Make Me Mean It (Make Me #1)

1. CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER ONE

THEO

Sprawled across the sofa with my head tipped back against the arm, I press the heel of my hand into my eye socket, the world pulsing in slow, ugly waves behind my eyelids.

My mouth tastes like regret and cheap alcohol, my skull hammering in time with my heartbeat, and I let out a low groan while trying to piece together whose brilliant idea it was to start doing shots in the first place.

Probably mine. It sure feels like something I’d do.

I let my arm fall over my face, blocking out the light, my stomach threatening mutiny with every breath. There can’t be much left in there at this point except vodka and whatever questionable food I inhaled sometime around two in the morning, but I’m not in any rush to confirm that theory.

Two hands land on my shoulders and jostle me, my stomach rolling in protest.

“Ugh, fuck off,” I mutter, voice rough with sleep, rolling onto my side and burying my face into the back of the couch as if I can physically merge with it. I shove myself deeper into the cushions, trying to disappear entirely.

“Nope,” Marcus drawls.

Before I can even process that, his weight drops across my legs, pinning me down with casual cruelty.

“Get up. I need your help.”

I crack one eye open, squinting up at him through the haze. “With what?”

The question immediately comes off as suspicious, because Marcus only ever says, I need your help, when what follows is going to ruin my day.

He grins.

Oh, fuck him.

“Moving my little brother into his flat.”

I stare at him, waiting for the punchline that never comes.

“Absolutely fucking not, Reid.” I shake my head, regretting it when pain spikes behind my eyes. “I’m not helping some kid move boxes. Find someone else.”

I shove weakly at his leg, achieving nothing, Marcus retaliating with a sharp slap to my shin.

“He’s not some kid, asshole,” he says. “He’s my little brother.”

“Marcus,” I groan, rolling my neck against the arm of the couch and folding my arms under my head, using them as a makeshift pillow. “Why can’t one of the other guys do it?”

“Because you’re my best friend.”

I crack both eyes open.

That’s low, even for him.

He knows it too. I can see it in the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth, the smug bastard enjoying every second of this.

“Come on, man,” I mutter. “I’m hanging. Don’t do this to me.”

“I’d do it for you,” he says without hesitation.

Of course he would. That’s the problem. That’s always the problem with Marcus. He actually means it.

I exhale through my nose, defeated. “Low blow, asshole.”

He laughs, entirely too loud for my current state, and finally pushes himself off my legs.

“Maybe,” he says, grinning down at me, “but you’re still coming.”

I wave him off vaguely, already regretting everything about this conversation, and rake a hand through my hair.

“Be ready in ten,” he calls, heading for the door.

“Twenty,” I argue into the couch, half muffled.

“Make it five.”

“Asshole.”

“I heard that.”

“You were supposed to.”

The door swings open again a second later, followed by the rapid drum of Marcus’s hands against the frame.

“Hustle.”

I jerk upright on instinct, heart kicking hard against my ribs, years of early practices and coaches barking orders burned so deep into muscle memory that even half-dead and hungover I still move like I’m about to be punished for not doing it fast enough.

For a split second, I’m not on a couch anymore. I’m on the ice, waiting for a whistle that never comes.

Then it clicks.

Marcus. Not a coach. Not a drill. Just Marcus being an asshole.

The adrenaline drops out from under me almost as quickly as it hit, leaving me shaky and light-headed, my stomach rolling, and I have to swallow against the rush of nausea.

“You fucking prick,” I snap, glaring towards the doorway.

Marcus loses it. Actually doubles over laughing in the doorway, like he’s just witnessed the funniest thing in the world, tears already forming at the corners of his eyes.

“Glad you’re enjoying yourself,” I grumble, shoving up from the couch.

“Oh, I am.”

“Hope you choke.”

Judging by the way he fucking wheezes, I might actually get my wish.

I shove my feet into my battered Vans without bothering with the laces, tucking them under my feet, and follow him out, already questioning every decision that led me here.

Marcus goes quiet beside me. I make it a few steps before I glance over, catching him looking me up and down, a barely contained smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“This is gonna go well.”

That makes me pause because, yeah, I don’t like the sound of that. “What?”

He hesitates, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “You don’t wanna change?”

I glance down at myself, trying to work out what his problem is. Okay, I’m still wearing the same clothes from last night, but we’re moving boxes, not going to fucking dinner.

I’ve looked worse. Probably.

“Since when are you precious?” I scoff, raking a hand through my hair and regretting it when naturally, it falls right back into my eyes. “No, I’m not changing just to move boxes.”

Marcus lets out a low whistle, looking me over one more time before that half-smile creeps back in. And whatever he’s finding so entertaining, I’m clearly missing it.

I’ve known Marcus long enough to know that look usually means something’s about to become my problem.

“Well,” he says, grabbing his keys, “this should be entertaining at least.”

I watch him for a second, trying to work out what the fuck he knows that I don’t. Maybe I should’ve asked more questions. Or just gone back to sleep and ignored him entirely.

Definitely that one.

***

By the time Marcus knocks on his brother’s flat door, I’m actively reconsidering every decision I’ve made in the last twelve hours.

Starting with the shots.

Ending with standing upright.

I lean back against the brick wall beside the door and shove my sunglasses into my hair. The afternoon sun hits me full force, pain spearing behind my eyes as I squeeze them shut again.

“Fuck.” I tip my head back against the brick, swallowing against the dull churn in my stomach.

Whoever decided daylight should be this aggressive deserves consequences.

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this.” Heat gathers at the nape of my neck, my shirt starting to stick uncomfortably to my back.

Marcus leans against the wall opposite me, looking far too comfortable for someone who dragged me out here against my will. “You didn’t really resist.”

“I was vulnerable. You took advantage.”

Marcus snorts, not buying my bullshit for a second. “And yet, here you are.”

“Yeah, well.” I shrug one shoulder. “I am curious to meet this mysterious little brother of yours. Sue me.”

Marcus straightens slightly, and I can practically see the suspicion kick in.

“Be nice.”

I put as much innocence into my voice as I can manage. “I’m always nice.”

“No,” he says flatly.

I scoff, but he doesn’t even give me the chance to argue.

“I mean actually nice. Not your weird flirty version of nice.” He pauses, then seems to reconsider. “Actually, you know what? Just don’t flirt with my brother.”

I raise a brow at him, doing my best impression of innocence, though judging by the way Marcus looks at me, I’m not pulling it off

“God, I’m glad he’s straight.” Marcus shakes his head, that apparently solving whatever problem he thinks I’m going to cause

“Ouch,” I scoff, shoving lightly at his shoulder, but before I can give him any more shit, the door swings open beside us.

I turn towards it, whatever I was about to say disappearing the second I see who’s standing there.

Connor stands in the doorway, sandy hair pushed messily back from his forehead, his eyes landing on Marcus first before sliding over to me, so fucking blue they catch me off guard for a second.

I’m not exactly sure what I’d been expecting when Marcus said little brother. Someone smaller, maybe, younger, some nervous freshman Marcus would spend the next year worrying himself sick over.

Instead, Connor looks about as nervous as I feel sober, his bright blue eyes settling on me with a glare sharp enough that I almost laugh.

I haven’t even fucking said anything yet.

His gaze flicks over me, taking in the sunglasses shoved into my hair, the tattoos creeping down my arms and my wrinkled band t-shirt. His lips curl slightly as his eyes make their way back to mine, and it doesn’t take a genius to work out that whatever he’s seeing, he clearly doesn’t like it.

I have to fight the smile threatening to pull at my lips, more amused by his obvious dislike than I probably should be.

“You always this happy to see people, baby Reid?” I drawl, teasing just enough to see what he’ll give me.

“Theo,” Marcus warns, but I barely register him, too focused on the way Connor’s eyes narrow further on me.

“Only hockey players,” he shoots back, the bite in his response catching me off guard enough to pull a quiet laugh from me.

Okay, so Marcus’s little brother has some bite to him.

I push away from the wall, curiosity curling warm in my chest as I look at him properly. I’d been expecting moving boxes and several hours of wanting to die quietly in a corner somewhere, but the afternoon is looking slightly less painful by the minute.

The urge to push just a little harder is already getting the better of me.

“Aren’t you delightful.”

His fingers tighten around the edge of the door as he opens his mouth, clearly ready to fire something back, and I find myself waiting for it, wanting to see what else he’s got.

Marcus steps between us, apparently deciding this has already gone far enough

“Alright, enough.” Marcus turns back to Connor, nodding towards me. “I brought him here to help, so suck it up.”

Connor’s fingers tighten around the edge of the door until his knuckles bleach white, but instead of firing back, he turns his attention to Marcus, pointedly shutting me out of the conversation.

Marcus doesn’t seem remotely bothered by the welcome, brushing past Connor and disappearing into the flat. Connor steps aside for him without hesitation, but when I move to follow, he stays exactly where he is, one hand still curled around the edge of the door.

I stop in front of him, close enough now that I have to look down slightly to meet his eyes. “You gonna let me in, Reid?”

Connor holds my gaze for another long second before finally stepping back, giving me just enough room to squeeze past him.

“Unfortunately.”

I bite back a laugh as I step inside, my shoulder brushing his on the way past.