Preston
“What’s wrong with that dude?” I whisper to Jude as we sit on the counter in Kane’s downtown penthouse.
“I told you. He’s fighting with Dahlia.” Jude slides my meds over with a bottle of water.
My mother, everyone.
Always making sure I take my pills—even when she’s disguised as a six-foot-five serial killer.
He’s probably Julian’s spy, the devil’s advocate part of my brain whispers.
Zip it, demon. Don’t you dare talk about my bro Jude like that.
Seriously, Jude hates Julian more than anyone and barely gets along with him. Different strokes for different dysfunctional families, I guess.
“But that’s something to celebrate, not mope about.” I grin and swallow the meds. “Yo, Kane! I can find you someone way better than Destiny!”
He shoots me a death glare over his shoulder. “Shut it, Pres.”
“Come on, you can’t possibly be a grumpy little shit because of her. She screams double agent. I have sources. I’ll have proof of her espionage any day now.”
“Doesn’t matter.” He dumps stir-fried rice on our plates with so much tension in his shoulders, it’s almost impressive that he doesn’t snap.
“Hey, what’s with the sad-orphanage presentation?” I point my fork at him. “Why are we being punished for the emotional damage inflicted by Dior?”
“Shut your mouth and eat.” He turns to the stove.
I make a face at his back. Jude quietly shakes his head at me like I’m a toddler holding a grenade.
I honestly don’t get why Kane is sulking. So Dinah is gone? Good riddance, for all I care. I never vibed with that girl.
Because she slept with Marcus, my inner demon whispers, cackling maniacally.
Nooo.
It’s because she’s untrustworthy and sketchy as fuck. And Kane knows it but refuses to see it because he’s smitten like a Disney princess.
It has absolutely nothing to do with that degenerate Marcus I refuse to think about.
We on the same page, demon? Good.
Kane fusses with whatever’s sizzling on the stove, half naked, with just joggers hanging low on his hips.
Kane actually hates getting naked. He’s always the first or last to shower and dresses faster than the speed of light. That’s because he doesn’t like people seeing the scars tangled with his serpent tattoos.
Around Jude and me, though, he doesn’t care. We’ve seen each other’s scars since we were kids. We were there when some of them happened—like Kane’s fresh lashes, courtesy of his dad’s punishments.
Eventually, we stopped asking and just offered silent support.
But that’s not why I’m watching him while chewing my food as if it owes me money.
Objectively speaking, Kane is attractive—handsome in the “neighbor who ruins the curve” kind of way. Not ethereal like me, obviously, but still easy on the eyes. Hot body. Massive dick. A certified panty-dropper with the ladies.
And yet…my cock doesn’t even twitch. Not a salute. Not a hiccup. Absolutely dormant.
Unlike what happened five days ago.
I shift uncomfortably because, apparently, just remembering that unorthodox incident is enough to make my traitorous dick stretch and make its presence known.
I tear my gaze from Kane and study Jude, who’s stuffing his face with rice. Jude’s rugged, the opposite of my pretty-boy aesthetic. We’re like a duo from a punchline—Prince Charming and the Resident Bad Boy.
And, okay, Jude is similar to Marcus in build, but not the face.
Marcus has that angular, predatory businessman look. Jude’s more “I hate everyone. Don’t talk to me.”
Yet still…nothing.
I even checked—purely scientific research—while Jude was showering after practice. Somewhat creepy, yes, but I needed data.
If I were into men, wouldn’t my dick choose one of my besties? They know my shit. I’d die for them. They’d die for me. Together, we’d be the most powerful threesome humanity has ever seen.
But nope.
My dick has friend-zoned Jude, Kane, and every other guy in existence into the next millennium.
Trust me, I also checked out the team during my creepy session, and nope. Not even a pity pulse.
But at least the “Am I broken?” crisis was lessened, because I remain the most beautiful specimen of the Vipers.
Thank God for small mercies.
Another part of me was relieved it wasn’t Jude or Kane, because that would mean I’m only now discovering I like men.
Which would add to my list of personal catastrophes.
Not to mention Vencor’s delightful tradition of killing gay members. Not metaphorically. Actually killing them.
Kane’s uncle, Kayden, barely escaped execution after being caught in a tryst with his student. He was excommunicated, not murdered, because being a Founding member and owning half of the Davenports’ shares buys you a second chance at breathing.
Still, Kane has to meet him outside the borders like he’s visiting a banned wizard.
I really don’t need to add “gay tendencies” to my rap sheet when Vencor already thinks I’m unfit to lead.
Too reckless.
Too impulsive.
Too mentally unsound.
Too…broken.
Honestly, I’m not sure why Dad keeps backing me in the race to inheritance, going against everyone—Grandpa, Grandma, and all the other leaders.
He should just disown me or let Uncle Atlas have the leadership.
I sincerely don’t give a fuck about inheriting an empire built on blood where I was only born to fit a role.
But yeah, adding “occasionally horny for a man” to my curriculum of misbehavior might actually be the thing that finally bumps me out of Dad’s protective bubble and gets me killed.
That inflexible man certainly would disapprove.
Not that I need his approval.
Because this is a phase.
I even asked Dr. Duret—vaguely, not mentioning Marcus or the coming-while-being-spanked incident—if a straight guy can find a man attractive.
She said yes so casually, like she wasn’t detonating my worldview.
Apparently, straight men can “experiment” sometimes. After that, they either discover they like both or prefer men, or they realize it’s not for them and return to women.
I’m obviously in that last category. Clearly. Because, hello? Jude or Kane would be my first choice, not some asshole who annoys me so much I want to commit homicide and also maybe have a stroke.
“You guys on form for tomorrow’s game?” Kane asks as he sits diagonally from me, picking at his food and barely eating.
“Always.” I grin.
“You should ask yourself that.” Jude takes a sip of his water. “Considering all the moping.”
“Yeah.” I nod. “You look like death warmed under the weather.”
Jude gives me an exasperated look. “You mean death warmed over. Under the weather is another thing.”
“I meant to use them together. And Kane looks like both.”
“You have a point,” Jude lets out in a grunt.
“I always do, big man. Don’t go stating the obvious.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll perform as usual.” He takes a spoonful toward his mouth, then puts it back down and points at Jude. “If you don’t get violent for most of the game, and you…” He drags his finger to me. “Play like the last game. We’ll be fine.”
I swallow the mouthful of rice with difficulty, but I force a grin. “I always play in top form.”
“No, last time was possibly your best game of the season so far,” Kane says. “Definitely makes up for whatever clusterfuck happened when we played against the Wolves.”
“So I had an off day, and you keep bringing it up like a broken flash drive, but Jude is always in the box, and he gets a free pass?”
“Hey, why are you bringing me into this?” Jude shoves my shoulder with his. “And it’s a broken record, not a broken flash drive.”
“Keep up with the technology, bitch.” I shove him back and then kick him under the counter for good measure.
“Jude does not get a free pass,” Kane says.
“Yeah, have you seen him nagging me every day like a bored housewife? With you joining, asshole?”
“That’s because you sabotage all my good work!” I throw my hands in the air.
“Well, you sabotaged mine against the Wolves, but you don’t see me talking about that.”
“You are now! Wanna fight, motherfucker?”
“Don’t be dramatic when you lose.”
“I’m gonna fuck you up.”
“You can try, Pres.”
“Enough,” Kane says in a cutting tone, putting a halt to my and Jude’s usual bouts of arguing that have a ninety-nine percent chance of ending up in a fight.
Now that I think about it, Jude and I often fight, punching each other just to get that aggression out. Have I ever gotten hard during any of those? The answer is no.
My dick has never reacted in any way like it did around Marcus.
Fuck this, honestly.
“Point is,” Kane says with a note of exasperation, having always hated playing the role of a mediator. “You played perfectly against the Ravens. We need that tomorrow. We’re only one point ahead of the Wolves, and one loss puts them in first.”
“Not on my watch,” I snarl.
“Exactly. So do whatever you did before the last game to play like that again.”
Ah yes.
Skating around with a bruised, throbbing ass courtesy of Marcus Osborn, that’s what I did.
And absolutely fucking not, that is not happening again.
I’m not about to use “getting manhandled by my rival” as my pregame ritual.
I’m going back to my default setting—women.
Now if I could just find one—anyone—attractive enough to awaken my borderline-insubordinate dick, that would be fantastic.
Like, please, universe, I’m begging.
Send a hottie immediately before my sexuality finishes its Windows reboot and picks Marcus as the default browser.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. Once, then again.
I pull it out, and fuck my life, it’s Marcus.
Seriously, universe? I ask for a hottie, and you send him?
I meant a hot woman, goddamn it.
Marcus is now named Problem #11 in my contacts—for his jersey number. Hilarious, I know. I had him as PMS (Perpetual Male Syndrome) for a few days after that night, which was genius, if I may say so myself.
After that incident, I expected him to come find me in the locker room, which is why I was basically fleeing, just putting my jacket, pants, and shoes on, then I was out, leaving the place a fucking mess.
I just couldn’t face whatever the fuck happened in that penalty box—and no, it wasn’t me. I’ll deny it until I die.