Page 8

SHAWN

I’m buzzing with game-day energy responsible for the bounce in my step and the rush of adrenaline pulsing through my veins. We’re up against the Bayfield Warriors tonight, and it’s bound to be brutal. After Jacob’s less-than-successful practice, he’s amped up to prove something. And with Skarsgard showing promise, my brother is under even more pressure to perform. But it’s Hayes’ long-running friction with Jansen that could get bloody.

I live for this: the anticipation, knowing I get to lace up my skates and put it all on the line with my brothers and teammates.

With my hands shoved deep in my pockets, I squint against the sun, cutting through the trees. I’ve finished classes for the day, and my stomach demands attention. On the way to grab a sandwich at the campus coffee shop, I spot Riley, high ponytail swinging, neck lost in a fuchsia scarf, totally engaged in whatever she’s scrolling on her phone.

It’s been eight years, and the chasm of time between us feels wider. She’s not a little girl anymore, and I’m no scrawny teen. How did I not recognize her? Her likeness is obvious as I look at her now, and the day we discovered she’d moved out with her dad comes back to me like a slap. At the time, her departure had trawled up memories of the house’s emptiness after Dad died. For the second time, I was engulfed by an echo that lingers with sudden absence, like the house held the scar of the previous occupant even though they were gone. Riley hadn’t lived with us for long, but it was enough for me to miss her when she wasn’t there anymore.

Riley .

She looks so different now: confident, put together—the same face but with a womanliness that’s sharpened some edges and softened others. Watching her feels illicit, but I take my time, following her a little to soak her up. Riley’s here. Hayes was right. She’s real and so fucking hot.

The sway of her hips swells my dick again, and I lick the center of my lips, remembering her in her one-piece and how gracefully she glided through the water. Trying to pull together the memory of the nerdy girl we lived with and this woman, who’s flipping my switches in a way I doubted my body was capable of, is unnerving. Gone is the apathy when I think about sex. My arousal swells easily when she’s my focus. How the fuck does that work?

Maybe it’s the hint of the familiar leftover from eight years ago.

Or maybe it’s just that she’s what I’ve always preferred. Pretty in a fresh, natural way, with a body the polar opposite of mine: soft, curvy, delicate, sweet. I’ve always had a thing for girls with some meat on their bones, but most of the skate chasers that are jumping at the prospect of taking my dick aren’t like that.

Maybe it’s that Riley ticks boxes I haven’t been addressing. Her sassiness and humor tickled me, and her immediate rejection of Jacob was strangely intriguing.

Before I take the time to think through my actions, I cut across the quad, slipping into my easy smile as I get close. Glancing over her shoulder, I find Riley is checking out a ridiculous hockey channel called Icing the Cake . I only know about it because one of the girls I fucked recently played me an episode about Jacob. I haven’t shared it with him yet because I don’t want to piss him off before a game. The dude hasn’t been himself for the past few days and could do without facing more criticism.

“You don’t have to look for me on social media when I’m here in the flesh,” I say, lowering my voice the way girls like.

Riley flinches, glancing up, brow furrowing. Her expression shifts from annoyed to only slightly less annoyed when she recognizes me.

“Shawn Drayton.” She crosses her arms and scrutinizes me like I’m a creature post-dissection. “Quit sneaking up on girls. It’ll get you on the creep shitlist.”

I hold up my hands. “No creeping here. Just thought I’d say hello now I know who you are.”

“Shouldn’t you be prepping for your big hockey game instead of peering over the shoulders of unsuspecting women?”

I chuckle. “Don’t worry, Johnstone. I’ve got it under control. You think I’d be out here wandering the halls of academia if I didn’t?”

Her eyes roll, but there’s the faintest hint of a smirk. “Do you even know how to spell ‘academia?’”

“Ouch.” I press a hand to my chest, playing it up. “Maybe I should tell Coach you compromised me emotionally and sit out tonight’s game.”

“Right.” She slips her phone into her bag, clearly preparing to leave. “Somehow, I doubt a dent to your ego would keep you off the ice.”

She continues walking, and I lengthen my strides to keep up. My ego? Why the fuck is that suddenly a point of discussion?

“Hey, wait up. Why didn’t you tell me who you were at the pool?” I fall into step beside her. “I told you I thought you looked familiar, and you wouldn’t tell me your name. Why?”

“Why should I?”

“Because… well…” I’m stumped for a moment. Am I abnormal for thinking it’s weird she didn’t want us to know who she was? I blame Jacob. He went hard on the seduction if you can call it that, and it pissed her off. Then I made her blush with the outline of my dick. It’s hardly the opening for a heartfelt reunion between ex-sibs. “It’s been eight years. We should catch up sometime. Grab a coffee, talk about life and all that.”

“Life or your dick?” She raises an eyebrow, her gaze skeptical. “We shared a house, Shawn. Not for very long. I barely remember it.”

I shrug. “Better late than never.”

“Is it?” She raises her chin. “Am I supposed to swoon because the Shawn Drayton is talking to me?”

The bitter, mocking tone of her voice knocks me off kilter. Jacob was a douche, and I wasn’t much better. But does that warrant so much hostility? “I’m just a devastatingly attractive and highly skilled athletic dude, standing in front of a pretty girl, asking her to have coffee with me.”

Said pretty face doesn’t move with even the slightest flicker of amusement. I’m off my game, and my game is who I am. Her indifference is a nudge backward when I’m used to marching forward.

“What makes you think I want to spend my limited free time with you?”

Leaning against the library wall where she’s stopped to deal with my questions, I shoot her my best smirk. “Because you’re curious. Admit it. You’re at least a little interested in the terrible person I’ve become.”

Her gaze dips as though she’s fighting back amusement and resents her own response. “Terrible person, huh? And that’s supposed to increase the appeal of coffee?”

“Think of it as research. ‘How rink-rats evolve from high school to college.’ You could publish a paper on it. Or an article. It’d be groundbreaking.”

She laughs a short, reluctant sound. “You’re ridiculous.”

“True. But I make it look good.” I shrug, trying to make out that this means nothing to me when in reality, taking Riley out and making her like me has now become an absolute necessity. “And besides, I bet you missed me. Even if you won’t admit it.”

She rolls her eyes. “Pretty sure I’d forgotten about your existence.”

I don’t believe that for a second. Her dad was a major hockey fan, and I’m certain he would have followed our games after they moved on. But her flippancy still wounds me.

“Then one drink shouldn’t be a problem, right? Just enough time to remind you of my awesomeness.”

“Drink? I thought you said coffee.” When I don’t backtrack, she tilts her head and folds her lips between her teeth, most likely running through every possible reason to say no. Finally, she sighs. “Not a drink. How about swimming? But keep it on the down-low. I don’t need anyone getting the wrong idea.”

I grin with the spark of victory. “Secrets with Riley Johnstone? Now we’re talking. Your reputation is safe with me.”

“Oh yeah. You keep all your interactions with women to yourself?”

Faking a hurt expression, I place a hand on my chest. “Of course. I might be a rink rat, but I’m not a love rat. Ask anyone.” This isn’t strictly true, but the girls I fuck tend to talk about it all over campus and online. If I’m indiscreet, it isn’t a betrayal of anything they’re not already boasting about to their friends.

“No, thank you.” Riley shakes her head like she’s disappointed with herself. It’s obvious she’s not excited about our upcoming meeting, but it’s only a little chip to my ego, mostly because I think her resistance is a pretense. She wants this date. She looked at my dick and had thoughts—the same kind of thoughts I had about her—and even though she used to be my stepsister, it doesn’t mean she’s off limits. There’s no shared blood between us that would make the swapping of bodily fluids unforgivable. Jacob wouldn’t need to know. My body’s response to her is too much to ignore. After my subpar reactions to the opposite sex recently, it’s a major relief when the kind of horniness I thought was a thing of the past surges through me.

We hammer out the details, and I shove my hands in my pockets, tip my head back and look at her through lowered lids. “Eight years is a lot of wasted time to catch up on,” I say. “You’re looking good, Riley. Real good.”

Her eye roll is theatrical, but her hips have a little extra sway as she walks away. I watch her, unable to lose the grin, confident that on Saturday night, I’m going to get a taste of pretty Riley, the kind of taste I haven’t been this excited about for a long time. Nothing like a little resistance to wake the beast.

Looks like today just got a whole lot better.

***

The rink lights are blinding, and the frigid air nips my cheeks as I settle into position. The arena is packed tonight with students, alumni, and locals amped up to watch the Icebreakers crush the Bayfield Warriors. It’s late October, so we’re deep into the season now and the air has that electric game-night intensity that hums through me like a live wire.

The puck drops, and all my senses kick into overdrive. The drills I’ve been running are fresh in my mind and programmed into my muscles, so when Bayfield’s offense is aggressive right out of the gate, charging hard into our zone, I’m fully prepared. I track the puck as it moves from stick to stick, waiting for them to take the first shot. It finally comes from their left winger, a low, fast slapshot aimed for the corner of the net. But I’m ready. I drop low, snatch it up with my glove, and quickly toss it to Jacob.

My brother’s fast on his skates, easily zig-zagging past Bayfield’s defense. He pushes up the ice, deftly handling the puck before passing to Collins, our center, who attempts a one-timer, just barely deflected by their goalie. Jacob’s all over the place, relentless on the forecheck, keeping Bayfield’s defenders scrambling.

I breathe a sigh of relief that he’s shrugged off the funk he was in at practice. Even though Skarsgard is stealing some of his limelight, it doesn’t seem to bother him.

Meanwhile, Hayes anchors our defense, sticking tight to Bayfield’s forwards whenever they try to break into our zone. He’s solid, as usual, keeping their offense from getting too close, which I appreciate every time he clears the puck out of our end. But there’s a problem: Bayfield’s winger, Brett Jansen, is on the ice, and he and Hayes have a bad history.

Before the game, Coach Thornton reminded him to keep his play clean. The last time he faced off against Jansen, they both ended up in the penalty box. It’s not long before the two of them are exchanging words, which progress to hard checks and shoves, and I can tell it’s only a matter of time before one of them loses it.

“Hayes. Don’t fucking let him get under your skin,” I yell as he flies in front of the goal to hit the puck out of the danger zone.

“Fuck him,” Hayes grunts back.

Off the ice, my brother is super chill, but when it comes to the game, his temper can be vicious, a contrast that Coach Thornton struggles to deal with.

It isn’t until midway through the second period that the tension boils over when Jansen takes a cheap shot at Hayes right by the boards, sending him sprawling. Hayes is up in an instant, fists flying, and before I know it, they’re locked in a brawl, each throwing punches that dislodge helmets. The refs blow the whistle and rush to break them up, as the crowd goes wild, but not before Hayes lands a solid hit to Jansen’s face—and takes one right back. Moments later, Hayes is escorted to the penalty box, blood trickling from a fresh cut above his eyebrow.

He shoots me a quick look as he sits down, bloodied and fuming. I want to nod back in support, but there’s no time; Bayfield’s on a power play now, and they’re coming in hot. I settle back, staying low, ready for whatever they throw my way.

The puck barrels down the ice, Bayfield’s forwards advancing like sharks, eager to capitalize on our penalty. They pass quickly, trying to confuse me, but I’m locked in, following each move, each fake. One shot ricochets off my blocker, bouncing out in front of the crease, but I kick it away before they can pounce on the rebound. My body is on high alert, snapping from one position to the next. We kill the penalty just before Hayes returns to the ice, grinning through the blood smeared over his face. When we’re back to full strength, the crowd roars and the tension eases.

In the third period, the Bayfield team is getting desperate. As the clock winds down, they throw everything they have at me, hoping for a late comeback. But our defense is tight, and the shots that do get through are easy to deflect. With only a minute left, Jacob makes one final rush up the ice, weaving past Bayfield’s tired defenders and sending the puck sailing into the empty net. The buzzer sounds, and it’s over—we’ve won.

The guys swarm around me, cheering and pounding my back. It’s not my first shut-out, but it’s still damn sweet. Jacob’s grinning like a madman, and even Hayes, with his busted eyebrow and cheek, is laughing. The high of a hard-won victory thrums through me. Nothing beats this—the thrill of the game, the cheers of the crowd, the pride of a win. But there’s something else in the back of my mind, something I can’t quite shake.

Riley.

The way she looked at me yesterday, that smirk she tried to hide—it wasn’t just friendly. Maybe it’s wishful thinking because the idea of fucking her is like an itch I can’t scratch. I wonder if she’s watching and what she thought of the game.

Hayes slaps my back, the brawl with Jansen forgotten despite his busted face. “Fuck, man. That’s how it’s done,” he yells, pulling the back of my neck until our helmets smack together.

Am I an asshole for going after Riley when we all agreed it was better to stay clear?

Maybe.

I won’t keep it from them forever. Just until I’ve had a chance to give her what she’s pretending not to want but is salivating for.

The guys start heading off the ice, still celebrating, and I follow, lighter than I’ve been in weeks.

Tonight’s a win and tomorrow?

Tomorrow, if I get what I want, the buzz from this win will be nothing compared to making Riley come.