4. Dan
DAN
“Arson! Neil’s here.”
My head jerked up at the sound of Jay’s voice so close to my ear. “Huh?”
“Neil’s at the door.”
“Oh, okay. Carry on my game. Don’t let me die.” I passed him my PS5 controller, and he rolled his eyes at me.
“What’s it worth?”
“You still owe me. Do I need to bring up the time you voluntarily hung out with my nemesis again?”
“Do you need to? No. Yet you do. Frequently.” He smirked, so I gave him my middle finger.
It wasn’t true, at all. I’d mentioned it once or twice.
Three times, max. Maybe four. Five at a push.
But it had been a betrayal of epic proportions.
Jay had done some hockey drills with Lincoln Bellingham, which was borderline unforgivable.
Okay, it was because he was frustrated with the fact that our goalie, Anton Volkov, had been antagonising him with the reminder that he was getting engaged to Nova, and maybe I had overreacted a tiny bit and goaded him into a fistfight during Anton and Nova’s engagement party, but even so.
Lincoln was infiltrating every area of my life, even the fun parts, and I didn’t like it one bit.
Leaving my annoying, smirking housemate to probably kill off my character, I vaulted off the sofa and jogged over to the door, where my uncle was indeed loitering.
“You can come in, you know. You don’t have to skulk around the outside like a salesman getting ready to sell me dodgy double glazing.”
Neil lifted a brow, gesturing to his worn jeans and battered tan leather jacket. “You think anyone’s gonna mistake me for a window salesman?”
“You never know.” I shrugged. “What can I do for you?”
“I need you to pass a message—”
Before he’d even finished the sentence, I was holding up my hands and groaning. “Me and Bellingham are not your personal errand boys.”
“Me and Bellingham.” He laughed. “Has a certain ring to it.”
“It fucking does not.” I huffed out a defeated breath. “Fine. What is it, and when do I need to get it to him? I don’t get why you can’t pass it to his uncle yourself.”
“You know why,” Neil said. “Mike can’t be seen to be in contact with me. You have an excuse. Both students, both hockey players, both—”
“Yeah, yeah. That’s all we have in common.”
He did a fake cough and muttered something under his breath that sounded like “Both obsessed with each other.” I glared at him, and he affected an innocent expression. “What? I didn’t say anything.”
“Course not. Just give me the info. I wish you’d switch to digital. Then I wouldn’t have to interact with him at all.”
“Digital information can be hacked. Paper is far safer. We can burn after reading.”
“Hey, remember when I used to help you burn things?”
He grinned, reaching up to ruffle my hair like he did when I was a kid. The effect was kind of ruined since I was taller than him now, but he was undeterred. “My little Arson. Always so willing to help me out, especially if it came to setting fire to incriminating evidence. What happened?”
“What happened was that I don’t get to burn anything anymore, and I have to suffer Lincoln Bellingham’s excruciating presence.” I sighed heavily. “It was so nice when he was away at boarding school and I didn’t have to remember he existed. Those were the days.”
“If you say so. Anyway, here’s the note. The Kings are playing the Flames tomorrow, right? It can wait until then. No need to make a special trip…unless you want to.” He handed me a small sealed brown envelope that I stuffed into the pocket of my joggers.
“I don’t. And you owe me.”
“Who’s subsidising your cushy lifestyle?”
“Have you forgotten that you forced me go to uni in a fucking prison? What kind of uncle does that? The sadistic kind, that’s who.”
“Or…the kind who wants you to make the most of the opportunities you’re given.” He clapped me on the back. “Thanks, Dan. See you Sunday. Text your mum.”
“Yeah, alright. I’ll see you then.”
When he’d gone, I re-entered the hockey house, flopping back down next to Jay on the sofa. Surprisingly, he hadn’t let my character die. I sighed extra loudly, and he tilted his head towards me, keeping his gaze fixed on the screen. “Let me guess. It’s something to do with Bellingham.”
“I thought the criminal lifestyle was supposed to be fun, yet here I am, playing the part of a postie in an illegal version of Royal Mail.”
“Fun? What’s fun about it?”
“You wouldn’t understand,” I muttered.
Jay laughed. “Probably not.” He did understand in a way, but it was different for him.
Although he was one of the two closest people to me, he hadn’t been brought up in a crime family with certain expectations placed on him.
Then again, my family were practically saints compared with the Thorpe Syndicate. The shit Ryker’s dad had him doing…
We fell silent, Jay becoming engrossed in the game again as I followed Neil’s instructions to text my mum. Yes, I was eating my vegetables like a good son. No, I was not going to purposely antagonise Lincoln Bellingham.
Okay, that one was a tiny white lie. Since I was already using my phone and I had a valid reason to contact him, it was no problem to navigate to his social media.
I took a photo of the back of the envelope and uploaded it to my private stories, which were set to only be viewable by him, and then I tapped on my messages.
@danhfirestarter:
special delivery for bellend bellingham
Unluckily for me, he happened to be online, and a reply came through almost as soon as I’d sent the message. Didn’t he have better things to do than sit around texting his enemy?
@linkb_flames:
i thought i told you to leave me tf out of your criminal schemes
@danhfirestarter:
no can do. got a msg to pass on after the game. be a good boy and get it to the right person
Even here in my private messages with my enemy, I never referred to Neil or Lincoln’s uncle by name.
Neil had made me paranoid, and although I had a secure messaging service for my phone, I wasn’t about to voluntarily give Lincoln my actual phone number.
So I was stuck using social media whenever I was forced to contact him, which meant I had to see all of his poser photos with his poser friends.
And women. Oh, and his thirst traps, always showing off his tattoos. That reminded me…
@danhfirestarter:
i noticed you got another tattoo. why do you love mutilating your body so much?
@linkb_flames:
hypocrite. your best friend has more tats than i do
Okay, I had zero problems with tattoos. Loved them, in fact, and he was right—Ryker’s body was like his canvas, covered in tattoos.
But because it was Lincoln Bellingham, I hated them on principle.
Hated them on him, and him only. You know what I hated even more, though?
The fact that I even noticed he had a new one in the first place.
Lincoln’s mind must’ve been running along the same lines, because I got another message:
@linkb_flames:
your stalking is fucking creepy. no one else outside my family has even noticed that tattoo
Shit. Come on, Dan. You can’t let him get the better of you.
@danhfirestarter:
prob because you weren’t pinning them up against a fucking wall with your arm in their face
@linkb_flames:
fuck off
@danhfirestarter:
wish you would
@linkb_flames:
stop stalking me and stop sharing private stories just for me. you’re obsessed with me
@danhfirestarter:
fuck you. who shared that story yesterday that was just for me?
Navigating to the folder where I kept all my Lincoln Bellingham–related shit, I sent him the screenshot I’d taken last night, of his stupid big hand with his middle finger extended, and my name typed underneath.
I knew for a fact that it was set to be privately seen by me only, because it not only had my name, but the story was marked as private.
@linkb_flames:
i didn’t think it was possible to hate someone as much as i hate you
@danhfirestarter:
FINALLY something we can agree on. fuck off now pls. see you on the ice tomorrow. get ready to have your ass kicked
@linkb_flames:
stay tf away from me on the ice unless you want a serious injury
@danhfirestarter:
sorry you must have me confused with someone else. in no world can you seriously injure me
@linkb_flames:
i can fucking try
@danhfirestarter:
bring it on bellend. see you tomorrow
I exited out of the conversation with my heart pounding and my jaw clenched so tightly it was giving me a headache.
“Do I wanna know?” Jay said from next to me.
I sighed. “No. You really, really don’t.”