A Little Respect
LUCAS
“ G lad to see you back on your game, Wolfberg,” the coach shouts as I skate past him.
Luckily, he can’t see the eye roll behind my helmet.
Being a pro-hockey player has been my goal since I was a cub, but with all the shit going on right now, it seems a bit…
short-sighted to worry about my averages.
But I know Nana and Morgana would tell me not to let the bad crap change how I live my life—they’re alike in that way—so I keep my head down and practice hard for the rest of the session.
When it’s time to go to class, I change out of my gear, tossing the soiled thing into the laundry and packing away the personal things I want to wash at my new home.
My water bottle was difficult to keep track of while I worked, so I walk to the sinks, dump the contents, and shove it in the bag.
No fucking way I’m drinking or eating anything I haven’t had my eyes on without the magic dudes checking it.
I’m not as brilliant as Slade or Iggy, but I can learn quickly.
“Yo, Lucas!”
I turn to look at Brock Slater, hiding my irritation as best I can as he approaches.
I’ve fobbed this fucker off a ton of times since I got here, but he keeps coming back like a bad case of strep throat.
He’s a walking cliche—homophobic, xenophobic, racist, rich, white, and privileged.
Tau Omega Chi has him on recruitment and he’s been aiming to grab me since I first set foot on campus.
I can’t tell him to get fucked, though, because he’s on the damned team.
“I gotta get to History of European Shifters, man.” I pick up my bag, turning to head out so he’ll leave me alone. “Sorry.”
“No worries, dude. I’ll come with; I don’t really have to go to classes.” My eyes narrow as he says that, wondering if telling Lady M about it will cause someone to audit his GPA. No way a douchebag not going to classes stays college sports eligible without shenanigans.
“I guess, man. Unlike you, I want a back-up in case I blow a knee or some shit.” I don’t wait for him to answer, just walk out of the locker room—not the murder one, of course—and move quickly through the rink to exit. Unfortunately, I can hear him breathing and I want to scream.
Technically, I wasn’t headed to a class, but Brock didn’t know that.
But it means that I don’t have a destination in the Arts Building, and I’d prefer not to hear Brock’s recruitment spiel again.
I don’t know how I’m going to ditch him without raising suspicions about why I’m not accepting all his generous offers.
A guy with my background and family tree should be eager as fuck to join, but Nana made sure I have a moral compass.
No way I’m joining something full of guys who could star in their own episodes of SVU .
“It’s weird that I’ve had to pursue you so hard, Wolfberg,” Brock says as he catches up to me. “We don’t have to try this hard with men of our caliber.”
“Brock, I just don’t have the time to spare, man. Between hockey and the course load, I’m full up. I don’t want to commit to anything I can’t give my all to.”
He snorts, shaking his head as we cross the north portion of campus. “Get off it, Lucas. You don’t need to pass shit to have something if you fuck up your hockey career. You are the heir to a fortune; you don’t even need to work.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and hold my tongue for a moment as the rage passes.
Growing up with that hanging around my neck has made me extremely sensitive to people using it as an excuse for me to slack off.
“Look, Brock. I’m sorry you will not get whatever prize I’m worth in your recruiting games.
I don’t want to make team stuff difficult, but this isn’t gonna happen.
I’m not joining a frat, and I have too much to do to come to random parties and shit. ”
“Man, you really are a fucking asshole. I thought the rumors were just that, but you think you’re too good for the little people.”
I whip my head around, giving the obnoxious motherfucker a dirty look. “Your father owns mining rights worth ten figures in Canada, Brock. You’re not a little person, and I’m not in the mood to defend choices I have every right to make. Stop being a pushy dick.”
The red-faced bully looks like he wants to step into me, but I’m bigger without shifting and meaner if we did.
He might survive a few rounds, but unless something major happened, I’d kick his ass into the next county.
Luckily for both of us, he knows it. He glares at the looming Beauregard building and waves his hand in fake disgust. “Fine. Whatever. Go pretend to be normal in your stupid class, loser.”
I watch him as he finally turns to leave, then head inside of the fancy building.
It doesn’t matter that I don’t have a class in here at the moment; I’ll wander a bit to give Slater enough time to fuck all the way off, then take off for my actual destination.
That way, he’s not trailing me like a paparazzo as I go back to my dorm to pick up things I’d like to bring to Morgana’s.
My next class isn’t for two hours and I have time to get this errand done beforehand.
I absolutely don’t want that nosy bastard to see me moving things out of my supposed abode.
As long as he doesn’t come back, I’ll be golden.
Venturing further into the Beau, I try to stay on the edges of the crowds.
It’s filled with interesting people—studious looking, flamboyantly artsy, preppy, and some I can’t even quantify.
I grin to myself when I realize this place must be like a second home to Slade.
If I reach out to him, I can find a place to hide out until I’m sure Brock isn’t stalking me.
PuckBoy:
Blinking, I glare at the screen for a moment. I don’t know which one of them changed the text names, but I’m going to find out and murder the asshole.
PuckBoy: Slade, I’m in the Beau and I need a place to take cover for a few minutes.
MusicMan: Nice nickname. I’m in the theater. We’re doing auditions for the spring musical. You can come here.
PuckBoy: How do I get there from the main entry?
MusicMan: Cross the foyer, head down the stairs at the end of the hall and take a left. Follow that hall until you reach the end and take the door marked Orchestra level.
PuckBoy: Got it. See you in a few.
Clicking the screen off, I use Slade’s instructions to navigate my way through the unfamiliar place.
I haven’t needed to come here yet, and I wasn’t lying when I told Slater that I had too much work to screw around.
I’m not coasting at State U with my course load and this legal bullshit has made my shit pile up.
We’re getting closer to midterms and I have to focus to make sure I stay eligible.
When I finally reach the last door, I tug it open and step into the beautiful theater through what is definitely a side entrance.
It doesn’t take me long to find the pretty blond amongst the musicians and professors.
He’s helping to run the auditions, it seems, from the stage behind a gorgeous piano.
That confuses me—I’m not sure how or why he’d be using a piano to audition the instruments.
But then he stands, gesturing for me to join him, and my eyes widen. He gives me a baleful look when I freeze and cough, then scurry up the side stairs to cross the brightly lit stage to the place where the siren is seated. “Um… I don’t know, man. This isn’t really my thing.”
Slade laughs, shuffling some papers as he scoots over. “I’m not asking you to audition, Lucas. Sit with me while we run through this batch of guys, and by the time we’re done, I’ll be able to leave. I have a shift at the cafe, and we can walk together.”
Blowing out a relieved breath, I nod as I sit down. “Okay. Because I am without a doubt not a hidden prodigy ala High School Musical . I’m not a terrible singer, but off the ice? My rhythm is absolute shit, man.”
“Then we’re all fortunate that I didn’t assume you were the savior of Sweeney Todd at State U.” The siren grins, bumping my shoulder with his, and I laugh softly. “Now, shhh, while I play the next guy in or we’re both going to get mobbed with musical theater nerds.”
I zip my lips as his hands dance over the keys, mesmerizing me with their ability to make the sounds of this song echo in the room.
I’ve always been a sports guy, and even in lower schools, I didn’t have time to experiment with stuff like arts programs. It’s no big shame; I’m not talented that way.
But I can appreciate how skilled Slade is, and when the magic user auditioning steps on stage, I know he’s pretty good.
People in the audience are looking at him like puck bunnies look at hockey players.
The guy’s voice is strong and clear, moving through the sad song as our siren plays.
I feel like this is going to be the one they pick, but when he’s done, he just bows and strides off-stage on the other side.
I frown as the professors in the seats scribble on tablets or notepads, staying quiet as they make notes or whatever.
“That guy isn’t being picked?” I murmur to Slade as he re-arranges the sheets on his stand again. “He seemed really good.”
“He was good,” he replies as he shrugs. “But we have no idea how good the next five or ten people will be. You guys have tryouts, right? Coaches don’t pick the first guy who’s good with a stick, do they?”
I frown, considering that. “No, they don’t. Though, to be fair, a lot of that is decided based on things that happen in a longer career rather than single auditions for each piece like theater.”
Slade pushes his glasses up, his aqua eyes amused. “Yes, well, even the big stars occasionally have to sing for their supper when it comes to shows. And unless someone’s being juiced in by a producer or director, there’s competition at every level of the arts.”
I nod, taking that in as the next guy comes out when his name is called. “Except Hollywood, right? That place is kind of nepotistic and whatever, yeah?”
“Hollywood isn’t theater, Lucas. Don’t be silly.”
He sounds so offended that I grin to myself while he’s playing the beginning of the song for the new guy.
When this one opens his mouth, the fucking stage practically trembles and I curse under my breath.
Slade arches an eyebrow at me as if to say ‘see what I meant’ and I nod.
He was right about not knowing if the next people would be better, and this dude is making my face vibrate with his singing.
I continue to watch as six or seven more men audition, impressed by the range of talent—even those who had more confidence than actual skill.
The serious-looking guy in the audience stands up from their table and calls a ‘fifteen’, which makes Slade sigh in relief.
The siren gathers his music, stuffing it in a messenger bag as he turns to me.
“Thank hell. I’ve been doing this for hours and one of the other grad students will take over now. I enjoy it, but it’s just a long damn day.”
Nodding as I follow him back the way I came in, I wait until we get out of the theater area to ask, “Why do you do it, then?”
Slade laughs, shaking his head. “Because I get paid, just like at the coffeehouse, and then I didn’t have to take money from my asshole parents, man.”
I arch a brow. “Do you want to do it? Because you don’t have to—not anymore. Between the prince and me, you really don’t have to worry about that shit anymore. I’m happy to make sure you get… I don’t know instrumental stuff or whatever you need. Liam would be, too.”
“If I wanted that, Iggy would have been doing it for years,” he says with a smirk. “But thank you. I will take company, and help, and lots of other things… but for the moment, we’ll leave money out of the equation.”
I thought I liked the guy before, but today’s been a whole different side of him.—Slade Finn is a damn fine man.