to see something I don’t want to show.
I’m not ashamed of my sexuality, but keeping Xavier a secret from my family, friends, and most importantly my father right at the mouth of this merger is important.
Papá would use any weakness against me, and the more I stare at Xavier Martinez on the ice, the clearer it is that he’s quickly turning into my Achilles heel.
During the first, he steals my goddamn breath away.
Who the hell taught him to move like that?
Something sharp twists low in my stomach when a group of girls scream his name.
Jealousy—because clearly, I hate myself.
I tell myself I’m not bothered, but the way he smiles back at them lights a fuse I didn’t know I had.
Then one of the visiting defenders brushes against him, and I swear I want to leap over the plexi and smack the poor bastard for daring to breathe on my man. Why is that other player even anywhere close to him?
I clench my jaw, a hot pulse of possessiveness surging through my body.
He’s mine. Look at him. God, I can’t even pretend not to want him right now.
I take note of the opposing player giving him shit.
We play them next week. It would be awful if he skated into my elbow or something and busted his face.
Terrible. Such a shame. Well worth a trip to the box.
In the second period, Xavier wipes his face down with a towel on the bench, and all moisture in my mouth dissipates like water in the desert.
He makes eye contact as he adjusts his helmet, with a knowing smirk on his face that tells me I’m not doing a good job of hiding the fact I want to bend him over the fucking bench and rail him till he spurts cum all over the damn ice.
Christ. I’m losing it. My patience, my composure, my goddamn mind.
My pulse rattles in my throat when he takes back possession of the puck. I curl my fingers around the chair in front of me, the cool rink air colliding with the heat radiating from my skin as he skates past where I sit.
He’s showing off. For me. It’s like he’s taunting me, goading me into standing up and saying he’s mine. He keeps glancing over to check if I’m watching, then immediately pulls some showy little maneuver that should be illegal… crossovers, flashy assists, backhand goals.
He’s on fire. And I’m right there with him.
In the third, he winks at me after he scores a goal. He fucking winks. He knows exactly what he’s doing to me, and instead of helping, he’s deliberately making it worse. The man will be my undoing.
The roar of the crowd doesn’t drown out the roar of my heart in my ears. The echo of skates on the ice undulates in my chest, like Xavier’s slicing through each of my defenses with freakish precision.
The sound of the puck hitting the ice, the crunch of pads against the plexi, none of it is loud enough to drown out the distracting inner monologue where I want to claim him in front of everyone, to mark my territory, to tell the world if they hurt him, they’ll have me to answer to. This possessiveness is overwhelming.
He wins the first star of the game, deservedly so, and his team surrounds him in a melee of celebration and head pats. I want to rip the arms off every single one of them just for touching my man.
By the time I’m back in my car, my palms are still damp, my heart still racing. I’m exhausted, hard as hell, and completely undone by a man who scored a goal and my heart in the same motion.
My phone buzzes with a text from the man of the hour.
Goal Daddy: The guys are going to the bar, wanna join?
My stomach sinks. That’s… so public. So out there. I’d have to explain to his teammates why I’m even there. It’s a conversation I’m not even ready to have with my closest family members, let alone people who want to destroy me on the scoreboard.
Before I can question myself, I type out a reply and hit send.
This little side quest was fun while it lasted, but real life awaits, and for me, right now, that’s not hanging out in a bar with my boyfriend and his friends.
Apparently, it’s running like fuck back to my comfort zone of eighteen-hour workdays and keeping my head buried in the sand.