Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 131271 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 656(@200wpm)___ 525(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131271 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 656(@200wpm)___ 525(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
“I don’t know why you’re so bothered,” I say, even as I scan the room for blonde hair and melted chocolate eyes. “She’s just some girl we used to know. A girl who has grown up with a massive chip on her shoulder.”
“She’s nice,” Hayes says, meeting my ambivalence with a frown. “Just because she didn’t want to fuck you doesn’t mean she’s a bad person. She knew who you were. If she had fucked you, that would be a whole lot weirder.”
I guess he’s right. I must be weird because the thought of fucking her still gives me a semi. Then again, I’m an athlete with a sky-high sex drive. My English professor’s ass gave me a semi yesterday, and she’s starting to gray at the temples and wears sensible shoes. “Why the fuck didn’t she just tell me?”
“Maybe she didn’t want us to know.” Hayes ruffles his own hair with a frustrated hand. “She didn’t want us to know. That’s why she kept her name to herself.”
“So, we stay the fuck away from her. If she’s going to be like that, we should be the same.”
“But…” Hayes doesn’t finish his sentence but shares a look with Shawn. When it comes to life, we stay united. We discuss, decide, and present a single front to the world. It’s always been our way. Nothing and no one will ever come between us. Loyalty is everything when all we have is each other.
“But, what? You want to be her buddy? Her big brother? Or something else?”
He looks at Shawn again like he’s hoping he’ll interject, but Shawn’s too drunk to fully participate in this conversation. “I don’t know, man. I just feel like an asshole.”
“For saving her from Forester?”
“For not recognizing her.”
“It was a long time ago.” I buried so much from that time that even thinking about it brings an anxious emptiness to my insides. Stiffening, I draw myself tall and fix Hayes with my firmest big-brother stare. “And some things from the past are best left there.” He knows what I mean. They both do. “Forget about Riley. If she doesn’t want to know us… fuck, if she wants to play games with us, then fuck her.”
“Yeah,” Shawn says weakly. “She could have told us. She should have told us.”
His agreement is half-hearted, but I’ll take it. “Exactly.”
Hayes looks between us, brow furrowed, and mouth pinched. He doesn’t like it, but it’s two against one, so he’ll have to suck it up.
“Can I get back to my business now?” When he doesn’t respond, I turn on my heel and head back upstairs. A girl is waiting for me. One who’s eager to spend time with me. I don’t need Riley to come back into our lives and dredge up old pain.
Outside the closed door, I press my hand to my chest like I can warm the place that’s suddenly hollow, like I can stop the inexplicable hammering of my heart against my ribs.
Riley.
I forgot about her once. I can forget about her again. It’s what I need to do to keep my focus on what’s important. Hockey. My future. Burying my dick somewhere that will make me forget my pounding head. The past needs to stay where it is. Dead and buried.
***
Coach’s whistle pierces the air, echoing shrilly around the rink, hitting me like a personal attack. I grit my teeth and slam my stick against the ice, the smack ringing out and chips scattering.
“Drayton!” Coach’s voice slices through the air, harsh as ever. “You asleep out there, or what?”
I suck in a breath, willing the throbbing in my head to give it a rest. Just until the end of practice. Just until I can take some painkillers. I try to push that thought from my mind because I don’t like being reliant on pill popping. Sleep has been a problem, but not here on the ice. Last night, when I climbed into my bed, I tossed and turned until the sun came up, trying but failing to forget the memories that kept poking their way back into my consciousness. Memories of a girl in our home, at a time in my life when I felt like everything was falling apart.
I’m tired, so my passes are sloppy, and my skates heavier than usual. Every shot skews wide, like I’ve forgotten everything I’ve worked so hard to turn into muscle memory. Frustration boils, tasting acrid, and with it, the throbbing intensity in my head increases.
I don’t reply because Coach doesn’t want to hear excuses. Words don’t mean shit on the ice. Precision, drive, and commitment—those are what matter. I skate back into position, gripping my stick so hard my knuckles ache inside my gloves.
“You planning on joining us today, or you got other plans?” Coach barks, hands on his hips like he’s disciplining a kid.