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It takes me a second to realize why I’m in so much pain. Then it hits me. The piercing. The drinking. The brilliant idea that I’d be fine after getting my dick stabbed. Spoiler: I’m not fine.

I slap the alarm off and roll onto my back, groaning. The waistband of my boxers presses against the fresh piercing, and it’s torture. Actual, fiery hell.

“Great. Fucking great.”

I sit up slowly, my stomach lurching from the hangover. My mouth’s dry, my tongue feels like sandpaper, and the events of last night hit like a trainwreck I can’t escape. The tattoo shop. The needle. The needle in my dick. And the six more beers I downed when I got home because apparently, I like making bad decisions.

I stumble to the bathroom, squinting at the harsh light when I flip the switch.

Alright, Caleb. You’re a goddamn idiot, but you’re not missing practice.

Practice. Shit. I can’t miss another. Coach is on my ass. I don’t need to give him another reason to bench me permanently.

I strip out of my clothes, hissing when my boxers brush against the piercing. Standing naked in front of the mirror, I glance down at myself. The fresh piercing glints in the light, a cruel reminder of how fucking stupid I am.

“Yeah, good job, asshole,” I mutter.

The shower’s hot, too hot. The water hits my cock, and I practically jump out of the tub.

“Goddammit!” I bite down on the urge to yell louder.

I keep the water lukewarm after that, washing quickly and cringing every time the spray touches anywhere below my hips. By the time I’m done, I feel marginally human but still like shit.

Pulling on some loose sweats and a hoodie, I shove my gear into a bag and head out the door.

The rink’s buzzing when I pull up, the parking lot packed. I’m cutting it close, as usual. My head’s still pounding, and the cold air does nothing to clear the fog.

Inside, the noise of skates on ice and guys shouting echoes through the arena.

“Caleb! You’re late,” Coach barks as I rush past him, not bothering to make eye contact.

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Barely. Get your ass in gear. We’ve got a lot to cover.”

I nod, dumping my bag onto a bench and pulling out my skates. My hands are shaky as I lace them up, and the ache in my crotch isn’t helping my concentration.

“Rough night?” Marcus, one of the defensemen, smirks as he sits down next to me.

“You don’t wanna know.”

“Judging by the state of you, I think I already do.”

I flip him off, but he just laughs, slapping my shoulder as he heads onto the ice.

I follow him out, the cold biting at my face. The rink’s alive with energy, the guys flying across the ice like they own it. And then I see the new kid.

Eli Grayson.

Coach couldn’t shut up about him yesterday. Said he was the best player he’s seen in years, better than anyone on the Ravens. Better than me.

The guy’s tall, almost as tall as me, with sharp gray eyes and a cut on his chin that looks like it has a story. He skates like he’s been doing it since birth, his movements smooth and calculated.

“That’s the newbie?” I mutter to Marcus as we line up for drills.

“Yep. Eli. Coach is already drooling over him.”

“Great.” I roll my eyes, the bitterness creeping into my voice.