Chapter 4 – Trevor
chapter
four
Trevor
Lena Hartwell was a problem I couldn’t solve.
I'd managed to avoid her at school for the most part, but there was occasionally some crossover. We never spoke. Eye contact was verboten. But fuck, was I always aware of her. Tonight had been a genuine mistake. I hadn't known it was her.
Liar. You went to dance with her because she reminded you of Lena.
And now, for weeks after this, anyone I tried to fuck would come a sad second to her. And I'd never even kissed her.
I scrubbed a hand over my face and shouldered through the crowd toward the bar. The bass was loud enough to feel in my teeth and someone's elbow caught me in the ribs as I pushed past. I barely registered it. My hands still felt branded from where they'd gripped her hips.
Get it together, Coulter.
As I wound my way through the crowd, I found a semi-familiar looking dude glowering at me. Why did he look familiar? Neatly trimmed hair, glasses, he was wearing a sweater over a T-shirt. He looked normal, but sort of a little too put together for your usual frat party crowd.
And why the fuck did he look like he wanted to murder me? His jaw was clenched so tight I could see the muscle ticking from five feet away, and his hand was white-knuckling a Solo cup like it owed him money.
Next to him, I found my best friend, Waylon Johnson.
Way was leaning against the bar with the easy confidence of a guy who'd already scoped out every exit and every girl in the room.
He had a beer in one hand and was watching me with that lazy grin that meant he'd seen everything and was about to give me shit for it.
A couple of the other guys from the team were nearby, Ryder nursing a drink and people-watching, Marcus being loud about something no one cared about. Standard Friday night at the house.
"What's up, Way?"
"Hey, my man." He handed me a beer, and then signaled one of the pledges for another one. "Who's that girl? She was fucking hot, that leather skirt? I half expected you to throw her over your shoulder and drag her upstairs."
Yeah, well, me too. Until I'd seen who she was. I took a long pull of the beer he'd handed me and leaned against the bar next to him, letting the bass rattle through the wood at my back.
"Yeah, not exactly my type."
Waylon coughed into his beer. Next to us, glasses guy shifted his weight and I could practically feel the heat of his glare on the side of my face.
"What the fuck do you mean, she's not your type? You were dancing with her like you were about to fuck her on the dance floor?"
I had been. Every moment, every movement of her hips had been Like a test drive for what she could do in bed with her hips. I squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head trying to remove the image of her from my frontal lobe.
"Nah. It was just a dance."
Waylon snorted a laugh. The asshole always had a way of seeing right through me. He took a casual sip of his beer, eyes scanning the crowd, but that smirk told me he wasn't letting this go.
"Yeah, right, if you're not going to go after it, I will. Because if her ass moves like that, you know girl can ride."
My dick twitched at the mental image. Traitor.
I scowled at him and growled low, "Hands off."
He lifted his brows and smirked at me. "Ah, so you're not immune Coulter?"
I sighed, trying to ignore him. Dibs was so stupid.
"That's dumb."
"Dumb or not, dibs or not?"
What do you care? You can't have her anyway. Trevor already called dibs.
I loved Waylon. He was like my own brother. And like my own brother, he was a dog. I drained half my beer and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand.
Behind us, Marcus was holding court about some girl he'd hooked up with last weekend, getting louder with every detail. Ryder caught my eye and gave me a look that said kill me now. I almost laughed.
"Dibs?"
He sighed and shrugged as if it was no big deal, but his smug smile told me everything.
"Thought so."
My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I pulled it out, scowling, and shoved it back in my pocket.
Way laughed. "Why are you avoiding your agent, man?"
My agent had been calling off and on since about five. I just wanted one fucking day where I didn't have to think about the upcoming draft, what needed to happen, my position, who I was going to play for next year. There was so much pressure, given who my dad and my uncle were.
With a father like Fox Coulter, the whole world wanted to see what you could do, who you were going to be.
And shit, there's the fucking Coulter legacy, all my aunts and uncles were elite athletes.
Uncle Dax was a two-time Superbowl winner, Uncle Bryce and Aunt Tammy, tennis players, having won the US Open.
Uncle Ransom, also a hockey player, played for the Maple Leafs.
And then there was my Aunt Echo, an Olympian runner, and then Uncle Gage, a damn NBA All-star. The pressure was insane.
Coulters never take a day off. Coulters never lose focus. Coulters dominate.
Dad's voice. Always Dad's voice.
"Just not feeling like talking to him right now."
"Dude, enough. Fucking answer the call. Do you know how many guys on the team would kill to, A, first of all, have an agent already, and B, have one that was actually looking out for you?
Instead of looking out for his own pocketbook, he's already steered you away from a couple of teams, that would be a bad move for you. Just answer the call."
My phone buzzed again in my pocket. I looked down at it, then back at Way. He raised both eyebrows and tilted his head toward the stairs. I rolled my eyes and nodded.
"Fine, I'm going upstairs to take it."
Going upstairs in itself was a Herculean effort.
The house was packed. People along the stairs, making out, standing, having full ass conversations, not realizing people need to go upstairs.
The whole stairwell smelled like sweat and Fireball and someone's vape cloud.
I stepped over a girl sitting on the third step texting with tears running down her face and a guy passed out on the landing with a Sharpie dick drawn on his forehead. Just another Friday.
I had made it a point of locking my door because twice over the last couple of years, I found people had managed to sneak in there when I forgot to lock it, and were using my bed like it was a hotel room.
I unlocked my door, stepped in, and closed the door behind me, grateful for the soundproofing I'd paid to have installed sophomore year.
The muffled roar of the party dropped to a dull hum, and the silence felt like taking off a too-tight helmet after a game.
I'd taken the master suite at the end of the hall.
The other guys had given me shit about it until they realized my family's alumni donations were the reason the house had a new roof and working plumbing.
My room was the one space where the Coulter name didn't follow me.
No trophies, no framed newspaper articles, no memorabilia.
Mom had sent a care package of family photos and Dad's old jerseys when I moved in and I'd shoved the whole box in the closet unopened.
What I did have was a king bed, a leather reading chair, built-in bookshelves I'd filled myself, and a walnut desk that cost more than most guys' cars.
And tucked between a battered copy of Dante's Inferno and a Conrad anthology sat the one thing that mattered most. A dog-eared copy of Kindred with Lena's neat handwriting filling the margins. I'd never told anyone I'd kept it.
When I called Aaron back, he answered on the first ring.
"Where the fuck have you been?"
I dropped onto the edge of my bed, elbows on my knees. "School, party. Why?"
"When I call, you answer, that's the deal."
I ground my teeth. He was a pain in the ass, but he was looking out for me.
Would he look out for you if you weren't a Coulter?
I rolled my shoulders, trying not to think about that.
"I'm sorry. It's been hectic."
"Look, kid, I know. You're feeling the pressure. You want a day or two off from it."
"Yeah, that's exactly it."
"Right, I'll get right to it. We've got a problem with you entering the draft next year."
I sat up straighter. I hadn't quite decided if I was going to complete my senior year, or go straight into the draft, but we'd been in discussions about it and my possible teams.
"What's wrong?"
My gut twisted. Nothing good ever followed that tone.
"What's always wrong? Do you remember Whitney Reynolds?"
I frowned at that. "Not off the top of my head, why?"
"Deputy Commissioner's daughter."
Fucking hell, Trevor.
I stood up and started pacing, three steps to the window, three steps back.
"What the fuck happened?"
"All consensual, but her old man is pissed and he's looking to take it out on someone."
Damn. Wouldn't be the first time I caught a stray for my brother. And likely not the last.
The Coulter family motto should be, Trevor breaks it, you buy it.
"Fuck. What did that idiot do to her?" It wasn’t a question of if Trevor fucked up. It was a question of how bad.
"No, not like that. But he ghosted and her father is pissed. Wants his pound of flesh. We have to distance you from your brother. Give the press the spin. The draft is coming for you. We can't take any chances."
I stopped pacing and caught sight of my reflection in the window.
Fox Coulter's jawline. Fox Coulter's eyes.
My whole life I'd been told I looked more like Dad than Trevor did, and right now that felt less like a compliment and more like a sentence.
This was my future. This was what I'd worked for, what I'd bled for, what I'd spent hours in the rink perfecting while Trevor was busy chasing his next conquest.
"What are we going to do?"