I grunt. Doing a lot of that lately. Not sure how to do much more than that when all that’s waiting on my tongue is acerbic put downs. It’s easy when Pitstop is around, she calms the raging fires that thrash through my veins. But here, surrounded by these people who are doing the one thing I want more than anything in the world right now, all I feel is fury.
A hand appears on my chest, as I trail my stare along the muscular limb I find it attached to Apollo. That tracks. Artemis would have felt too much like a threat, and despite the fact I probably still couldn’t take him, I’d have tried. But Apollo, the team’s captain, our leader, our heart, he makes a much less aggressive choice to confront me.
“You okay?” His voice is low, full of concern, but the eyes of some of the other guys in the room are on us as well.
Does everyone think I’m unhinged? Ready to snap at any given moment? Because that’s kind of how it feels.
My body vibrates, the ooze of resentment and the acrid taste of violence brewing in my cells sometimes make it hard to think. Beer helps. But then I get furtive glances from the guys, Especially Ares, which just makes me roll my eyes. I don’t have a problem. I can stop any time I want to.
I just don’t want to.
Life is easier to face when it’s lived through a hops-hue right now.
We’ve all been there, used the occasional adult beverage to make it through a tough moment. I dunno why they’re getting their panties in a bunch because it’s me. Is it because I’m the golden boy? The top scorer, the straight-A student, the untouchable son of an NHL superstar destined to be an NHL superstar myself?
Well, guess what? I’m not fucking perfect either. And it’s about time everyone realized it. They don’t even need me on the ice anyway, right?
The sting of how accurate that assessment is hits hard.
“Tate?” Apollo’s concerned eyes bore into my face. I should be touched, but all I want to do is head-butt the guy.
“I’m fine.” Every word I say comes out through gritted teeth so it all sounds aggressive whether I want it to or not.
His brow twitches like he’s not sure whether or not he should believe me, but after a long moment, the pressure of his splayed palm on my chest is released. I’m free to leave.
“Good game tonight.” The words are like acid on my tongue, but I need to at least seem to still be a team player. My problems are precisely that, mine. When I get back on the ice, I’m going to need at least a few of them to still be on my side.
I’m used to fighting for my place on the team. But this... I’m not sure I know how to come back from this.
“Okay.” His voice stays quiet. “Book club tomorrow?”
I tried it a few times. Okay, maybe once. But it’s such a waste of fucking time. Read a book that isn’t for school, make notes about it—either in your head or in a notebook—get together and talk about it, rinse and repeat.
Shaking my head, I swallow. “Busy.” Guess if nothing else, I should now invite Pitstop to come and save me from being dragged out to read Justin’s next romance selection for Get Lit. They had their book club last night, or the night before, I can’t remember, they’re all kind of blurred into one.
I know this month is different from normal, though, because usually the girls have theirs the same night as the team does, but this month didn’t line up.
“Let me know if you change your mind.” There’s more in what Apollo isn’t saying than what he is. The furrows on his forehead, the down-turned edges of his lips, and the slump of his shoulder all say defeat.
The man’s one of the top scoring players in the league, he’s already drafted to the NHL, he excels at school, and he’s rich.
Yet he’s standing in front of me deflated. And because I won’t go to a fuckin’ book club?
I drain the rest of my beer and toss the bottle into the recycling before grabbing another cold one from the fridge.
Ares raises a brow, but thankfully for everyone in the room, he stays quiet. The twins certainly won’t forgive me if I punch their younger brother in his face, even if sometimes they want to hit him, too.
Even trudging upstairs to my room feels like a slog.
Scott’s waiting for me outside my bedroom door. “Wanna talk about it?”
I blink, tipping my head in question.
“What’s going on with you, you wanna talk about it?” He’s sitting on the floor, knees up in front of his chest, back propped against the wall next to my door, and his bare feet in the UCR Raccoons green carpet that lines most of the hockey house.
He’s brave. I know what happens within the walls of this place.
“I’m fine.”
