Page 2 of Phantom Faceoff (Daddies of the League #5)

Chapter Two

Malachi

One would think my “big reputation”—as Taylor Swift would call it—would hold some weight with the local fuckboys.

Judging by Julian’s disheveled appearance for the third time this week, it sure as hell the fuck does not.

“Can you stop glaring a hole in my head? I’m embarrassed enough.”

“No,” I bark because the anxiety in my gut is swirling into something dark and angry. “You aren’t. Because if you were, you’d break it off with Hale and get your head out of his ass.”

Julian purses his lips and focuses on straightening out his long, frizzed, copper hair.

“You don’t have to be rude.”

“And you don’t have to be naive.”

The heavy thrum of a bass guitar and the sarcastic cadence of Set It Off’s vocalist pounds through one half of my headphones, the other muff pushed behind my ear to hear Julian’s tell-tale sniffle as he huddles onto his mattress and starts meticulously braiding his hair.

I’m all of thirty seconds into “Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing” before I abandon my bed for his and take over where his fingers tremble.

“I’ll never stop protecting you. From yourself if I have to.”

He leans back into my touch, a soft, content sigh passing his lips when I open my legs to allow him into my lap.

“It’s not like I’m dating him, Mal. We’re just having fun. Fooling around.”

I might tug his hair a little too hard, but all it draws out is a chuckle.

“Don’t you see how that’s worse?”

He hums while I work, tying off the end of the braid with one of the many elastics on my wrist.

“You going to The Den after class?” he asks, turning to the side and batting his eyes like a schoolgirl.

“Why? So you can bring Hale back to our dorm without me to scare him off?”

“I want to get laid, Mal. Railed into my mattress.” Julian rises to his knees and puts his hands on my shoulders, leveling me with an intent stare. “No one wants to fuck me because they think I belong to you.”

I raise my brow, and he rolls his eyes. “You take care of me, but you don’t take care of me .”

Not that we haven’t tried it a handful of times over the years, but the spark has never been there.

“And you think the daredevil jock of all people will?”

“He’s a sweetheart,” Julian says, falling back to stretch his arms above his head. “Terrible kisser. But incredible with his hands.”

Not an image I need, and one that etches a deep scowl on my face.

“Malachi.” Julian’s voice is soft, eyes even softer, and though I know it doesn’t appear like it on the outside, the brunt of my anger melts away.

Replaced by a flood of worry.

“You are my best friend,” he says like he’s placating a child. “My caretaker.”

The words are spoken with a careful hesitation. Treading a water we’ve barely dipped our toes into.

But when you catch your best friend—a man you’ve known since you were eleven—chatting up strange men online and calling them “Daddy” you’ll practically leap out of your goddamn comfort zone to give them a safe place to explore.

“I’m Little with you because I trust you, but I’m a big boy with Zander.”

“So I’m only supposed to care when you want me to?”

Julian puffs out his cheeks, and I see the change he so often describes to me: He wraps his arms around his middle, curls onto his side, and worries his bottom lip between his teeth.

My own frustration ebbs, and I push a few stray strands of hair away from his eyes.

“Can we set some ground rules? So I can help you without being so … controlling?”

That was one part of the Daddy/Little dynamic that Julian explicitly expressed disinterest in. He wants support and structure, but not someone to take over his life.

And if I have to put up with Zander freaking Hale, the least they can do is give me some peace of mind.

“Yes, Daddy,” he says softly, and I do my best not to let the discomfort show on my face.

I might be into some shit—theoretically—but other than the word casually being thrown out in the middle of banging, “Daddy” hasn’t been part of it.

I swallow the trepidation and force my tongue to function.

“No adventures with the guy,” I say. “Public places on campus. His dorm or ours—fuck preferably ours.”

At least then I don’t have to worry about who else might show up. Given Hale’s track record I wouldn’t put it past him to talk Julian into an all out orgy with his puck buddies.

“Text me when you’re out with him. Every hour. If I have to call you to check in, I might murder him.”

A peek of Julian’s smile is enough to appease the pit in my stomach filled with worst case scenarios.

“Don’t have too much fun,” he says. “And keep you in the loop. What if I’m mid-blowjob or taking it up the ass?”

There’s a playful note to his words, and I lightly tug his braid, eliciting an honest-to-god giggle.

“Smart ass,” I grumble and hop off the bed. “And yeah. I’ll be at the Den, so if he gives you any trouble …”

Another blinding smile. “I’ll be safe, Daddy.”

There’s a distinct flutter in my chest, one that makes my face feel warm.

This is going to be a long day.

“Malachi. Do you want to stock the new shipment while I man the front?”

There’s some early 2000s soft rock song playing through the shop, with only the occasional soft scuff of shoes across the carpeted floor. A little rustle of vinyl sleeves as deft fingers flip through haphazardly.

One of my coworkers—some hockey jock because I can’t seem to get away from them—leans against the counter while his eyes take a sweep around the room. His fingers tap out the rhythm of the song. Slow. Meticulous.

When I grunt my approval, he holds out a pair of headphones. Thick. Black. Corded. Something lent to us by the owner to make the busy work more bearable.

We don’t banter or chat more than absolutely necessary.

I take the headphones and loop them around my neck, popping the cord into my phone jack.

There are dozens of playlists on my Spotify, ranging from moods to soundtracks, collections from artists or songs I haven’t listened to in God knows how long.

I’m feeling restless today. There’s a tired ache in my eyes that burns, an unsettled feeling eating away at my insides.

Melancholy Autumn Vibes sounds fitting.

Cue the entire Evermore and Red albums, starting with ’tis the damn season.

An hour passes organizing CDs and vinyls, special requests stocked neatly under the front counter with names and numbers sticky noted to the covers. It’s quick work, and when I’m down to the final handful, I slow down.

Autopilot makes my brain function in overdrive, and with the lack of messages on my phone giving me heart palpitations, I need to drag my wandering mind back to Earth.

Julian thinks I’m a sap for listening to Taylor Swift as religiously as I do. Says it’s an ‘odd juxtaposition’ to the ‘rock band groupie’ vibe I give off. Because the way I choose to present myself is dictated by my taste in music.

In reality, I’ll listen to anything if I connect to it. I’m not some one-dimensional story book character. I have layers.

Like an onion, but they’re there.

The slow piano accompaniment of All Too Well dampens momentarily for a quick chirping to play through the headphones, and somehow I’m both relieved and filled with a new sense of anxiety.

Jules

Going for a walk with Z. Promise to be on best behavior.

That stupid tongue emoji doesn’t instill a great deal of confidence.

Me

I don’t want to hear about you bunny humping Hale.

Jules

Is that a threat or ‘don’t tell me about it’?

Me

Julian.

Jules

Don’t worry, Daddy. Just a walk. Maybe kissing. Will report if we fog up the dorm.

Me

Touch my bed and Hale won’t have a dick to fuck you with.

A slew of cheeky emojis comes through, and even though the one I send back is a ping pong paddle, it gets the message across.

Me

Be safe. Don’t make me hurt anyone.

It’s nearing ten by the time I lock up the shop and head back to the dorms. Almost eleven when I slot my key in the door and spot Julian lounging on his bed with the lights off.

He’s got a coloring book in his lap and a box of crayons beside him.

When he looks up, he smiles and waves, but quickly goes back to his activity.

These are the moments I feel I’m best at. Offering support. Comfort. Just being a safe place for him to openly be himself. To … regress, I think is the word?

I don’t want to bother him, so I go about settling quietly. My clothes hit the basket at the foot of my bed, and I tug my hair free of the little rat tail I’ve been sporting.

I put my headphones back on the shelf that houses all of my music—CDs, vinyls, various merch items—and pull off a pair of wireless earbuds.

Sleep has never come easy. The nights are too quiet, even with a fan and air conditioner running. There’s static and blank spaces; my brain refuses to shut off.

So, I cue up another playlist—something beat heavy—and spare Julian one last look before getting into the thick of my routine.

In the five minutes since I’ve been back, Jules has dozed off, the coloring book sliding off his lap and colored pencils dangerously close to the edge.

With a sigh, I gingerly pack up his things and place them on his desk. The comforter is bunched up at the end of the bed, and when I drag it over him he turns onto his side and hums contently.

“Dork,” I mutter, but my smile is automatic.

I love Julian as deeply as humanly possible. It makes me a crabtastic jerk face at times, but even before finding out about this age play dynamic thing he’s into, Jules has always been a little too trusting and open.

We spent a lot of time in the same group home, and protecting him came naturally to me.

It still does. Maybe even obsessively at times.

Is that a flaw? For his potential partners, maybe, but they can suck it. Julian was mine first, and they’ll have to prove themselves something damn special for me to pass the reigns.

As I’m climbing into bed a bit later, sleep finally feels close at hand. A pop punk band I haven’t heard in a while is drowning out the myriad of internal thoughts I can never turn off, but somehow my brain still stutters a few coherent ones out.

Like why the hell are there bright red boxer briefs—ones who’s stink I am immediately assaulted by—on my mattress?

Ones that I know don’t belong to Julian and sure as hell aren’t mine.

I’ll admit I can be a little unhinged at times, and this—quite frankly—might be one of them:

Taking Julian’s phone, sifting through for a contact very uncreatively labeled “Z”, texting the number to my phone, taking a picture of the godforsaken underwear, and smashing out a not-so-very-thought-out message to a certain boundary crossing hockey player.

Satisfied with myself, I sleep like shit.