Page 120 of Arctic Titans of Northwood U: Volume 1

My gaze was piercing and determined. “What are you saying?” I asked bluntly.

He exhaled. “Finesse, Caden, is the cornerstone of diplomacy.”

“I’m not a diplomat. I’m a winger.” I crossed my arms on my chest, constantly feeling too exposed when he scanned me. His eyes searched for something on my face, but they didn’t mind looking for it in the ridges of my six-pack. Although, I might have been imagining that.

He glossed over my body and looked into my eyes again. “Very well.” He inhaled through his teeth, his eyes hardening. “While I respect them for taking a stand, I’m not too fond of getting kicked off the team when it’s my ticket to the NHL. And I’m sure you would agree.”

I tilted my head left and right, leaving my answer unvoiced.

“Don’t lie to me, Jones. You wouldn’t be this bummed if it didn’t matter. You want to stay on this team as much as I do. Hell, you want to be the captain as much as I do, but that’s just not gonna happen. So, here’s how things stand: we can let the bastards kick us out, or we can… razzle-dazzle them.”

My expression remained unchanged, but my brain worked faster. For one thing, I could smell the bread starting to burn. I turned away from the flamboyant wave of Beckett’s jazz hands without acknowledging it, to get my sandwiches off the pan and onto a plate.

“How exactly would you do that?” I asked coolly.

“We, Caden. This isn’t a one-man job. If you want to stay on the team as much as I think you do, you’ll have to play along.” He waited until I finished cutting the two sandwiches in half. The melted cheese poured out of the four triangles on my plate. I looked up to find him examining my snack, his lower lip between his teeth. He composed himself after a moment, then continued. “As far as I’m concerned, you can hate me inside out all you want. In private. And I promise you, your feelings for me will always be reciprocated twice as hard. But when others are around, we’re going to be sweeter than honey. Make me a goddamn friendship bracelet and we’ll eat fucking ice cream on a Ferris wheel. Whatever. Just make them think we’re good.”

I mulled over his words while anticipation rose in his brown eyes. When he blinked, his ridiculously long eyelashes distracted me from my thoughts. He must have been nervous. He pulled his lower lip between his teeth and chewed mercilessly the longer my silence continued. In many ways, letting him stew in his anxiety gave me infinite satisfaction.

Before I said anything else, I wanted to ask him, once and for all, why he even hated me. I had a list of reasons longer than my arm on why I disliked him. They were written in my DNA. I could recite them alphabetically, chronologically, and ranked by the severity of the insult. Since the very first time I entered this house and laid my eyes on Beckett Partridge, only to get a passing glance and a scoff of dismissal, I felt my distaste grow. Since the very first time I had admitted to being a fan of his uncle, only to hear Beckett say: “How sweet. I will cherish that piece of information until my dying breath.” If such a thing had been possible, Beckett would have been an asshole to me before we met.

But what had I ever done to him to deserve it?

I didn’t get to spill any of these words out because a door opened and shut and Jordan walked along the gallery. He paused at the top of the stairs and examined the scene. His eyes moved from Beckett to me, then fell to the knife I was holding. “Uh, am I about to get traumatized?” he asked after clearing his throat, then began walking down the stairs extra cautiously. “If you could just let me grab a glass of water, you can continue murdering each other after I’m gone.”

Beckett cracked a smile. “Right. You can’t compromise when it comes to your beauty sleep.”

I set the knife down when Beckett averted his gaze from Jordan to me. The same question was still there. And this was the moment to answer it. What was it going to be? Would we force this friendship and stay on the team? Or would I wrap my arms around Beckett’s body and pull us both into the abyss?

I wasn’t sure if my brain had made the decision by the time my body answered the question. I held the plate and offered Beckett my snack. My eyebrows arched both in surprise at my own actions and in feigning a pleasant expression.

The smug fucker stretched his lips into a coy smirk. “Breaking bread together. Can we get any closer?”

“Can’t let you starve,” I squeezed through clenched teeth. “Buddy.”

Beckett slipped around the kitchen island while picking one sandwich off the place. “Get a load of this guy.” His forced chuckle was for Jordan alone.

“You’re horrible at this,” I muttered.

He poked me in the ribs. I wanted to punch him, but I stretched my lips into a smile resembling a snarl.

Jordan stared at us blankly, rubbed his eyes, and pushed toward the faucet. He poured himself a glass of water while muttering to himself. “Stepped through a freaking portal…goddamn pixie dust in my beer...” He stalked away with the full glass, shaking his head in disbelief.

Beckett sank his teeth into my sandwich. “Delicious. Just like your friendship,” he said over a mouthful.

When Jordan reached the top of the stairs, he turned to us one last time. He folded his lips, then nodded. “It’s good to know you’ll be staying with us.” And that was it. He went back into his room. When the door was shut, I turned to Beckett, who still wore that silly smirk, chewing the big bite of my sandwich.

“Gimme that,” I growled, tore the rest free of his hand, and then stuffed it in my mouth.

Beckett swallowed with exaggerated effort. “You’re doing me a favor, anyway. It’s dry as fuck.”

“It’s how I like it,” I said tersely.

“Oof. Are we still talking about your sandwich?” He grimaced.

Beckett hadn’t been kidding. He would probably use the private time to make up for all the taunting he could no longer do around the guys. It was fine by me, except for one specific thing. “I need you to know,” I said seriously. There was no room for kidding here. Riley had been right all along. This was where I would draw the line. And I would take one for the team. Either way, Beckett would be a shitty captain and Coach Murray would regret his decision.

“Yes?” His response was clipped. He knew his balls were in my hand. Or he believed it even if it wasn’t entirely true.