Page 12 of Flagrant Foul (Totally Pucked #3)

Sev Delorean

My hand floats through the air, stopping when it enters my line of sight. My fingers curl into a loose fist and my knuckles make no-nonsense contact with the door in front of me.

Get in and get out, I tell myself again. Do what you came for. Nothing more and nothing less.

Despite that, I can’t shake a strong feeling of unease.

It’s a warning, I think. A subtle warning from the most primitive part of my brain, letting me know that something is going to go wrong.

It makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

I hate this feeling. A freight train behind me, moving at full speed.

As always, I’m dimly aware that it’s my doing.

That even though it’s coming up behind me, I’m somehow the one steering the engine.

I know that. What I don’t know is how I always manage to get myself in this position, flattened by a large, fast-moving object when I should be sitting pretty at the wheel .

Teddy takes his sweet time getting the door. I know it’s deliberate. A pissing contest of sorts, so I resist the temptation to knock again. Instead, I take my phone out of my pocket and message Nate while I wait.

I’m here.

Is he happy to see you? Lol.

I’ve been telling Nate what a huge douche Lockie is since he joined the team a few months back.

Nate plays hockey too, so he knows what team dynamics can be like and how close you can get to guys on your team.

He’s been almost as concerned about Lockie sniffing around Teddy as I’ve been, so he was in full agreement that the last thing his brother needs is to live with a guy like that.

It would be a fucking nightmare, and Teddy hasn’t been in a good place recently. He can’t handle more roommate drama.

While Nate and I feel that my inserting myself into the situation isn’t ideal, compared to having Tee living and playing with Lockie, it seems like the best possible outcome.

The plan is for me to neutralize the threat, and as soon as Lockie finds himself somewhere else to live permanently, I’ll do the same .

In theory, it should be quite simple.

No idea. I’m in the hall with all my shit. He hasn’t opened the door yet.

Nate responds with a laughing emoji. The thing about Nate is that he finds almost everything Teddy does funny as fuck or completely adorable.

Bizarrely, despite a mountain of evidence to the contrary, so do I.

When my patience finally wears thin, I thump on the door again. It flies open so fast I suspect Teddy’s been standing at the threshold, hand on the knob, waiting for me to have the gall to knock again. The door crashes into the wall from the force he uses and bounces off it.

I bring it to a stop with my foot.

He’s wearing a shit ton of jewelry, dark-rinse jeans, and a tight black tank over a white one.

I take care to soften my focus and avoid looking directly into his eyes.

Softening my focus isn’t all that easy. It takes some effort, and if I do it a lot in one day, my vision goes a little blurry and I get a headache. It’s okay though. I’m used to it.

To avoid allowing my gaze to track down his body, I take in each piece of his jewelry individually.

Two blackened silver chains fall to his sternum and three rings occupy two fingers.

Right ring finger and pointer. He’s wearing bracelets too.

One on each wrist. They look like the kind of thing you’d buy at Ren Faire, or somewhere like that.

They’re made of tourmaline that’s been tumbled.

Black stones tied together with leather.

Most likely, they were sold to him with the express promise of warding off bad things.

Things like me.

The look is a lot, and all the trinkets glint as they fight for attention, making it hard for me to keep my focus soft. As if that’s not enough, when he moves, the white tank peeks out from under the black one.

It’s an almost inconsequential detail.

It provokes me.

I have no idea why anyone would wear two tanks on one day. It makes no sense. Why would you do it? Why? Surely, it only adds to the laundry.

I lose my concentration briefly and accidentally lock onto his nipples. They’re peaked. Hidden, but not quite. Outlines of two tiny pebbles are showing despite the two tanks.

Maybe that’s why he’s wearing them? Maybe he’s cold and trying to hide a nipple stand.

A memory from another time, another night years ago, swims to the surface before I have time to force it down .

It’s dark. Lights flash. Pale pink and pale blue. A mirror ball glitters. Shards of pastel color splinters. A pair of pink nipples strain toward me through a delicate mesh top.

Nope.

No.

I don’t go there.

I don’t ever go there unless I’m asleep.

I shake it off and remind myself of my mission: get in and get out.

Out of habit, I do a quick assessment of Teddy’s mood.

He’s far from happy to see me and making no effort to hide it.

His arms are crossed over his chest and a tight look of fury has been carved into his features.

His chiseled jaw clenches when I smile at him, causing his cheekbones to hollow.

Slanted eyes narrow, electric blue, as they take aim and spit fire at me.

I’m used to that too, but it’s not quite as easy to handle as the blurred vision.

He cranes his neck, peering into the hallway, leaving the rest of his body in his apartment.

“Holy fucking fuck,” he mutters when he sees the mass of bags and boxes that litter his hallway.

“You actually brought your shit. What the fu…?” His voice fades and he turns on me the way men typically turn on me on the ic e when they’re milliseconds from being red carded.

“You can’t seriously be planning on moving in? ”

It’s cute that he thinks I’d kid about something like this. “Course I’m moving in. I said I would.”

“Yes,” he says, closing his eyes and attempting to steady himself with a calming breath. Best I can tell, it doesn’t help all that much. “But there’s a difference between saying stupid things and actually doing them.”

He’s getting worked up, so to defuse the situation, I adopt a similar tone to the one Nate often uses with great success. Stern yet kind. Firm but supportive. “Look, Tee, Nate and I both thin—”

His lids flutter over his eyeballs as he holds up a pale hand to silence me. There are fine lines on his palm. Some straight. Some swooping. Lines that are supposed to give glimpses into his head, his heart, and his life. They do no such thing.

“Shut up, Sev,” he says firmly.

He has a tendency to get testy in situations like this, so I’m expecting it. I know how to deal with it. All I have to do is stay calm and explain that Nate and I are coming from a place of concern, not control. “As I was saying, Nate and I both think—”

“What did I just say?” he snaps. “I mean it. Stop with that ‘Nate and I both’ crap. I’m not even sure it’s correct grammar. I think both is redundant and a simple ‘Nate and I think’ would suffice.”

“No, no,” I explain evenly. “The grammar is fine. In this instance, Nate and I are the subject of the sentence, and we’re performing the action of thinking together, hence my use of both .”

“Oh, you’re performing the action of thinking , are you? I highly doubt that.”

I snort without meaning to and quickly press my lips together to stop myself from laughing.

It’s shit like this that Nate and I can’t help finding funny even though we know we shouldn’t encourage him. When we laugh, it makes him think he can keep getting away with it. We fucked up by pandering to him when he was younger, and now we can’t get him to stop.

He throws himself onto the couch with a little more flair than strictly required and puts his feet up on the coffee table as I start carrying bags and boxes in.

I’ve been in his apartment lots of times when Nate’s in town, so I know my way around.

The living area is vast, a sea of dark timber flooring and muted cyan-blue walls.

Combined with the sculptural brass lighting, the space has a modern, albeit moody feel.

It’s not what you’d expect from a classic coastal penthouse apartment, but it works .

The bedrooms, study, and bathrooms are down the hall.

It’s darker here, less hospitable than the living area.

In the past, when I’ve been here, I’ve only ventured as far as the guest bathroom, and even that felt like I was encroaching on a space not meant for me.

I feel the same now, and the feeling only grows stronger the farther I venture down the hall.

Goalie helmets are mounted on the walls on either side of me.

They’re helmets Teddy has worn in the past, and they tell the story of his progression—in his career and in life.

There’s something oddly macabre about it. It looks like a graveyard of sorts. A cemetery of safety equipment. Empty cages that once housed his skull, now out on display.

As always, I have an urge to touch them. To tap them lightly with the nails of two or three fingers as I pass. Thankfully, my hands are full, so it’s easy enough to resist.

I enter the guestroom Teddy’s roommates have occupied in the past, and drop the bags I’m carrying on the floor near the foot of the bed.

It’s a big bed, so that’s good. A California King that’s been stripped down to the mattress.

There’s no bedding. At least not any place where I can see it.

No mattress protector. No sheets. No pillows .

And he said he wasn’t expecting me. Ha! Like hell he wasn’t.

How is he?

He’s being a brat.

We spoiled him, Nate. It’s our fault he’s like this.

Nate hits that with a crying with laughter emoji and replies:

It is.

Don’t worry. He’ll get used to the idea of you being there soon enough.

And thanks, bud. I feel so much better knowing you’re there.

Nate’s been worried about Teddy for a few weeks.

He has this weird, tingling sense when something is up with his brother.

Once he gets it into his head that something is wrong with Teddy, he can’t relax until he’s positive the problem has been resolved.

It’s one of those strange family dynamics that repeats itself over and over: Nate worries, Teddy gets cagey, Nate gets more worried. Then I get involved .

It inevitably ends with Teddy getting pissed off with both of us.

It’s a vicious cycle.

He’s been stressed about his fish, but that’s worked out now.

I delete the message without sending it. There’s no need to relay the minutiae of Teddy’s life to Nate. It’s one of the things we do that rightfully pisses him off. If I’m going to be living with him, I’ll need to be sparing about that kind of thing.

When I’ve unpacked as much as I can handle for the day, I collapse the empty boxes and carry them out.

“Find everything you need?” Teddy asks when he sees me.

He’s sitting exactly where he was before, but he’s sunk down a little to make himself more comfortable. His feet are bare, crossed at the ankle. One foot is still and the other moves briskly from side to side. Almost like a dog wagging its tail.

I don’t particularly relish the idea of having to ask him for bedding, but neither do I love the thought of sleeping without it. A faint hint of mirth near the corners of his eyes makes the decision for me .

“Yup. Sure did.” If he’s disappointed that I’m not stooping to ask him for bedding, he manages to hide it. “What’s for dinner?”

“Gee, sorry, Mister Delorean, I didn’t realize that in addition to providing four walls and a roof over your head, I’d be doing all the catering.”

“I meant, what do you feel like?” I lie. “I’m cooking.”

He doesn’t believe me, but he’s happy enough to play along to see how it plays out. “What can you make?”

“Chicken parm.”

He turns his nose up, crinkling a perfect ski slope slightly. “What else?”

“That’s all.”

He sighs and lets his gaze drift up to the ceiling. “God. I miss Leyton.”

“Leyton was a dick.”

He shrugs faintly. “At least that dick could cook.”

I can’t think how to respond, not least because I’ve hit my maximum limit of soft focus for the day and tiny pixels are falling into place all over Teddy’s face.

His complexion is brightening. The whites of his eyes are whiter than white.

His teeth too. His lips are dark pink and his eyes are so blue my spinal column feels like it’s been dipped in acid .

I look at him and think the same thing I’ve thought for years every single, solitary time this happens.

Why’d you have to go and look like that?

As always, since I can’t ask the question aloud, there’s no answer forthcoming.

To distract myself, I attempt to make conversation. “So what, are you just going to spend your life trying to make things as awkward as possible the whole time I’m here?”

He turns his head dismissively to face the TV, leaving me hanging for so long that I almost give up waiting for an answer and start trying to cook something that isn’t chicken parm.

A millisecond before I move, he blitzes me with a blinding smile. “I’m gonna try.”

I hold eye contact and let his smile wash over me despite the fact that it isn’t a warm one.

It isn’t even a friendly one. It’s the opposite of those things.

I don’t know if I mean to do it, but I might because even though it’s better for everyone concerned when he smiles at me like this, I miss the old days.

When smiles were warm and games between us didn’t exist.

It starts as a measured quirk of my lips that matches his exactly.

His stays firmly in place, but mine spreads.

I feel the tug of it at the center of my top lip.

The pull as my cheeks bunch. As it happens to me, the same thing happens to him.

I watch like a boy in the front row of a magic show as a gentle line forms on his right cheek and others crease near the corners of his eyes.

That’s not the magic trick. It’s close, but not quite.

The magic happens when electric blue softens. Acid is neutralized and good things, soft things, flow from him to me.

It almost takes my knees out.

There he is. The sweet boy who used to follow Nate and me everywhere.

No matter how prickly or spiteful he’s been, when he smiles at me like this, none of it matters. Time doesn’t matter. When I see him like this, I don’t see bad things. I don’t even feel like I’m a bad thing.

When I see him like this, I see him as he was. As he is.

A sweet boy. A soft boy. A boy I want to protect.