Page 6 of Phantom Faceoff (Daddies of the League #5)

Chapter Six

Malachi

Insomnia has its advantages, I suppose. If one of those advantages is a call from a human wrecking ball during the witching hour.

I wasn’t going to answer, but if the jackass were in trouble and Julian found out I ignored him? What a pain in the ass that would be.

“Hale?” I’m met with repeated silence, and isn’t that just what I need? A middle of the night butt dial.

That’s when I notice the breathing. Heavy. Rapid.

Because that’s somehow better? Let me add listening to this man get off for a second time to my spank bank.

There’s a sharp intake of breath, a pained hiss.

“Zander?” I bolt upright and swing my legs to the side.

What little bits of sleep had collected at the corners of my eyes gets hastily swiped away.

He doesn’t reply, only groans, and my first instinct is to wake up Julian. But I don’t know what kind of trouble this knucklehead has gotten himself into.

Surely nothing Julian needs to be involved with.

“C’mon, jackass,” I mumble, fumbling around as quietly as possible for a pair of pants and a t-shirt.

“Fuck you,” his words come out in a slur, and I can practically smell the alcohol through the phone.

I should have guessed. Classic jock.

I’m sure calling me was a mistake. A slip of the thumb in his inebriated state. I’d call someone who most likely gives a shit about him on a personal level, but short of Julian I don’t have that kind of contact with anyone in his circle.

There’s Micky, but we barely exchange words at work, let alone phone numbers.

“Fuck you, too,” I whisper as I shove my feet into a pair of sneakers and snag my keys off the hook by the door. “Tell me where the hell you are.”

“Rude shop.”

“That makes no sense.”

Zander makes a gurgling sound, and I think he might puke, but then all he does is clear his throat and take in a deep, audible breath.

“Record shop,” he says slowly. “You’re rude.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“The silver streaks in your hair are pretty.”

I pause, a foot catching on a crack in the concrete, and absently run my fingers through the strands of red and silver.

“You are wasted.”

“Guilty as charged.”

“Look at us agreeing on something.”

His response is a quiet hum followed by a stretch of silence.

“Zander.”

“Hm?”

“Making sure you didn’t pass out on me.”

A low chuckle through the line causes a warmth to bloom in my chest.

“Let’s hope not,” he says. “That would be a painful fall.”

I’m still a few minutes from the shop, and a warning tingle in my brain has me picking up the pace.

“I don’t think your coach would like you breaking any bones.”

He scoffs. “Coach is ready to bench me for the whole damn season over that stupid music class.”

“If it’s so stupid, why are you taking it?”

Sometimes I can be pushy and snobby when it comes to music, but I know not everyone shares my obsessive passion for it. Especially people like Zander Hale.

There’s no answer, and just when I think he might have passed out, he lets out a quiet huff.

“Because I thought it would be easy,” he says, voice laced in disbelief. “Art is subjective, right? Wrong. Turns out I’m just not deep enough to understand it.”

Normally, I’d agree. In my experience, most jocks are pretty one dimensional in the creativity department, but I’ve seen Zander put in the effort. I’ve caught him with Julian in our dorm more than once with headphones in making chicken scratch notes in a journal.

“You just need to find something that speaks to you. Deconstruct it. Boom, you’ll learn how you connect to art and how to go about interpreting something else.”

A long pause. “That is a lot of words, and my head is spinning too much to understand them.”

Right. No philosophical teachings for the drunk hockey player.

The Den is dark, locked, and void of company when I arrive.

“Where are you?”

Something rustles over the mic, a smack of lips and a groan. “Told you already.”

“Unless you’re invisible, you aren’t here.”

He grunts. Huffs. “Look up.”

I pinch my brows. “What—Fucking shitsticks, Hale!”

There he is, perched on the edge of the roof above the entrance, gaze locked on mine with a lazy salute.

“Could you lend me a hand?”

“I can lend you a foot up your ass.”

“Hm. Not my kink. But if you help me, I’ll try anything.”

After this, we’re having a serious discussion on how to hold our liquor and to not accept random sexual propositions from people when we are too blasted to give consent.

I might have no interest in banging him, but that doesn’t mean someone else who could come across him wouldn’t.

Removing a drunk-off-his-ass hockey player from a roof in one piece is no easy feat. It involves a lot of strength and nimble maneuvering, but we manage all the way up until we’re climbing down the ladder.

As soon as I get a foot on the ground, the metal ladder creaks, followed by a curse as Zander misses a rung. I reach out to steady him at the same time that he decides to give up on the slow and steady and fucking jumps the rest of the way down.

Not with any warning, because what kind of decent human being warns someone before dumping all of their body weight on them?

I grab onto his waist so he doesn’t fall flat on his ass—or on top of me—but the force has us both stumbling until my back hits the brick wall behind us.

“Fuck.” I drop my hands to grab the back of my head, which took a pretty good bounce on the brick.

Zander turns—clumsy and off-center—and crowds into my already minimal space. He leans his face close to mine, smacking his palm on the wall to keep from falling over.

“Shit. Sorry.” When he tries to push off, his body sags in response, and I latch onto him again to keep him upright.

“Dammit. Stop moving for a minute.”

He drops his head to my shoulder, and we both take a moment to catch our breath.

The pain in my back is just enough to distract me from the warmth of Zander’s breath dancing along my neck and his fingers digging into my sides.

“Are you okay?” I rasp once I find my voice.

His pained moan hits my skin, followed by a slurred, “not even a little.”

Despite how badly I want to move, I keep us both still.

“You’re going to need a hospital’s worth of Tylenol and water to get through tomorrow’s hangover.”

“Honestly,” he grumbles, slow and quiet, “I’m surprised you’re letting me see tomorrow.”

“I’m feeling generous.”

He laughs, and it shakes his whole body. “Thanks, Daddy.”

My skin prickles, then lights on fire. Heat rushes through my body, filling my cheeks and other parts of me.

What the hell?

Awkward as it is, I always get a hit of satisfaction when Julian addresses me like that.

But this? Zander’s ragged voice and full body weight on top of me?

Something stirs in my chest, and I use all of my will power to bury it down as deep as it will go.

“Shut up, puckhead.”

I don’t know what Julian has told him, or if he overheard us sometime, but he’s drunk enough it likely won’t matter in the morning.

“We need to sober you up.” I slip a hand between us to press on his chest, not hard, but a nudge to get him into motion.

He grunts, plants his hands on the wall above my head, and pushes himself up. With him hovering over me now we’re no longer touching.

The cool, night air brushes my heated skin, and with each breath it slowly returns to normal.

The lack of contact clears my head of all the nonsense the last few minutes filled it with, and as Zander regains the balance to stand without the support of the wall, I hold my hand out.

He stares at me with an unfocused gaze and frowns.

“Phone,” I say with a sigh. “So I can call you a ride.”

His mouth opens in a silent “Oh”. He pats his pockets, fumbles to grasp and pull the device out, and sets it in my hand.

It clicks open upon contact, and I’m glad I don’t have to struggle getting the passcode out of him.

“Who has a car and would be able to come get you?”

The cogs in his brain turn, and a multitude of emotions play over his features, difficult to read in the dark.

While he puzzles it out, I scroll through his messages for an obvious choice, and pause at a familiar conversation.

Buzzkill

TSMWEL is a masterpiece. I refuse to accept this slander. Try again.

The jerk had left me on read with a laughing emoji, and I hadn’t bothered to follow up because someone who calls a deeply emotionally cutting song “boring and repetitive” doesn’t deserve acknowledgment.

Buzzkill? Really?

I’ll be sure to give him hell about that once he’s sober.

His roommate’s name pops up, and one look at Zander tells me he’s losing his fight with the alcohol. So, I tap the name and hit the call button.

It rings five or six times, and when I’m sure it’s going to go to voicemail, a tired voice comes through. “Zander? It’s like five in the morning. What the hell?”

“Um, hey Micky. It’s Malachi.”

“Malachi? Did Z pass out with you and Julian? Need me to come drag him back?”

He doesn’t sound surprised. How often does Hale act out like this?

“Yes to him needing a ride. No to the location. We’re at The Den.”

“Of all places?”

“Ask your friend once he can think straight. He’s fucking wasted.”

Micky groans, and I can hear him shuffling around while cursing under his breath.

“Shit. I can be there in five minutes. You okay to stay with him until I do?”

“Yeah, I’ve got him.”

As soon as the words pass my lips, Zander’s eyes land on me. He droops a bit to the side, but the wall catches him, and now his chest brushes my arm as he watches me.

“I don’t promise he’ll be in once piece, though,” I say, but even I can tell the threat falls flat.

Micky hangs up so he can drive, and when I hand the phone back, Zander wordlessly slips it back into his pocket.

We both watch each other in the darkness, Zander’s eyes hazy and unfocused. He frowns and wets his lips, dragging the bottom one between his teeth.

“If you’ve got something to say, just say it.”

His eyes drift away from my face, seeming to gaze off into his own thoughts.

“Thank you,” he says after a few minutes of struggling to find his words. “I’m sorry.”

I shake my head, unable a draw up any anger or frustration.

“Don’t worry about it.” I look up, and even though Zander is barely a couple inches taller than me, I’m slouched, so he seems bigger than normal.

“Can I be in on the joke?”

The words throw me off hard. “Huh?”

“Julian. He said the Daddy thing is an inside joke.” A little half smile spreads across his lips. “Can I call you Daddy too?”

Absolutely the fuck not.

My heart nearly pounds out of my chest, and for what reason?

When Julian says it, it’s sweet. When Zander says it …

Fuck. It turns me on.

I fix him with a glare and curb us in another direction. This conversation is getting red taped.

“Why did you call me and not Micky in the first place?”

He doesn’t seem phased about the change in topic, just leans forward until I grip onto his bicep afraid he’ll fall.

“Julian said that you’re safe,” he whispers the words across the top of my head. “I needed that.”

We spend the rest of our time in silence. Me steadying him. Zander still and breathing slow until I realize he’s asleep.

When Micky comes, I help get him into the passenger seat, and once the door is shut Micky turns to me and thumbs to the back.

“Need a ride?”

No. I need time to clear my head. To remind myself that the last thing I need is to find a single fucking thing about Zander Hale attractive.

“I think I’ll walk,” I say, stuffing my hands in my pockets. “May as well get some coffee while I’m out.”

Micky smiles tight and gives a curt nod. “Thanks for looking out for him.”

When they drive away, I find myself sagging against the wall and screwing my eyes shut.

Why?

Why does it have to be Zander Hale—of all people—to awaken something like this inside me?