Page 11

I’ve only been back from London a few hours, but I’m already plastered. Not the kind of buzz that’s fun. The kind that burns and churns in your stomach, the kind you use to drown out every shitty thought screaming in your head.

Zane’s working on some busted engine, wiping grease off his hands every few minutes while I sit on an overturned bucket and down another beer.

“Coach benched me,” I say, voice slurred.

Zane doesn’t look up. “That’s what happens when you mouth off, dumbass especially after missing practice without a word.”

I snort, tipping the bottle to my lips. “Not why. He’s got a new kid. Fresh meat. Supposed to be good.” I scoff. “Real good.”

Zane finally glances my way, sweat dripping down his temple. “Kid’s probably not wasted half the time either.”

“Fuck off.” I toss the empty bottle toward the trash can and miss.

“Truth hurts, huh?” He leans over the car, twisting something with a wrench. “And why are you even here? Shouldn’t you be...I don’t know, doing something productive? Crying into your fancy-ass London tea about Maya?”

“Shut up.”

“That’s a yes.”

I don’t answer. Instead, I grab another beer from the six-pack on the ground. The sting of Maya leaving still hits too fresh. She was supposed to be my constant. But now she’s gone, and I’m stuck replaying everything I said wrong, every look she gave me that I didn’t catch soon enough.

“Fucking stupid,” I mutter to myself.

“What’s stupid?” Zane asks without looking up.

“Everything.” I take another swig, swiping my arm across my mouth. “Maya. Coach. That goddamn new kid, Eli. My fucking life.”

“Jesus. You’re on a roll tonight.”

I ignore him, the alcohol making my brain race faster than my mouth can keep up. “You know what I should do?”

“Not anything stupid, that’s what.”

I grin. “Too late.”

Zane drops the wrench and wipes his hands on a rag, finally turning to face me. “What’re you thinking?”

“Something permanent.”

“That’s fucking vague. Permanent like...getting a puppy or permanent like a regrettable tattoo?”

“Better,” I say, standing up too fast and swaying on my feet.

Zane raises a brow. “Better than a tattoo? Not much left on the table, man. Don’t tell me you’re gonna knock someone up out of spite or something.”

I flip him off, grabbing my keys. “Just wait. You’ll see.”

“Caleb.” His tone’s sharp now, cautious. “Whatever it is, don’t—”

“Don’t what?” I cut him off, stumbling toward the door. “Do something stupid? Already doing it, buddy.”

He groans, muttering something about my funeral under his breath, but he doesn’t stop me.

The tattoo parlor smells like antiseptic and bad decisions. The walls are covered in neon signs and blown-up pictures of inked-up bodies. The guy behind the counter looks like he hasn’t slept in a week, his eyes sunken and his hair sticking up in every direction.

“What do you want?” he asks, not even bothering to look at me properly.

I slap a wad of cash on the counter. “Something that’ll make me forget I have a dick.”

That gets his attention. He leans forward, squinting at me. “You serious?”

“Dead serious.”

“You’re drunk.”

“No shit. Can you do it or not?”

He sighs, grabbing a clipboard. “Sign this waiver. It’s your funeral.”

“Funny.”

“What?” he grunts.

“My best friend said the same thing.” I scribble my name, the letters barely legible. He takes the paper and counts the cash, then gestures for me to follow him to a chair in the back.

“What are we doing? Prince Albert? Frenum?”

“Whatever’ll hurt more.”

He chuckles darkly. “Alright, tough guy. Frenum it is.”

The chair’s cold under me, and the buzz of the equipment makes my skin crawl.

“You’re sure about this?” the guy asks, snapping on a pair of gloves.

“Do I look like I’m not?”

He shrugs. “I’ve seen sober people chicken out.”

“Well, I’m not sober, am I?”

“Alright.”

He gets to work, pulling out a tray of sterile tools. My heart, or whatever’s left of it, hammers as he explains what’s about to happen. I zone out halfway through.

“Alright, drop ‘em.”

“What?”

“Your pants, genius. Need access to do the piercing.”

I laugh, more out of disbelief than humor. “This is rock bottom, isn’t it?”

“Depends. You could wake up married in Vegas. That’s worse.”

I don’t argue. I just unbutton my jeans and shove them down far enough for him to do his thing.

“This is gonna hurt,” he warns, holding up a clamp.

“Good.”

“You’re a masochist, huh?”

“Just shut up and do it.”

The clamp pinches, and I hiss through my teeth. Then comes the needle.

White-hot pain shoots through me, and I curse loudly, gripping the sides of the chair.

“Holy fuck—”

“Told you it’d hurt,” he says, not bothering to hide his amusement.

“Fuck you.”

He chuckles, finishing up and wiping the area clean. “All done. You’re gonna wanna keep that clean or it’ll get infected. Here’s some aftercare instructions.”

I yank my jeans back up, ignoring the sharp sting as I zip them.

“Thanks for the permanent reminder of how stupid I am,” I say, grabbing the paper he hands me.

“Anytime, buddy.”

As I step outside, the cold night air hits me like a slap. The pain’s still there, sharp and unrelenting, but it’s nothing compared to the mess in my chest.

I light a cigarette, the smoke curling around me as I lean against the wall.

I’ve fucked up before, but this?

This takes the crown.

Maya’s mouth is on me, her lips soft but demanding. Her nails drag down my chest, her weight pressing me into the mattress. I can’t breathe. She grinds against me, her heat driving me insane, her moans filling the air like music meant to wreck me.

“Miss me?” she whispers, her breath hot against my ear.

“Fuck, yeah,” I groan, gripping her hips tighter. She tilts her head, giving me that look like I’m hers to ruin.

And then she sinks down on me.

I shoot awake to the blaring sound of my alarm.

“Shit!” My head’s pounding, the sunlight slicing through the curtains like a goddamn weapon. And worse? I’m hard as a fucking rock, and my dick is throbbing.

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.

Coach blows the whistle, and we’re off. Drills are hell today, and I’m slower than usual, the hangover dragging me down. Every time I move, the piercing tugs, a constant reminder of last night’s stupidity.

“Pick it up, Caleb!” Coach shouts from the sidelines.

“I’m trying!” I snap back, but he just shakes his head, unimpressed.

Eli, on the other hand, is killing it. Every pass is perfect, every shot on target. The guy’s a goddamn machine.

By the time practice is over, I’m ready to collapse. My head’s pounding, my body’s sore, and my pride’s in the gutter.

As we head back to the locker room, Eli walks past me, his gray eyes flicking my way.

“Nice hustle out there,” he says, his tone casual but cutting.

“Yeah, whatever.” I brush past him, not in the mood for small talk.

Inside, the guys are laughing and joking, but I stay quiet, slumping onto the bench.

I sit there for a while, staring at the floor, the events of the past twenty-four hours replaying in my mind. The tattoo shop. The drinking. The dream. And now this. The realization that I’m slipping, losing my edge.

I need to get my shit together. Fast.

The exam paper stares up at me like it wants to fight. Big, fat red letters: 52%. I slump back in my seat, biting the inside of my cheek. Not only am I failing science class, I am failing this too.

“Well, shit.”

The professor drones on about “exam expectations” like half the class isn’t already dead inside. My head’s throbbing, my balls ache, and I’m barely holding it together. The desk chair isn’t helping. It’s hard as hell and pressing in all the wrong places.

I glance at the clock. Ten minutes left. Ten minutes of sitting here pretending I don’t care that I bombed another test.

Zane’s voice echoes in my head, followed by my dad’s. “Hockey’s not a career, Caleb. You think you’re good enough to make it pro?”

Dad said it the day Zane quit. Said it with a glass of whiskey in his hand and disappointment etched into his face. “You’re good, Caleb. But not that good. Don’t fool yourself into thinking this is your future. Look at Zane. Smart friend of yours.”

“Caleb, you need to know this,” Professor Stein’s voice cuts through my thoughts.

I blink up at him, trying not to look as dead inside as I feel. “Yeah. Totally.”

He sighs and moves on.

When class ends, I stuff the test into my backpack, resisting the urge to crumple it into a ball. The second I’m out the door, my phone buzzes.

Coach Jacobs: My office. Now.

I groan, running a hand through my hair. This is about the grades. I know it. I’m screwed. Coach warned me last week, and here I am, handing him another reason to bench me.

I head across campus, dodging the groups of students spilling out of classrooms. My balls ache with every step, and it’s all I can do not to limp. I’m half in my head, thinking about what Coach is going to say, when I slam into someone.

Hot liquid splashes all over my hoodie.

“What the—” I jump back, staring down at the mess. Coffee. Scalding, fucking coffee.

“Oh my God!” The girl gasps, eyes wide. Green eyes. Wild, curly hair. It’s her.

Again.

“Are you serious right now?” I snap, peeling my hoodie away from my skin. The coffee’s already soaking through.

“I—I’m so sorry!” She looks horrified, clutching an empty coffee cup.

“This is the second time!” I growl. “What the hell is your problem?”

Her mouth opens and closes like she’s trying to come up with something, but I don’t have time for this.

“Watch where you are fucking going,” I mutter, storming off toward the rink.

By the time I make it to the locker room, my hoodie’s trashed, and my mood’s even worse. I strip out of the soaked mess and throw on a spare shirt and pants from my locker, checking myself in the mirror. The piercing’s fine, but the skin’s red from the heat. Great. Another thing to deal with.

When I finally make it to Coach’s office, he’s sitting behind his desk, looking like he’s been waiting to rip me a new one.

“Caleb. Sit.”

I drop into the chair, bracing myself.

“Your grades.” He tosses a folder onto the desk. “Explain.”

“I’m trying,” I snap.

“You’re trying?” His voice is sharp. “You’re failing. If this keeps up, you won’t just miss the first game, you won’t even practice. Do you understand what’s at stake?”

I stare at him, my chest tightening. He’s threatening to take away the one thing that keeps me sane.

“Coach, I—”

The door swings open, cutting me off.

“Dad, you left your—”

I turn, and there she is. Same green eyes. Same curly hair. Same look of shock as she sees me.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I mutter under my breath.

“Sienna,” Coach says, standing up. “This isn’t a good time.”

Sienna. That’s the clutz’s name.

“Sorry, I didn’t know—” Her eyes flick to me, then back to her dad.

“Sienna, this is Caleb,” Coach says, his voice tight. “Caleb, this is my daughter.”

“Yeah, we’ve met,” I say dryly, not bothering to hide the edge in my voice.

Her face flushes, and she looks down at the coffee-stained hoodie still hanging from my hand. “Right. Uh, sorry about that.”

Coach looks between us, frowning. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” we both say at the same time.

Coach narrows his eyes but doesn’t press. “Sienna, we’ll talk later. Caleb, get your shit together. You’re on thin ice.”

I nod, standing up and shooting her one last look before walking out.

Thin ice.

Story of my life.