Chapter 42
Artemis
Ifucking hate long distance. I hate that my day feels split clean in half—before he replies and after he does. It’s like my mood’s been outsourced into another body.
The movies always make it look so… romantic. But it’s not. It’s really fucking not. It’s painful. Physically, emotionally, every which way, it fucking hurts.
Christmas at the Martinez’s last week is like a long-departed dream, a fuzzy haze of bliss that doesn’t feel quite real.
I should have stayed another night, stolen some alone time with Xavier instead of living with a painfully rigid and unserved hard-on that seems to be a permanent fixture in my life right now.
With each day that passes, rational logic gets further away, too. I’m in too deep. Like, so deep. I can’t stop thinking of him, I grin like a damn Cheshire cat when he replies to my messages, I yearn—actually fucking yearn to hear his voice at night.
It’s bad. So damn bad. I’m one missed good-morning text away from chartering a flight I absolutely do not have time for.
I loved every minute of our families spending time together, and at the same time, I hate that I loved it.
I hate that I crave it. I want every holiday to be like that, loud, messy, fun.
I want to send him the world. Yes, the whole thing. With a giant ribbon bow tied around it. But considering how he reacted to the delivery of gifts the day after I left, I need to give it a while before I send him anything else.
His mom fucking loved it though, she said so herself in the group chat.
Yup. Our moms put all of us together in one chaotic group chat.
What’s worse is, it might be my new favorite thing.
Even Apollo’s fucked up memes can’t ruin it.
And trust me, he tries. He’s got some really fucked up memes and literally no shame.
I’ve had to keep the chat muted all week because it’s been so busy.
Everyone loves everyone. Okay, that’s not quite true, we’re still in the honeymoon phase where people aren’t getting on each other’s nerves.
But it feels… real, like something tangible, precious, and I feel…
dare I even think it? Happy. And happy feels unsafe.
So, I’m back to wanting to give him the world, to keep him happy, so I might get to stay happy too.
I’m effervescent with excitement at the prospect of seeing him on the ice. Effervescent. Me. And my brothers fucking know it, too because they keep elbowing each other and looking over at me as we prepare to skate out to play against the Wolves.
I’d like to talk to a manager, because whoever thought playing my boyfriend’s team only twice a season was a good call was so very wrong. I’m itching to see him, like someone whose partner has been gone for months, not a fucking week. A week.
Scott and I haven’t talked about it. We’ve seen each other, but we’ve been surrounded by a sibling buffer. And from the way he keeps looking at me, a hundred bucks says my big-mouthed big sister has dropped me in it with my best friend.
A best friend I’ve been seeing less and less of lately. A best friend I’m certain to have a confrontation with any time now. Oh, goodie. That time’s right now. His name lights up my phone.
Scottie: Rumor has it you didn’t take my advice, and you’ve fallen ass-over-tit for a dirty Wolf.
Artemis: Rumor has a really big fucking mouth.
Scottie: I’m a little butt hurt you didn’t think you could talk to me about it, but I get it. I was kind of a dick.
Scottie: You’re supposed to say ‘no Scott, you’re not a dick’
Scottie: Fine. But only because I was a dick. If this is where your heart is, you have my support. Not that you need it. But you have it all the same.
Scottie: You know why?
He’s not going to shut the fuck up until I engage him.
Artemis: Why’s that?
Scottie: Because you were so fucking cool about it when I started seeing your sister.
Scottie: You only punched me that one time, and you didn’t even put all your feels behind it.
Scottie: It was like… a punch just for show.
Scottie: You can have Martinez. And I won’t even punch you. I’m nice like that.
Scottie: It’s game time, Arte-Farty.
Scottie: Don’t let him win just cause you want to bone him *winky emoji*
“Awwww, you kissed and made up with Scott?” Ares sits next to me on the bench, grinning at me with amusement painted on all his features that look almost exactly like mine and my twin brother’s.
“He’s been shipping you for a while. He’s team ArteVier.” He pauses, shakes his head, then purses his lips. “Xavimis?” Another pause.
“Please stop talking before you end my relationship before it even really starts.” Oh, it’s well past started, and I can finally admit that to myself. And Ares’s eye roll tells me he knows it too.
“Either way, he’s on the team. He was just trying to be the responsible ‘do your homework’ parent, instead of the ‘follow your heart’ grown up.”
I don’t like that my brother knows more about where my best friend is at than I do, but something about the fact Scott is on my side calms the choppy seas in my chest.
“Let’s go destroy them.” Ares keeps his voice low. “But not like, destroy, destroy. Just a little. Because you’re all loved up, and it’s adorable, and we don’t need you in the doghouse with your boo-thang because you threw him into the boards one too many times.”
The game starts with a bang, like we’ve all had time off over the holidays, filled ourselves with too many carbs and are ready to feel the spray on our skin and the chill in the air as we skate. The energy is tangible, like an extra man on both teams.
Xavier hits the ice like he owns the fucking place.
He’s fast tonight, too. Too fast, cutting through the neutral zone with that low, coiled posture that makes it look like he’s skating downhill while everyone else is slogging through wet mud.
And they’re really not, we’re all supercharged on turkey and extra sleep.
I should be watching the flow of play, the tactics, the structure of the game—anything except him, my boyfriend—but the second he touches the puck my brain short-circuits and goes to mush.
He toe-drags around one of our defensemen like he’s bored, as if this is child’s play, not college hockey, as if he isn’t goading me into jumping out there and showing him who’s boss.
I can’t, because I’m not actually sure who is the boss. It sure as hell feels like he’s the boss of me, but he can’t be, not here, not in our barn.
He’s a show-off. Which is even more annoying because he has the skills to back it up. My chest squeezes tighter. His line cycles the puck, quick little triangle passes that click into place with the obnoxious synchronicity of people who actually trust each other.
Xavier calls for the return pass—the clanging of his stick on the ice bringing everyone’s eyes to him—and his winger obeys. Of course he does. People always fucking listen to him.
He’s the anchor of the team, the cornerstone, and so much better at playing hockey than his big brother could ever dream of. And I’m not just saying that because I love having my dick inside him.
Xavier cuts to the inside, his shoulders rolling, head swiveling, reading every inch of ice like it’s a language only he speaks. He shoots off his inside edge, his body bending in a way that’s entirely too erotic and fires a no-angle snapshot that pings off Ares’s blocker.
Ares swats it away like an annoying fly, the play continuing. The crowd roars anyway. Xavier looks over to the bench—just for a split second, just long enough that I feel it. There’s no wave, no smile, no secret signal. But he’s definitely checking, silently asking, Are you watching?
I look away a second too late, my gaze lingering because I can’t help it. Apollo clocks it next to me like he always fucking does. My pulse answers yes, too goddamn loudly, like I could possibly look anywhere but at Xavier when he’s on the ice.
Then he turns, back-checking hard, shoulders set, jaw locked, already hunting the next play. And I’m sitting there, fists tight on my knees, pretending I’m not five seconds from coming apart over a man who’s bleeding blue across the ice.
We’re two minutes from the end of the first. We’re down by a goal, scored by Xavier, and he’s taken to prodding Ares, taunting him out of his crease.
He’s realized the only way to beat my brother is for him to beat himself.
But Ares isn’t falling for it. He’s cool, calm, and spouting chirps back about how Xavier needs to get laid, or how he’ll tell Xavier’s mommy that he’s being mean.
If it wasn’t an all-together supercharged game with tempers rising, I’d find it hilarious, encourage it even.
But there’s a whisper in the air, a daring undercurrent that tells me this game’s balancing on a knife edge.
Something in my spine pulls tight, like the ice itself is warning me.
It’s like a heavy storm overhead about to break.
I’d love to say it’s paranoia, but when one of our defenders—not quite built as big as me—skates in Xavier’s direction, life slows to a standstill.
His body shunts into the plexi with a God-awful crunch, and he collapses onto the ice like a leaf in the wind.
My heart stops, my hammering pulse going so fucking fast I don’t know how I’m still breathing.
Xavier’s not moving. He’s right there on the fucking ice, still, small, and I can’t fucking go to him.
Ares looks at me from his crease, his eyes going wide behind his mask because without me telling them to, my legs have lifted me off the bench, and I’m skating as fast as I can toward where Xavier is a crumpled heap. He’s still not moving.
The medics surround my guy, blocking off access, so that leaves the fucking defender. Running on fury and bone-deep fear, I get in his face, grabbing his shirt. “The fuck were you thinking?” My snarl drains all the color from his face.
“I-I didn’t mean to hurt him, Cap. It was a clean check.” His voice breaks, like he fucking knows it wasn’t clean, like he’s terrified of me ripping his head off his body.
“If he doesn’t get up, you and I are going to have a problem you can’t chirp your way out of. Are we clear?” I heave out a heavy breath, forcing air into my lungs. “He didn’t have the puck.” My voice is freakishly calm, steady, and nothing like the inferno raging inside my body.
I turn back to Xavier, and right as I plan to launch myself into the huddle of bodies, a goalie glove hits me square in the chest, pushing me back a couple feet.
“Let them work. Give them space.” His voice wavers, it’s unsteady, like the fear in his eyes.
“They’re the ones he needs right now.” His glove shakes against my chest. That’s what finally sinks its claws into me—Ares is scared too.
Shit. He’s the fearless brother of the three of us. Gods of war don’t have time for fear.
His words land, though, and I stop, watching helplessly as my fingers itch to check Xavier’s pulse, to feel the warm thrum under his skin and know he’s alive, he’s okay. Wake up. Please, just… wake up.
You could hear a pin drop around the arena, everyone’s holding their breath, waiting. Because no matter who goes down on the ice, rivalries get set aside when people get hurt.
The irony that it took for him to be unconscious before I made any kind of public gesture isn’t beyond me. My glance flits to the defender who’s worrying his lip and looking at me like he’s afraid for his life. Good. He fucking should be.
“It’s career suicide, Artemis.” Ares’s soothing voice does little to actually soothe me. “He’s on your own team.” His hand remains braced against my chest, like he doesn’t trust me to let go. Good call. I wouldn’t either. I don’t trust myself.
Xavier is stretchered off the ice, still sleeping. It’s what I have to tell myself, so I don’t go nuclear. He’s sleeping. That’s all. I skate back to the bench but barely stop to tell Coach I’m leaving.
“You’ll be benched.” His voice is heavy with caution. “You know the rules, kid. Think of the consequences.”
“I am,” I answer flatly. “Just not the ones you want me to. I could be benched, lose ice time, get extra punishment drills, lose my C.” I suck in a breath because that one stings.
“I’d be in the doghouse with you, the other coaches, my teammates, abandoning your team mid-game is the ultimate betrayal.
I’d likely lose any respect I have earned. ”
It’s not that I haven’t considered the consequences of my actions. I just don’t fucking care anymore. There’s no NCAA fine, even if there was, I’d pay it without flinching. Any suspension is Coach’s decision, not league mandated. And any discipline would be internal team assigned.
Xavier is more important than any possible outcome, including my father knowing about him. Which I’d hazard a guess he already does. I drag my eyes from the floor to meet Coach’s hard stare. “It’s a family emergency.”
“How would you know? You don’t have a phone on the bench.”
My stare drifts to the ice, to where Xavier was hit, to where his body lay unmoving for longer than I’m willing to think about right now because if I do, I’ll hurt someone. “Martinez is family, Coach. I’m going to the hospital.” I shrug. “Do what you have to do.”
And I leave.