Page 9 of Phantom Faceoff (Daddies of the League #5)

Chapter Nine

Zander

It only cost me a week of taking over the equipment manager’s duties to get access to the rink over the weekend. We’ve got a few weeks until our first game of the season, and until then I’ve got to prove to Coach I’m not going to flunk this music course again.

It’ll be good practice for if I end up having to ride the bench. I might as well get used to cleaning up after everyone.

“So what was the plan here given that neither of us own a pair of skates?”

Ah, right. Malachi. Because Julian gave me puppy eyes and a morning blowjob to let his friend tag along. Not that the latter was needed.

I don’t hate Malachi’s presence. He just makes me feel weird. Like I’m being judged. But also like I kind of want the judgment? Weird.

“Well it just so happens Micky has a spare pair of practice skates that should fit Julian alright. You on the other hand…”

There’s the look of judgment.

“I’ll check the equipment closet. Might be some extras lying around.”

I swear, I’m not trying to piss the guy off, but yeah, when I hand Julian the skates, maybe I kiss him and let it linger. Might earn me a glare and an aggressive cough, but we both laugh when we pull away.

Malachi’s eyes say anger, but the color in his cheeks says something else.

“Question for you,” I ask under my breath as I sit down beside Julian to lace up our skates. Malachi is half inspecting the place, so it’s as good a time as any. “Your friend. Does he ever, you know … wank one out?”

Julian stops mid-tie and stares, then cracks up laughing. Malachi looks over, but rolls his eyes and continues on.

“Hey now! I’m serious.” I wait for Julian to get a hold of himself, finally wiping a stray tear from his eye. “That guy is wound tighter than a competition yo-yo. I just want to know if he even knows how to relax.”

He smiles and bumps his shoulder on mine. “Maybe you could help him relax.”

“I think he’d rather eat gravel.”

Why does everyone keep rolling their eyes at me?

“I mean it. I want the three of us to have fun. Be your natural, charming self, and Mal will fall in line.”

I think he is massively overestimating the charm, but he’s smiling at me all excited, and you know? Why not.

What is the worst Malachi Blanchard could do to me?

The worst—it so happens—is distracting me.

Julian takes to the ice beautifully. A little wobbly but a quick learner. Malachi on the other hand?

“Do I need to get out the pads? I do not claim responsibility for whatever bruises you acquire from sucking so bad. ”

The man has fallen on his ass more times than I can count, and as someone who is shoved, smacked, and tackled to the ice on a regular basis, that’s saying something.

“Shut it.” Malachi’s glare should instill some sort of fear in me. Instead, it lights a fire of excitement.

“Hey, Julian. Wanna see how many laps we can do around Blanchard before he gets to his feet?”

There’s something on the tip of his tongue. I can see it, but he bites it back and grins, looping his arm with mine. “Skate away.”

I don’t ask, because whatever is going on between the two of them is none of my business, but that doesn’t mean I’m not filled to the brim with curiosity.

Remember that tidbit about being distracted? Well …

“Oh my God, will you slow down?” Julian’s voice is filled with laughter as he shouts across the rink.

Years of conditioning and training put me at a bullet on ice, and even a casual skater would fall behind. Much less a newbie.

Maybe I’m showing off a little. Maybe I like how impressed Julian is by something that I sometimes feel mediocre at surrounded by other players.

And then I catch a look on Malachi’s face that throws me completely off kilter.

Soft and sweet Malachi is strictly reserved for Julian. So much so, that I’ve never even met the guy. Seen bits and pieces in passing, but never the real thing.

At first, that’s what I think I’m seeing. But as I lap, I notice his gazed is tracked on me.

Gray eyes follow my every move, and yeah—okay—I admit that I let my concentration slip. I stop being aware of what’s around me because my heart is pounding so hard there’s blood pumping out a heavy bass in my ears.

I’m still skating, still playing carefree, maybe being a little extra brazen because Malachi is nowhere near as easily impressed as Julian.

I don’t hear Julian call out to me. I don’t notice him holding his arms out, struggling to stop.

We collide, and any other time, I’d laugh it off. The ice is hard and unforgiving, and I’m going to have a couple good bruises to explain away to Coach. Still, a little humor always saves the day.

But Malachi shouts, and suddenly the scene that’s been playing in my head like a reverbed record bursts into crystal clear sound.

“Jules! Fuck, are you alright?” Halfway across the rink, Malachi is tossing his skates off—he still hasn’t gotten the hang of moving without holding onto the wall—and skidding across the ice in his socks.

I snap my attention to Julian, face contorted in pain as he holds his hand over his forearm, streams of red leaking through his fingers.

Shit.

There’s blood on the bottom of my skate.

“It isn’t that bad,” Julian says on a choked up laugh, but as someone who has had a handful of skate injuries over the years, even the minor ones sting like a motherfucker.

My instincts finally kick back in, and I yank my t-shirt over my head. Twisting it, I place it over Julian’s hand, covering the wound, and gently have him pull away as I tie the shirt around his arm.

“Put pressure there,” I say, and when Malachi finally reaches us, I pull Julian’s good arm around my shoulder. “Grab around his middle, and we’ll walk him to the boards.”

For once, Malachi has no retort, though I can feel his glare the entire way off the ice.

Once we make it to the benches, I start by taking my own skates off, followed by Julian’s. His expression is tight and pinched, and when I peak beneath the t-shirt, it’s not a pretty sight.

But it’s not as bad as it could be.

“Gonna need stitches for sure,” I say, and his face pales. “I’m sorry.”

Julian shakes his head. “Nope. It’s fine. Accidents and all.”

“Don’t do that,” Malachi’s voice booms so loud even I jump. “You have to go to the hospital, Jules.”

“I’m okay.” The wobble in his voice isn’t convincing.

I snatch my keys from the duffle bag on the floor. “Repeat that after you see the needles involved.”

His eyes shoot wide, and I place a quick kiss to his temple. “Sorry. Poor joke.”

I pretend not to notice the daggers Malachi shoots my way the whole drive.

Several hours—and sutures—later, the three of us are in my pickup truck, driving back to the dorms.

It’s late. The sky is dark, and the air is a comfortable warmth as it comes through the rolled down window. Julian is in the center seat, bandaged arm held protectively to his chest. Beside him, Malachi stares out the window.

The man is quiet, almost eerily silent as the only times he’s spoken have been in whispers with Julian in the waiting room.

It’s mildly unnerving, but I’ve avoided running into Malachi’s Big Bad Wolf for a while, so I’m not going to push it.

“How are you feeling?” I ask, giving Julian’s thigh a gentle squeeze.

“A little icky from the pain meds,” he says with a pained smile.

Guilt gnaws an uneasy trail through my nerves. My fingers tap insistently on the steering wheel.

I should have been paying attention.

I know how dangerous the rink can be.

But I just had to show off. Because Malachi was watching me. Some part of me wanted him to have irrefutable proof that I’m good at something.

Which was a total fucking bust.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Julian leaning on Malachi’s shoulder, see him holding their joined hands in his lap.

I should spend the rest of the drive in silence, drop them off, and hide out in my room for the rest of the weekend.

But should is such an ugly word that my brain rejects it immediately.

“Do you want to come over?” I ask, meeting Julian’s tired, green eyes as we come to a stop sign. “We could binge those Digimon movies you’ve been talking about. Add in a bowl of ice cream?”

I barely catch his emerging smile before I have to return my attention to the campus road.

“I think I’d like that. You’ll come too, right, D—” Julian abruptly stops and clears his throat. “Mal?”

I would love to be in on the joke. Even if to just ease Julian’s mind that he doesn’t have to hide that I know from Malachi. Every time he has to cover, he becomes flushed and flustered.

“I can’t exactly say no, can I?” Malachi’s voice is gruff and reluctant, but Julian’s giggle confirms his participation.

We stop by their dorm so they can grab whatever they need, but while Julian runs in Malachi stays behind.

“Shouldn’t you help him?”

Malachi scoffs, and I frown. That sounded like a reasonable question.

“Jules is a capable man. Don’t infantilize him.”

My brows form a heavy dip. “I wasn’t. He literally just got his arm slashed open.”

“And you’re so busy thinking about getting laid that you didn’t notice, I offered to be the one to go inside, and he refused.”

“I’m not thinking about getting laid!”

“Then what the hell are you thinking?”

Malachi turns in his seat, eyes a menacing glare that I can’t pull away from.

“Do you have any idea how bad this could have been?”

Of course I do. This is half of my life.

But my tongue is thick and stuck in my mouth.

“The season starts soon, doesn’t it?”

The shift in questioning takes me off guard. “Ah, uh huh,” is the most coherent collection of sounds I can make.

“What if you had gotten hurt? Your coach would have been pissed. And your teammates? Does anything at all run through your head before you just jump into reckless behavior?”

Me? Who the hell gives a shit if I take an L?

“There’s still a few weeks,” I manage to croak out. “I’d be fine.”

The bulging vein along his neck pulses with the strain of his clenched jaw.

Have I ever seen him genuinely upset before?

At the bonfire, perhaps.

Back then, I thought it was challenging—entertaining even.

Right now? An odd, icky bout of shame coats my skin.

“You need to think , Zander. Especially if you’re seeing Jules.”

“We aren’t seeing each other.” I feel the need to interject, the words making me shift in my seat. “Not dating. Just hanging out.”

I didn’t think his glare could get any worse or be any more targeted.

“He cares about you. Whatever the hell you call it, if something happens to you, he’ll care. And if he cares, I care .”

So it’s you who’s worried about me, Blanchard? Using Julian as a scapegoat?

Something happens to me in that moment. A chasm of want deeper than I’ve ever felt.

Oh.

I shouldn’t want to kiss him right now. That isn’t a thought I should even entertain, but there’s that word again.

Should. Shouldn’t.

The way Malachi’s gaze tears me apart, like he’s searching for the deepest parts of me to dig his claws into—it makes me want to sprawl across this bench seat and drag his body on top of mine.

It’s a treacherous desire.

Being with Julian these last few weeks has been fun. Comfortable. But the itch for adrenaline under my skin is finally bubbling to the surface.

It’s like my blood is made of gasoline and Malachi Blanchard is the match that ignites me. I’ve done my time licking my wounds, now my body aches for the burns of spontaneous danger.

This is bad.

I’ve never ran from a bad idea before, but as Julian swings the passenger door open and shoos Malachi into the middle—as Malachi’s arm brushes mine and his body stiffens like a board—I shove the desire burning through me as far down as I can reach.

Now isn’t the time to go burning everything to the ground.

But I know me.

Eventually, I’ll torch it all.