Chapter 1
Asher (16)
Shadows painted the old basketball court as the sun made its descent behind the red oaks surrounding the park. The scent of leaves and asphalt baking beneath the blistering sun sent a tingling sensation in my nostrils—rays of sunlight shot through tree limbs, illuminating Cody’s narrowed eyes. I lowered my body in anticipation, beads of sweat falling down my back, itching to get that puck the minute it dropped.
I smirked, taunting him as I swayed my hips from side to side. “Ready, Cody?”
Cody’s clenched jaw sent a jolt of electricity racing through my body. He didn’t respond; he just glared at me, and, boy, did I know that look. I’d played hockey with Cody my whole life, and that face told me he was going to be brutal.
Let’s see what you got, babe.
Cody was no center, and I’d thumped his ass the entire game. He should have played forward. I would have said as much, but who was I to jeopardize such a boon for our team?
We weren’t exactly best buds, even though we’d played hockey together on that busted-up basketball court for mostof our lives. Like me, he was raised by a single mom, and they were just as broke as Mom and I. Cody tried to be my friend, but I was too afraid to get close.
Because he’s cute as fuck.
He had blond hair, big brown eyes, and made the butterflies take flight in my stomach anytime he got too close. There were moments after a game when I wanted to lean in and plant a big, fat kiss on his puffy pink lips.
I couldn’t do that.
Being around him was dangerous. I couldn’t let anyone know my secret. You didn’t reveal something like that in my neighborhood without getting an ass-beating to go along with it.
And I’ve had enough of those for one lifetime, thank you.
So, I did everything I could to avoid him.
Although I suppose I didn’t have to worry about crushing on Cody since he had moved to the rich part of town. For all I knew, we were playing our last game together. Rumor had it that he was about to play with the Vipers because his new dad could afford the fees and equipment.
Fuck, I was so jealous. It fueled my desire to whoop his ass even more. I had the skill to play with the Vipers, but not the money. It broke my heart.
I was sick and tired of my heart being broken over and over again. When was I gonna get a break?
I inhaled, bracing myself for the drop of the puck. My pulse thumped in my temples, and my hands tightened around my stick.
Get ready for me, you cute blond bitch.
What could I say? I was very extra that day. It wasn’t like I wastryingto embarrass him—okay, maybe I was trying towhoop his ass just a little, but I couldn’t help it! I was a better center, and I could see in his eyes that he knew it, and it made him mad as hell. He was pissed because I was better, and I was heated because I wanted the opportunities he could afford. We were both fuming and ready to unleash our aggression on that dumb basketball court turned roller hockey rink.
I lived for moments like that—roughing each other up in a game of street hockey was the release we all needed.
On the court, we were all equal. It didn’t matter what your homelife was like. None of us had money, so that didn’t matter either. Kicking ass gave us all the sweet taste of victory we never got in normal life.
Especially me.With blades on my feet and a stick in my hands, I was unstoppable. Swiping the puck in a face-off or scoring a goal provided the few moments of power I had in my life.
It was the only time I felt like that. I certainly didn’t feel powerful at home; Mom’s shitty boyfriends made sure of that. Each one was crueler than the last, and they all made it their mission to “teach me how to be a man.”
I’d been learning how to “be a man” since I was thirteen years old, since mom caught me gazing just a little too long at Pete, our super, the day he stopped by to fix the kitchen sink in a pair of ripped jeans and a tight, white beater. His tan skin shimmered under the kitchen light. The muscles in his back flexed as he bent down to loosen a pipe beneath the sink. He was so big. He looked like he could pick me up and throw me over his shoulder without a bit of trouble.
Hot.
I guess you could say that Pete, with his thick Brooklyn accent and a neck tattoo of a bloody dagger, was my gay awakening. I didn’t even realize I was staring until I heardMom’s disgusted grunt.
That’s when things went from bad to fucking unbearable.
Mom told her piece of shit boyfriends that I was turning into a “fag” because I didn’t have a dad, and that they needed to toughen me up.
They were more than happy to oblige.
