Your dick isn't as big as your brother's.
Those imaginary words ring through my head while I'm jacking off, trying to get off to memories of my ex. Yeah, the ex who decided to sneak into my room and fuck my brother instead of me. My grip slows because it's fucking pointless. How the hell did that even happen?
I'll go to my grave wishing it had been me in that bed because this? This is some bullshit.
Can't even stroke myself without seeing Sandy balls deep in Hannah –– the girl who was supposed to be mine. My girl is now his girl, and every time I picture them together, I want to punch something.
Mom keeps pushing this forgiveness crap. "Cade, you need to make peace with your brother." Like hell I do. Hannah's living with him now, probably riding him every night in his bed while I'm stuck here remembering how she used to look at me like that.
We're brothers who compete at everything –– always have, always will. Yesterday, I told him we're cool. Biggest fucking lie of the century. I'm petty as hell and I'm not letting this slide. I am not letting this go.
So here I am, pre-game nerves making me grip myself harder, trying to get some release. Total failure by the way. But I've got a plan to get even with the golden boy. There's only one way to piss Sandy off: beat him at his own game.
I've convinced Coach Peterson to let me join the team mid-season. I'm worming my way into the one thing Sanderson loves more than anything––hockey.
My hockey now.
You heard that right.
Buckle up, ladies.
I'm about to turn this whole damn family upside down.
The locker room sits empty––just rows of steel lockers and that familiar smell that takes me right back to childhood. Coach Peterson's office door is open, casting a warm glow across the concrete floor. My heart's racing, but not from nerves. This is pure adrenaline. Finally.
I straighten my collar before knocking on the doorframe. "Coach Peterson? It's Cade. Thanks for meeting with me."
"Come in, Cade." He looks up from his clipboard with a half-smile. "Have a seat."
I sit in the chair across from his desk, trying not to seem too eager. Pictures of past teams cover the wall behind him––Sandy's face grinning from at least half of them. Classic. I can't wait to knock that smile from his face.
"So, here's the situation," Coach sets his clipboard down. "Lost our third-line center to a broken collarbone yesterday. We need someone who can skate, stick handle, and isn't afraid to mix it up. Your academic standing?"
"Three point eight, sir," I say, unable to hide my grin when his eyebrows shoot up. Yeah, this brother actually cracks books.
"Good." He stands, grabbing a bag from behind his desk. "Well then, let's see if you can back up that GPA on the ice. Gear up."
The equipment lands in my arms and I catch it with a laugh. That smell––leather, tape, quiet revenge––hits me like a puck to a net. Fucking satisfying.
Gear on piece by piece, the pads feel like a second skin I'd forgotten I owned. Last time I wore anything like this, I was twelve and watching my knee swell to the size of a grapefruit. Sandy had been right there on the bench, ready to sub in. He never subbed out after that.
The skates are snug in the best way. I lace them up, fingers flying through the motions like they never stopped. Coach stands by the rink door, checking his watch with an amused smirk.
"Ready when you are, sir!" I call out, grabbing the stick.
"Call me Coach," he says.
I nod. "Yes, Coach."
That first glide onto the ice? Pure magic. My blade catches perfectly, and even though my legs are a bit shaky after eight years off, I can't stop smiling. The ice welcomes me back like an old friend who's been waiting.
"Blue line drills," Coach directs, setting up cones. "Show me what you've got."
I tear across the ice, finding my rhythm quickly. Edges might not be as sharp as they once were, but the joy of flying across the surface? That never left. I'm panting by the end of the first set, but I flash Coach a thumbs up anyway.
"Alright, hotshot. Let's see that shot."
First puck goes wide. Second hits the pipe. But the third? Bar down, baby. The satisfying ping echoes through the empty arena and I pump my fist. Sandy would shit his pants if he saw me right now.
"Still got it!" I shout, earning an actual laugh from Coach.
We run a few more drills. Stick handling, backward crossovers, suicide stops. Sweat soaks through my practice jersey and my lungs are on fire, but every successful drill feels like a tiny victory against Sandy's shadow.
Coach blows his whistle, and I glide over. My chest is heaving, and my legs are tired.
"Practice Wednesday, seven sharp," he says. "Let's see how you mesh with the team."
"I'll be there, Coach. Thanks for this chance." I nod at him because I fucking mean it. Sandy is going throw up when he figures out what I'm up to. And I can't fucking wait.
As he heads off, he calls back, "See you then, Cade."
My legs are still jelly from the skating drills, but the high from Coach's reaction keeps me moving across campus. If Sandy could see me, gear bag slung over my shoulder, new hockey player badge of honor, his jaw would be on the fucking ground.
Byron texted me to meet at our spot––the big oak tree that's seen more study breaks than actual studying. He's there sprawled out next to Saylor. Great. Because what's better than sharing good news? Sharing it with someone as annoying as her.
Byron's already grinning as I drop my bag. "So? Did the coaches buy it?"
"Buy it?" I flop down on the grass, stretching out my sore calves. "Man, I crushed those drills. Practice Wednesday, seven sharp."
"Holy shit." Byron high-fives me. "You actually pulled it off."
"Great. Another thing for you to brag about." Saylor doesn't look up from her phone.
I shoot her a look. This girl's been a thorn in my side since Byron started dating her last year. "At least I have things to brag about."
She finally looks at me, one eyebrow raised. "Right. Because what you're doing isn't fucking petty at all."
"Babe," Byron sighs, but he's got that half-smile that says he's not really going to stop her.
"No, she's right," I say, leaning back on my hands. "It's not petty at all."
Her face goes red. "Hey, I'm not the one trying to one-up my brother because he stole my girlfriend."
The words hang there for a second. Byron's smile fades. Even Saylor looks like she might've gone too far.
"Wow." I let out a short laugh. "You've been saving that one up, huh?"
"Cade––" Byron starts because he knows what's going to happen next.
"Nah, it's cool." I stand, brushing grass off my shorts. "Saylor's had a problem about this from the fucking beginning. And she's been very vocal about it."
"What they did was an accident, wasn't it?" she says, and that tone, that statement pisses me the fuck off. Sandy slipping inside of my girlfriend was an accident? Come the fuck on!
My jaw clenches.
"God damn it," Byron says, staring at his girlfriend. "Saylor."
"They're still fucking," I say, my last thread of patience snapping.
"Saylor," Byron warns again, but she ignores him.
She's staring at me with a smug look that I fucking hate. "You're so self-centered, Cade," she says as she grabs her bag and stands.
"Are you fucking serious?" I ask, turning to Byron to make sure I'm not the crazy one here. Saylor is immature unlike anyone I've ever known. This is fucking ridiculous, and I know I'm not the problem here.
She storms off, and Byron runs a hand through his hair. "Why do you two always do this?"
"Me?" I laugh without humor. "You think your girlfriend is sane? Did you hear her?"
He shakes his head in annoyance.
"Dude, Byron. What the fuck is her problem anyway? She's had a problem since the moment I mentioned what happened. But I was the one cheated on."
He starts gathering his shit, and watching him do so ticks me off.
"Did you forget?" he asks, standing up. His eyes meet mine. "You cheated on your girlfriend that night. What Hannah did was a mistake."
I roll my eyes. "Jesus fucking Christ, Byron."
He shrugs and then walks off. I watch him go, throwing my hands in the air. Those two cannot be fucking serious.
After he leaves, I sit back down, watching students move across the quad. The adrenaline from my verbal sparring with Saylor fades, leaving me with the dull ache in my muscles. My phone buzzes––group chat from some guys in my marketing class asking about tonight's study session.
Shit. I forgot about Jameson's group project.
I grab my gear and head toward the dorms, stopping by the student center for a protein shake. The cashier, this girl from my calc class, gives me extra whipped cream without charging. Her smile lingers a bit too long as she hands me my change.
"Thanks, Madison," I say, flashing her my best smile back. She blushes.
Back at my apartment, my roommate Trevor's blasting some EDM remix while attempting to do laundry. His whites are scattered across the couch.
"Dude, seriously?" I close the door behind me.
"Sorry, man. Dryer's broken again. Had to air dry." He pauses his music. "What's this?"
"Joined the hockey team." I drop my shit near the table.
Trevor's jaw drops. "Like, your brother's team? He's gonna flip."
"That's the plan." I open the fridge. "Got a group project meeting at seven. You gonna be home?"
"Nah, heading to Savannah's." He wiggles his eyebrows. "Her roommate's gone for the weekend."
"Georgia sounds really nice right now," I call as he heads out.
The hot shower relaxes my muscles. I need to roll my legs out and do stretches, maybe even go for a run. On top of my schoolwork, all the projects, and exams, I need to fit in a workout schedule because my legs are dead. Tomorrow, I hope to wake up stronger.
I towel off and check my phone. Mom's texted three times asking me to call her. I ignore it, knowing Sandy will always be her perfect son while this situation right now is a juicy gossip forum to her. She doesn't actually care how I'm doing, she just wants to know what's going on. I'm the black sheep who "needs to move on," and if Sandy is happy, there's nothing I can do about it .
She's quite literally correct, but I still think it's bullshit. I was feeling generous that day I allowed him to have Hannah. Well, I should correct myself––he can have her. But he can't fucking have it all, if you know what I mean. And that's why hockey will also be mine.
My phone pings back-to-back. My marketing group's already blowing up the chat, arguing about PowerPoint templates. I grab my laptop and head to the library, stopping to buy a Red Bull from the vending machine.
The study room reeks of desperation and stale coffee. Jameson's already there, color-coding index cards like his life depends on it. Not gonna lie, I wish I had his pens.
"Cade, finally," he says, not looking up. "We need to finalize the target demographics."
I drop into a chair, cracking open my energy drink. "Yeah, about that. I made some changes to the slides."
The next two hours are pure torture––Jameson nitpicking every font choice, Nala suggesting we "pivot to a more holistic approach," whatever that means. By the time we wrap up, I'm even more annoyed than the bullshit Saylor pulled earlier. Thank God my legs hurt with every movement. It's the perfect distraction.
Driving back to my apartment, I pull up Sandy's Instagram. His latest post is him and Hannah at some fancy restaurant, captioned "Date night with my girl."
My thumb hovers over the like button for a second before I close the app. Wednesday. Just wait until Wednesday.
Inside my room, I fall onto my bed, not bothering to turn on the lights. My hockey gear sits in the corner, a reminder of what's coming. Two days until I step onto that ice and show everyone––Sandy, Hannah, Coach, even fucking Saylor––that I'm done being the second-best.
My phone buzzes again. Mom, asking if I'm seriously okay .
I finally text back. I'm seriously okay .
I laugh despite myself. She, too, will be shitting her pants when Wednesday comes. She will be the first person Sandy calls, and I can't fucking wait.