Page 5

JACOB

“What in the actual fuck are you talking about?” Shawn slurs at Hayes, who, five seconds ago, dragged me away from a horny brunette, babbling something about our stepsister. “We don’t have a stepsister, dude.”

“Yeah, but we used to. Riley. You remember her?” Hayes looks between us, searching for recognition.

I frown, trying to drag an almost decade-old memory out of the cranial filing cabinet. It’s not helping that I have another headache pounding behind my temples. Another headache I’m trying to ignore. “Yeah. I guess. It was a long time ago. I couldn’t pick her out of a lineup.”

Shawn presses a hand to his head. He’s consumed way too much beer to think straight.

“Yeah. Well, I just did.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask, confused.

“Outside. I just realized it’s her.”

“Who’s her?” Shawn slurs.

Hayes grabs him by the shoulders to shake him. “Focus, Shawn. The girl from last night. The one who chewed out Jacob.”

“The curvalicious blonde,” he says, eyes darting toward me.

My shoulders tense involuntarily at the suggestion that anyone would chew me out. That girl must have been drunk or not into dick. Or maybe just a man-hater. There are plenty of those around. The spark in her eyes got me hard. Her hips and breasts and thighs had got me thinking the filthiest of thoughts. And her sassy mouth just got me wondering what it’d be like to silence her with my cock.

Hayes taps Shawn’s face like he’s trying to bring him back from unconsciousness. “Fuck, dude. Where the fuck did you go? Did you hear me?”

“Yeah. The girl from last night. I was just imagining sinking my dick between those thick…”

“The fuck?” I growl. There’s an unspoken rule that we don’t double dip where girls are concerned unless we’re sharing. I guess I didn’t get as far as dipping, but I still made a move, and I don’t like the idea of my brother trying it on with a girl who turned me down. If she liked him, that would be the ultimate fucking rejection. The dude looks exactly like me, except for the tatts and the moody scowl.

“That’s Riley, Shawn.” Hayes turns to me. “Jacob, that girl is Riley.”

Realization hits me like a trickle of cold water running down my spine. I noticed something when I first laid eyes on her. Something familiar but uncertain.

She can’t be Riley, can she?

I try to remember Riley when she moved out of our house. I don’t think we were there when she left. I think it happened while we were at hockey practice, and when we got back to the house, her room was empty. I remember moving my things into her room, relieved to have the house back to ourselves. I didn’t enjoy the way her dad tried to step into our dead father’s shoes. I didn’t like that he did a better job as a masculine influence in our lives. It just made everything harder, the grief, the emptiness, the guilt, the relief.

“I asked her name, and she wouldn’t tell me,” Shawn says.

“When?” I bark. I’d done the same thing at The Red Devil, but she disappeared afterward.

“The pool.”

“She told me her name is Beth,” Hayes says frantically.

“Elizabeth was her middle name,” Shawn confirms. How does he remember that when he’s drunk and she’s nothing but a ghost-memory to me? Hayes seems relieved she didn’t deceive him entirely, clasping the back of his neck with his big hand, shaken up by this revelation.

Shawn uses the wall to stabilize himself. “Shit man, I was fantasizing about her ass… getting my dick between her…”

“Me, too.” Hayes rubs his hand over his face and stares at the ceiling as though praying for celestial forgiveness. “Fucking Jacob hit on her.”

I did. I hit on her.

“And she knows who we are. She knows we’re her stepbrothers.”

“Used to be,” I remind Hayes. “Used to be.”

“Semantics.” Hayes paces, knocking into a girl dragging our center, Collins, toward the stairs, but he’s oblivious. “I told Forester that she’s my girl.”

“Why?” Shawn snort-laughs because it’s so unlike Hayes to go around claiming strange women, especially in front of arrogant jock assholes.

“He was hitting on her in the most disgusting way.”

“Of course he was.” The guy has a bad rep for being too forceful. He has no finesse when it comes to seduction.

“She kissed me,” Hayes says, rubbing his hand over the lower part of his face as though he can erase what he’s just said with the swipe of his palm.

“She what?”

“On the corner of the mouth.” He points to the very edge of his lips. It’s a spot that’s half-cheek, half-lips, but that still counts as unbrotherly, right?

“Why?”

“To say thanks for rescuing her, I guess.”

“She kissed you, and she knows you’re her stepbrother.”

“Ex,” Shawn corrects.

“Semantics,” I repeat. “We used to have breakfast together dressed in our PJs. She used to cross the hall in just a towel.” We also had two Christmases together, opening presents when she still believed in Santa. I wanted to tell her he wasn’t real. I wanted to spoil her innocent joy because mine had been stolen years earlier and watching her have what I couldn’t get back was like a nail through my temple, thudding like this fucking headache.

“I need to find her,” Hayes says. “Where the fuck is Malik?”

“Why do you want Malik?” I ask.

“His sister is her best friend.”

I remember them together at the bar, but didn’t think much of it then.

“I don’t know why you’re so bothered,” I say, even as I scan the room for blonde hair and melted chocolate eyes. “She’s just some girl we used to know. A girl who has grown up with a massive chip on her shoulder.”

“She’s nice,” Hayes says, meeting my ambivalence with a frown. “Just because she didn’t want to fuck you doesn’t mean she’s a bad person. She knew who you were. If she had fucked you, that would be a whole lot weirder.”

I guess he’s right. I must be weird because the thought of fucking her still gives me a semi. Then again, I’m an athlete with a sky-high sex drive. My English professor’s ass gave me a semi yesterday, and she’s starting to gray at the temples and wears sensible shoes. “Why the fuck didn’t she just tell me?”

“Maybe she didn’t want us to know.” Hayes ruffles his own hair with a frustrated hand. “She didn’t want us to know. That’s why she kept her name to herself.”

“So, we stay the fuck away from her. If she’s going to be like that, we should be the same.”

“But…” Hayes doesn’t finish his sentence but shares a look with Shawn. When it comes to life, we stay united. We discuss, decide, and present a single front to the world. It’s always been our way. Nothing and no one will ever come between us. Loyalty is everything when all we have is each other.

“But, what? You want to be her buddy? Her big brother? Or something else?”

He looks at Shawn again like he’s hoping he’ll interject, but Shawn’s too drunk to fully participate in this conversation. “I don’t know, man. I just feel like an asshole.”

“For saving her from Forester?”

“For not recognizing her.”

“It was a long time ago.” I buried so much from that time that even thinking about it brings an anxious emptiness to my insides. Stiffening, I draw myself tall and fix Hayes with my firmest big-brother stare. “And some things from the past are best left there.” He knows what I mean. They both do. “Forget about Riley. If she doesn’t want to know us… fuck, if she wants to play games with us, then fuck her.”

“Yeah,” Shawn says weakly. “She could have told us. She should have told us.”

His agreement is half-hearted, but I’ll take it. “Exactly.”

Hayes looks between us, brow furrowed, and mouth pinched. He doesn’t like it, but it’s two against one, so he’ll have to suck it up.

“Can I get back to my business now?” When he doesn’t respond, I turn on my heel and head back upstairs. A girl is waiting for me. One who’s eager to spend time with me. I don’t need Riley to come back into our lives and dredge up old pain.

Outside the closed door, I press my hand to my chest like I can warm the place that’s suddenly hollow, like I can stop the inexplicable hammering of my heart against my ribs.

Riley .

I forgot about her once. I can forget about her again. It’s what I need to do to keep my focus on what’s important. Hockey. My future. Burying my dick somewhere that will make me forget my pounding head. The past needs to stay where it is. Dead and buried.

***

Coach’s whistle pierces the air, echoing shrilly around the rink, hitting me like a personal attack. I grit my teeth and slam my stick against the ice, the smack ringing out and chips scattering.

“Drayton!” Coach’s voice slices through the air, harsh as ever. “You asleep out there, or what?”

I suck in a breath, willing the throbbing in my head to give it a rest. Just until the end of practice. Just until I can take some painkillers. I try to push that thought from my mind because I don’t like being reliant on pill popping. Sleep has been a problem, but not here on the ice. Last night, when I climbed into my bed, I tossed and turned until the sun came up, trying but failing to forget the memories that kept poking their way back into my consciousness. Memories of a girl in our home, at a time in my life when I felt like everything was falling apart.

I’m tired, so my passes are sloppy, and my skates heavier than usual. Every shot skews wide, like I’ve forgotten everything I’ve worked so hard to turn into muscle memory. Frustration boils, tasting acrid, and with it, the throbbing intensity in my head increases.

I don’t reply because Coach doesn’t want to hear excuses. Words don’t mean shit on the ice. Precision, drive, and commitment— those are what matter. I skate back into position, gripping my stick so hard my knuckles ache inside my gloves.

“You planning on joining us today, or you got other plans?” Coach barks, hands on his hips like he’s disciplining a kid.

The other guys skate past, their faces grim. They know Coach singles out whoever isn’t cutting it. Today, it’s me. Tomorrow, it’ll be one of them. Buttons shakes his head, his green eyes sympathetic. More often than not, he’s the one on the receiving end of Coach’s sharp comments and the butt of locker room jokes. Poor guy hates his nickname but sucks up the ridicule in a way I never could.

I usually play clean and sharp. I’m reliable. That’s what my team counts on and why Coach trusts me. I push through pain and past failure because I need to get drafted to hoist Stanley over my head. I need to prove who I am.

But today?

Today, everything grates on my nerves.

I line up for the next drill, barely registering the play we’re running. Coach blows the whistle again, and I wince at the shrillness before pushing off, channeling all my anger into cutting across the ice, trying to compensate for my hesitation. The cold bites at my cheeks as I push myself, resisting the tension in my thighs and the burn in my calves. The scrape and clatter of blades cutting into the ice behind me drives me forward. “Drayton! Heads up!”

The puck flies at me. I reach out, but it clatters off the blade and slides wide. My gut twists with the miss, but I pursue it, catching it against the boards, swearing under my breath. By the time I turn back around, Coach is staring me down, arms crossed.

“Jesus Christ, Drayton! Get it together. I need you on this. The team needs you on this.”

The words land like a slap, and my face flushes, embarrassment as biting as the cold.

You’re never going to make it with that attitude, boy. You’re never going to do better than me. Dad’s voice slices through my head and bounces around my aching skull.

I can’t look at the guys; I don’t need their pity, their disappointment. Fuck.

“I’ve got it,” I mutter, knowing Coach will catch the edge in my voice. “I’ve got it.”

Coach’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he looks down at his clipboard, taps his pen twice, and blows his whistle. “All right, run it again.”

I exhale hard, forcing myself to clear my head. Just play. Fucking play like you mean it. But the weight pressing on me, this stupid feeling, the words dredged from the past, spin around on a reel, impossible to shake.

I tighten my grip on my stick, watching the puck get passed down the line. When it comes to me again, I don’t hesitate. This time, I accept the pass cleanly, firing it down the ice hard and fast. The clink as it hits the post and ricochets in should be satisfying. It’s a solid shot.

But it’s empty.

It’s been years since I let anything off-ice screw with my game. Years since I let my head get messed up enough to affect my skills. I catch Hayes staring at me, his eyes questioning. He’ll want to talk it through later, and so will Shawn, and I’ll close them down. I love my brothers, and we’re close, but my inner world is mine alone. There’s too much damage beneath the surface, too many landmines they’d step on. Too much I don’t ever want to think of.

Coach nods. “That’s more like it.”

But the words don’t sink in. I skate back down the ice, watching the others run their own drills, moving like parts of a well-oiled machine. I’m the only cog that’s sticking.

By the time Coach’s whistle finally signals the end of practice, I’m already pulling off my helmet, flicking back my sweaty hair, running a gloved hand over my damp, aching forehead, and skating off before I can get drawn into the usual post-practice banter.

Back in the locker room, I sink onto the bench and rip off my gloves, hands stinging, and fresh anger simmering beneath my skin. I shouldn’t have let this situation get to me. I should be able to manage stress better than this.

Skarsgard, a younger player I barely know but is proving to be my biggest competition, shoots me a wary glance, probably worried I’ll take my frustration out on the lockers.

I clench my fists, forcing myself to sit still and contain the bubbling in my chest and the fist-sized lump in my throat. I don’t need to give Coach Thornton more reasons to doubt me. Mindset is a vital part of being a top player. Skill can only take me so far.

I just need to get out of here, clear my head, and figure out how to get my game back on track.

That’s going to mean telling my brothers again, in no uncertain terms, that Riley is a thing of our past and making it clear to her she’s not welcome in our lives.

I can’t have her dredging up emotions I’ve buried or memories I don’t want to deal with.

I can’t have her tempting my brothers or tempting me, or worse, getting between us.

This is my year. Everything I’ve worked for is on the line. And Riley Johnstone won’t ruin it for me.