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I don’t have much time to dwell on it, since Wicker comes strutting into the dining room. I’m bent over the table before he can even ask, skirt flipped up to expose my bare backside. Compared to his brother, Wicker is easy to handle. All he’s looking for is a convenient hole. The less back-and-forth, the better.

He makes a smug sound that’s accompanied by the clink of his belt buckle, and gets to work on his second deposit of the day. It’s fast and hard, my hips slamming into the edge of the table as he grunts above me. I fix my eyes on the necklace as he fucks me, thinking that I’d rather gouge my own eyes out than wear it.

Naturally, Wicker finishes and plucks the necklace from the box, winding it around my neck before I can even push myself upright.

Bending down, he gives a breathless chuckle into my ear. “Who’s our good girl?”

I don’t even flinch at the slap to my backside after he buckles up. I just ignore his obnoxious strut from the room and sit back down to eat.

Jesus,hockey is boring.

I’m used to shirtless, muscular, sweaty men beating the life out of one another in short, concise rounds. This? The men are covered in layers of clothes and padding. Helmets protect their heads, obscuring any recognition of who the players are. At least their names and numbers are on the back of their jerseys, Pace #3, Wicker #2.

But it’s fucking freezing in here.

Lex sits next to me in the stands, pitched forward with his elbows resting on his knees. His amber eyes track his brothers like lasers, and every time one of them gets the puck, he bolts to his feet, fidgety and buzzing with an animated energy that I’ve never seen on him.

He looks fucking terrified.

“Pass it,” he mutters, not bothering to yell out over the crowd.

Pace taps the puck, and it zips to Wicker, who catches it on the blade of his stick, legs pumping it up the ice.

“Deke, deke, shoot,” Lex says, erupting into a roughly screamed cheer when Wicker sinks it into the goal. When he drops back into his seat, his face is a little blanched.

“You guys take this game way too seriously,” I point out, eyeing the girl next to me, who’s holding a large basket of nachos.

I miss junk food.

“How many Friday Night Furies have you been to?” he asks, mouth pressed into a tight, grim line. “It’s never just about the game when it’s a Royal competing. If anyone should know that, it’d be you.”

I look back at the ice, wondering what’s on the line. It must be pretty big, considering that Lex’s intensity doesn’t wane the entire first period. He rises nervously from his seat whenever one of his brothers gets the puck, like there’s some kind of magnet attached to him. The opposing team nets a goal and Lex pushes his fingers into his temples, eyes trained on the floor.

All the agony is ultimately unnecessary, because the Ashby brothers?

Even to my novice eye, it’s clear they’re onfire.

Wicker glides along the ice with a grace that enthralls me, easily out-skating the boys on the other team. Pace isn’t quite as nimble, but he’s definitely faster, his long legs pushing harder than the rest, making space for Wicker to dart past with the puck. And the way they work together is borderline supernatural.

The brothers pass the puck back and forth like it’s a choreographed dance. Around other players, beneath the blades of skates, once even bounced off of someone’s knee pads. I watch them closely, but their heads don’t even turn to see the other before they make a pass. Our team might have five players on the ice, but you wouldn’t know it. It’s a Wicker and Pace show, the stands erupting exuberantly with every goal. The other team’s netminder is visibly furious, slamming his stick into the posts after the first period ends with Forsyth already up by three.

As the team rises from the bench to go back to the dressing room, a group of rowdy co-eds bends over the bleachers to touch them.

Well.

Notthem.

Him.

“They’ve had sex with Wicker,” I say, the sentence emerging idly, like an afterthought.

Beside me Lex snorts. “Everyone’s had sex with Wicker. Those girls, several professors, most of the girl’s volleyball team,” he arches an eyebrow, “probably a few of the boy’s volleyball team. Our senator has had sex with Wicker. Hell,” he sips from his water bottle, “I’vehad sex with Wicker.”

My head snaps up, eyes widening. “You and Wicker are…?”

Lex pulls a face. “Fuck no.” Rolling his eyes, his gaze tracks the Zamboni. “We went through puberty playing hockey in an all-boys boarding school. Things happen.” When I can do nothing but gape at him, he glances at me, catching my shocked expression. “Oh. You’re a prude. I’ll have to remember that.”

A passing LDZ throws us a glance and Lex stiffens, shifting to throw his arm over the back of my seat. I lean into him, seeking body heat. His muscles tense, but his arm drops from the back of the seat, curling around my shoulder.