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)
Hayes studies me for a long moment before sniffing and blowing out a breath. He turns to leave, and I watch his broad back fill the doorway and then disappear.
He’s my baby brother, and the connection between us has always been strong. Who and what is coming between us now?
I take more pills, craving the oblivion of a nice, tight pussy and the pleasure that wipes away all my tension for just a little while. It’s so fucked up that sex, something that should be about pleasure, has twisted into a way for me to forget about life, and reassure myself that I’ve still got what it takes.
I don’t stick around for much longer, dressing and gathering my things. When I step outside, the chilled air slaps me awake, cooling the heat in my head but not lifting the weight in my chest.
Our next game is looming, and all I can do is push everything down and focus on the ice. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about hockey—and life—it’s this: you can’t let anything slow you down. Not headaches, not strained relationships, not even your own doubts. You keep skating; you keep moving because that momentum is the only thing stopping you from falling flat on your face.
10
SHAWN
“Where are you going?” Jacob asks as I pass the door to the den. He’s slumped on the sofa in the dark, playing soft music like a sad thirty-something who has just been dumped. Hayes is nowhere to be found.
“Study group,” I say.
“Don’t you fucking start.”
I laugh but don’t share the truth. I don’t like lying to my brother, but omitting details is bearable. “You staying in to make doilies or some shit?” I ask. “Crocheting to jazz?”
“Fuck you.” He tosses a throw pillow at me, but it’s a half-hearted attempt that barely misses his own head.
“Well. Don’t wait up.”
“Shawn…” His voice sounds tight, and I duck my head to study him closer. The tightness of his brow isn’t new, but his skin looks pale in the glow of the hallway light.
“Yeah.”
“What do you think is going on with Hayes?”
“Our baby brother’s growing up,” I say. “Keeping secrets from the adults of the family is a totally normal part of teen development.”
When Jacob snorts, it’s a relief. “You’re not keeping shit from me, are you?”
“Nah, bro. You know me. I’m an open book.”
He shifts on the sofa, grunting like his body is hurting. That’s not unusual after a game, but we only had practice today. Maybe he’s still carrying bruises since Friday night. “We only have each other,” he says, his eyes meeting mine. “We can’t ever take that for granted.”
“I don’t,” I reply firmly, gripping the doorjamb with guilty fingers. I know I’m not doing anything wrong by wanting a private life, and neither is Hayes. It doesn’t mean I love my brothers any less or that I’d put anyone else before them. But Jacob has a rigid understanding of loyalty and love. It means total transparency and nothing and no one else ever being a priority. While I understand the reasons for his beliefs, I don’t agree with them. We’re not kids anymore, and this level of sibling intensity isn’t sustainable.
We might have grown up in the same house with the same parents, but we didn’t have the same experience. Dad was hardest on Jacob, who took it upon himself to shield us from the worst of the verbal abuse. Jacob craved our mom’s attention the most, and when she was withdrawn and chose other relationships instead of us, the disappointment cut him deep.
A psychiatrist would have a field day with our childhoods, but there’s no way Jacob would confess to any kind of weakness. To the outside world—even to himself—he’s bulletproof. As his brother, I’m well aware that reality is totally different.
***
It’s a clear night, and I need a clear head, so I walk to meet Riley. There are a lot of decent bars in town where we could have met: The Red Devil, where Jacob first spotted Riley; O’Connor’s, which is too loud and sporty for the kind of night I’d wanted to have; Sugar Plums, which is a soul-jazz venue filled with flowers and pink accents—too romantic—and my favorite, Spencer’s, which isn’t a student hangout.
I guess the prospect of me combined with alcohol was too much for Riley. Or maybe she wanted to get me into swim shorts again. I wonder if she’ll be wearing that one-piece. Just the memory of her in the form-fitting swimwear has everything below my waist flaring to life.
It’s polite to be early, and I’m inside fifteen minutes before we arranged, so I hang out in the locker room, swiping through my phone to kill time. The photo Malik was waving around this morning appears on my timeline, posted by a shared friend. I zoom in to get a closer look at my brother and the girl he was with, but I still can’t make out who it is.