by Pippa Grant
This is a mess.
A total and complete mess.
But I’m realizing I don’t actually mind.
27
Ares
This isn’t breakfast.
I stare at Felicity.
She doesn’t notice.
She’s talking to herself again. Filling the kitchen with an argument between two of her puppets. Something about a carrot somewhere it shouldn’t be.
There’s vegetables where my meat should be.
I can fix my own food, but I don’t turn it down when someone else makes it for me. Be rude. And a waste.
Not so sure about the rainbow on this plate though.
“You want to get better, you’ll eat nutritious food!” she says happily like the cheery cat.
Not looking at me.
Back’s to me, matter of fact. She’s slicing something.
Avocado.
I can name every vegetable on the plate in front of me too.
But I don’t want to.
Vegetables don’t fill me up. Like chewing air. All that work, no food in my belly.
Don’t taste as good as beef either. Or pizza.
Or tacos.
Z’s in a book club in New York. I go when I’m around. They have tacos.
Lots of tacos.
I miss book club.
Mostly I miss tacos. Good plan for lunch. Dozen tacos. Bag of chips. Apple juice.
I like apple juice. It doesn’t judge.
Like skating too, but when she put this plate of air in front of me, she also put her hand on my heart and told me to put my foot up.
You’re not playing tonight. You’re still strong, Ares. You’re still the Force. Staying off the ice today won’t change who you are here.
Can still feel her hand on my chest.
Still see that belief in her eyes.
She believes in me.
Knows I’ll be back.
Gonna help me get back.
Before fucking January.
“Eat,” Tim the Goat says. Puppet’s not even down here, and I can pick out his voice. “All those vitamins are good for you.”
I watch her back.
Nice back. Gentle shoulders. Straight spine. Curvy ass.
My eyes get stuck on the ass.
Makes eating vegetables better, watching her ass sway while she works.
Now my junk’s getting happy again.
Interested.
Can’t go to morning skate. Murphy, Lavoie, Frey—they all told me to take some time to cool off. Rest up. Get better.
Ice used to be one of my favorite words.
Now it’s just the shit people try to rub all over my foot while it’s propped up on a chair.
Might as well spend the time watching Felicity’s ass instead.
Nice round hips. She’s not big—nobody’s big, compared to me and Z. She’s curvy. On the short side, even for a girl.
Strong.
Strong hands. Strong legs. Slender, but strong. Toned.
I shovel a spoon through the vegetable potato thing on my plate, eyes glued to those perfect globes, and I miss my mouth.
Loki laughs.
He’s at the weak chair. One I can’t sit in, or it’ll break. Got fresh strawberries and plums on his plate. Plantains too.
What?
I watch cooking shows.
Like to watch food.
Like to eat more.
Everything.
Meat. Bread. Cheese. Beer.
Candy.
Order it all through an app. Easy.
Loki picks my spilled vegetables off the table.
I go back to watching Felicity’s ass.
She doesn’t eat meat.
Haven’t asked her why. Should. Wonder if I stare at her long enough, if she’ll figure out the question.
She frowns at me. “Are you staring at my ass?”
I grunt.
Of course I am.
It’s a nice ass.
Wouldn’t mind touching it again.
Would like to touch it again.
Touch all of her. Cheeks. Neck. Breasts. Belly. Inner thigh. Ass.
She goes pink. “You have guacamole on your chin.”
“Save for later.”
Her head tilts thoughtfully. “You won’t mind if it goes brown by then?”
I shrug. “Eat candy wrappers.”
Extra fiber. Plus, people don’t ask questions when you eat candy straight with the wrapper on.
They just assume that tells them everything they need to know, and they give you a wide berth.
Like it better that way. Can’t disappoint people when they think you’re an idiot.
“I’ve seen the videos,” she says.
I hold up my hands and wiggle my fingers.
Me and Z, we figured this out a long time ago. Act like something’s hard—like our fingers are too big to unwrap shit—and everyone around us jumps to do it.
Ambrosia still cuts my steak when we’re home for Christmas.
Felicity’s watching my fingers and going pinker. “Don’t even. You can knit a row on Gammy’s blanket, you can unwrap a mint.”
Ah. She noticed the blanket got fixed. “Murphy did it.”
She slides open a creaky drawer and pulls out a misshapen knit potholder that looks more like knots than knits. “Nick was proud of this. He doesn’t knit well.”
I look at Loki, then back to her.
Monkey did it.
She crosses the small kitchen to stand beside me. Doesn’t have to bend down far to get to eye level.
Pretty eyes.
Smart.
She sees more than most people do. “You’re a really bad liar,” she whispers.
She’s not wrong.
But she’s one of few who care enough to notice.
Her gaze drops to my lips.
My junk roars to attention.
“I gave up beefcake years ago,” she muses, “but you’re really making me reconsider.”
Before I can come up with an appropriate facial response, she leans closer and licks my chin.
I’ve sprouted a fucking redwood in my pants.
My lungs are tongue-tied.
She smells like strawberries.
“All clean.” She pulls back, smiles, and crosses the kitchen.
Doesn’t get far though.
Because I snag her around the waist and pull her into my lap.
The chair creaks.
I freeze.
She goes wide-eyed. “Gammy’s ghost will kill us if we break this chair,” she whispers.
“Likes me,” I reply.
Without breathing.
Because if I breathe, I might break the fucking chair. Two in one week isn’t good.
Don’t need to give Felicity a complex either.
She stares me right in the eye.
It’s my trick. Watch people. See how long it takes them to flinch.
Learn a lot that way.
See through assholes on the ice that way. Line up for the face-off, stare the other center in the eye, wait to see if he’ll blink, let him know who’s running the ice today.
Works good on sisters’ boyfriends too. Used to anyway. Before Ambrosia and Chase finally hooked up.
With Felicity, it makes me want to kiss her.
Unbutton those top three buttons on her tight purple sweater-shirt thing. Touch her nipples. Stroke her pussy.
Lay her on the table, peel her out of those tight leggings, and have breakfast between her legs.
Fuck.
I blink first.
I never blink first.
“Why don’t you like to talk?” she whispers.
Like she knows it’s a choice.
Conscious.
A game.
How few words can I use to get my point across?
Can I do it without using two-syllable words?
Sometimes not. Have to use a good motherfucker now and again. Not often, but now and again.
“Too much hot air,” I tell her.
It’s half the truth. Maybe.
I get half a smile.
Fuck, she’s pretty.
Even with the black eye and bruised nose.
Maybe especially with the black eye and bruised nose. Like she dropped her gloves and let an asshole have it.
“Couldn’t hear,” I hear myself say. “Tubes. Six. All quiet until then.”
She tilts her head. “You were six before anyone noticed you couldn’t hear?”
“Had Z. Didn’t need to hear.”
She winces. “You two must’ve been a handful.”
Handful?
Sixteen handfuls. We’d shovel sand in each other’s diapers and race through the house. Played hide the baby when Ambrosia was born. Terrorized the neighborhood pets. Drank Ma’s perfume. Pissed in the rose bushes.
I grin.
Good times.
And that was before we started school and met Chase.
She puts her hand in my face, then adds a second. “Stop that. You’re adorable when you smile.”
“Fucking beast,” I correct.
She laughs.
The chair creaks again. She scrambles up, and this time, I let her go.
Loki’s watching me.
You’re in trouble, dude.
Got that right, little monkey.
I rub my chin where Felicity licked it.
Last time I took a girl out—not just hooked up, but went out—spent the whole dinner pulling her hand off my crotch.
She didn’t want to go out.
She wanted a piece of the Force.
Same with the girl before.
And the girl before.
I’m not a man. I’m a thing.
The big brother. The protector. The freak.
Want to know a secret?
I always liked the smart girls.
But they never saw me.
Until Felicity.
“What are we doing today, Felicity?” she asks herself as Lucy.
“Home game tonight, Lucy,” she answers herself as Tim. “What do you think we’re doing?”
“But there are hours and hours and hours until then, Tim! Who’s going to entertain us until we can go cheer on the Thrusters?”
“Well, Lucy, I have an idea, but I don’t think Mr. Force is going to like it.”
“I’m not going to like it,” she says as Harold.
“Shut up, Harold. You don’t like anything,” Tim replies. “Felicity’s friend Alina’s coming over. She’s bringing her cello. And we’re playing Rock Band all morning.”
“There goes the neighborhood,” Harold announces.
“That happened the minute you moved in, dickhead!” Lucy says cheerfully. “I’m so excited. I can’t wait to sing. Does Alina know any more boy band songs?”
“I think she learned some this week, Lucy,” Tim answers.
Felicity slides a look at me.
Watching.
Waiting.
Weighing my reaction.
“You can join us,” she says quietly.
Like she’s not doing it for me.
Giving me something I’ll enjoy since she’s not going to let me go lace up and skate with the team this morning.
My hand’s shaking while I shovel more potato vegetable crap into my mouth.
I fucking love singing.
Addicted to boy band songs.
Can tell myself all I want that she saw singing work with Ambrosia and Chase the other night. That she’s giving her friend a chance to hang with a pro hockey player. That this is how she spends every Saturday.
But I can’t tell myself I’m immune to having her do something this nice for me.
Can’t tell myself I’m not falling under her spell.
I fit her mold. She likes hockey players. Likes muscles. Likes tough.
She’d do this for anybody.
But she’s doing it for me.
Making me want her.
Even though I can’t have her.
Not like I want to.
28
Felicity
Usually when I go to a Thrusters game, I sit with my parents in their private box—it’s been an indulgence since I was little—and Maren almost always comes with. Alina’s gone half the year, traveling and performing, and Kami sometimes hangs with her family in their private box.
We all love the Thrusters.
Today, however, Ares snags me by the shirt as soon as we get out of his car on the players’ parking level and points to the private elevator used by the coaches, players, and team staff.
There’s no need to read heavily into the look in those intense blue eyes.
He’s very clearly threatening to ditch the crutches and toss me over his shoulder to get me where he wants me if I don’t go along.
So I nod and follow him to the elevator.
The guard doesn’t blink.
“Enjoy the game, Mr. Berger,” he says.
Like it’s normal for Ares to show up with a girl, a monkey, and a cat puppet.
I’ve never been in the team’s private suite before. If they opened up the suite to all the family, it would be packed. We usually pay for tickets just like everyone else. The team’s box is used for guys on the IR who want to be here without causing a fuss, or for upper management, or whoever else the Thrusters decide is allowed.
It’s kind of a big deal to be in here, and I doubt I ever get to come back.
Especially since I showed up with a monkey.
The suite isn’t at center ice—that’s reserved for fans willing to cough up the big bucks—but the bar’s stocked and manned, there’s food laid out, the beige carpet with the Thrusters logo in the center is clean, the TVs above the windows overlooking the rink are all huge, showing clips from this last week’s games and shots of fans settling into their seats and the Thruster Girls doing their pre-game show on the ice.
The room smells like beer and popcorn and fries.
Like blood and sweat and ice.
Like hockey.
I fucking love it.
There are four guys in suits huddled in the maroon and black lounge chairs around a coffee table, also decorated with the Thrusters logo, on one side of the suite. They’re in deep discussion over profit margins, laundry bills, and dental cleanings.
Yes, seriously.
Dental cleanings.
I wonder if one of them is the dentist on staff.
I hope so, but they’re at a hockey game. In the team suite. They could at least be excited to be here.
Suddenly there’s shrieking from the row of luxury stadium seats at the windows overlooking the ice.
“Ares! Ohmydog, you poor thing. Come. Sit. Loki! You brought Loki. I brought cookies. Don’t tell. I don’t think I’m supposed to bring food into the arena, but Manning offered to kick anyone’s ass if they said anything to me. So far everyone’s been nice, and why are you standing up? Sit. Sit down right now before I call Joey.”
That’s Gracie.
She’s this adorable, plucky woman from Alabama who has completely captivated Manning Frey, heart and soul.
She’s also kind of like family for Ares, because her sister’s dating his twin brother. I met her a couple weeks back when Nick dragged me along for a guys’ game night at Manning’s place.
Gracie half-hugs Ares while she pulls him to a seat at a table next to the bar. The suite isn’t that big, so we’re almost on top of the suits. I’m guessing she’s in the team suite because of security reasons, since she’s dating Manning, who’s a legit prince to a small country.
Ares gives me a look over her head that suggests he’s just humoring her. I have shit to do. Distract her.
Not a chance.
“Here, put your foot up,” Gracie orders.
I leap into action as Gracie grabs a bar stool that looks like its legs are made of iron. She’s a couple months pregnant—one more reason, I’m sure, Manning has stashed her up here in the team suite, now that it’s publ
ic knowledge that she’s having his baby—and doesn’t need to be lifting anything any more than Ares does. “Here. Let me.”
“Felicity!”
Gracie’s chocolate eyes light up one minute and the next they go wide. She runs a hand over her curly dark hair, stool forgotten. “Ohmydog, what happened to your eye?”
“If you think that’s bad, you should see the door she walked into,” I reply as Lucy. “It’s not going to pull any more shit in the dark, you can count on that.”
She looks at Ares.
He sighs and nods. Yep, that’s what happened.
“Okay then,” she says. She winces again. “Also, I’m so sorry about the cookies. I didn’t know they’d end up in your yard. And—” she winces harder “—I’m really sorry about your brother’s penis too. That has to be hell on his social life.”
Ares suddenly has a coughing fit.
A laughing coughing fit. His eyes are crinkled, his mouth spread wide, broad, thick chest heaving. He takes a seat at the bar and props his foot up, shaking his head.
Loki screeches.
“Whaaaaa…?” I start.
Gracie’s olive skin goes cherry. “You don’t… know?”
I’m pretty sure she’s talking about the dick cookies on Gammy’s teensy front lawn, but— “You had something to do with Soggy Dick Cookie Mountain?”
She holds her hands up. “I swear to you, if we’d known what was going to happen to the cookies, I would’ve refused the order. But I’m done with the Dickookie business now. For real. Your brother broke me. I can’t stand staring at ugly dicks anymore, and after having my entire hometown help me bake like five gajillion of them, we’re all done with ugly dicks. But the good news is, every single kid in Goat’s Tit knows about the importance of condoms now. And personal grooming too. If you need someone to talk to Nick about that—”
The four men have stopped their conversation and are staring at us.
Gracie notices them noticing us, and she scurries to grab a cotton tote from the ground at the edge of the bar. “Cookies?” she offers, pulling out a zipper bag full of what appears to be snickerdoodles.
“You bake dirty cookies?” I whisper, angling closer to her while I watch the guys across the suite watching us whisper.
“Not anymore. Seriously. It was just a side thing. For spare cash. Started with faces, devolved to dicks, which I charged more for. For the record. But I’m done with it. And not because princesses don’t bake dick cookies. I’m just so tired of dicks.”