Page 22

Chapter twenty-one

Daxton

One month later

“ P lease come out with us,” Cope whines next to me. I’ve turned into a complete hermit since my date a month ago. I don’t know why, but it put me in a bit of a funk. That and my phone constantly ringing with a private number.

One guess as to who that is.

If I’m not in classes or doing my art project with the hockey team, I’m in my dorm, sitting in bed.

Trayton has barely looked at me since the day on the ice. Since he was semi-nice to me. He even canceled our tattoo session, saying he had plans that he couldn’t move.

I want to get it finished because I can’t wait to see how good it looks, but not having Trayton coming at me or saying something that just pisses me off has been quite refreshing. I won’t lie.

I didn’t take his advice. I didn’t dust myself off or even forget about it. I kept thinking about the date, going over and over in my head what I did wrong.

I’m not good at being around people or even having friends, for that matter. I’ve only ever had one, and the people I have been around haven’t exactly been very nice. I thought me and Ashton were getting along. I thought I could do this whole dating thing.

Obviously not.

Cope is still raging about it. He keeps asking me questions about Ashton. He’s trying hard to find out where he works. I pray with everything that he’s never successful.

I’ve begged him countless times to let it go, but he just can’t stop bringing it up. Like right now.

“If you come out with me, I swear I’ll never say one more thing about that damn pig,” he insists, trying to tease me. I glance up at him from where I sit cross-legged on my bed, surrounded by the familiar chaos of my things. My sketch pad rests open on my lap, filled with the rough outlines and detailed doodles I worked on during today’s training session.

“You swear you’ll never mention him again?” I ask, raising an eyebrow skeptically. He extends his pinky finger toward me, his expression earnest.

“Okay, we don’t need to do that,” I say, waving a hand dismissively.

“Pinky me right now, Daxton,” Cope demands, his gaze locked on mine with an intensity that only he could muster.

“Don’t ever say that again.” I chuckle, unable to contain my amusement.

Cope’s face crinkles in confusion, his brow furrowing as he tilts his head slightly—a gesture I’ve noticed he makes whenever he’s puzzled. Then I see the moment of clarity hit him. His blue eyes widen in realization, and he shakes his head vigorously. “Yeah, no. I don’t want your pinky anywhere near my ass. I’m good for that,” he says, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. The fact that it took him a solid twenty seconds to catch on sends me collapsing back onto my pillow, my amusement turning into tears. Cope’s deep, infectious laugh joins mine. “You’ve got a dirty mind, Rivers,” he teases, and when I sit up, still wiping tears from my eyes, I burst into laughter again at the sight of him still holding his pinky up at me.

“Just pinky swear me, you dick.”.

After managing to calm down, the laughter still bubbling just beneath the surface, I finally link my pinky with his.

“I can’t even remember what we’re swearing now,” he admits, scratching the back of his head.

I squint at him, playfully irritated.

“Oh yes, the pig. No more, if you come for a drink.”

I let out a long sigh, thinking that a night out might do me some good, and I could definitely use a break from Cope’s constant chatter about Ashton.

“Okay,” I agree.

Cope beams at me, his face lighting up with triumph as he punches the air. “That’s my boy,” he exclaims, his enthusiasm infectious.

The room is buzzing with energy, filled with people from college, not just those on the hockey team. It’s comforting to know I’m not the odd one out. I found myself chatting with a group of girls who were gushing over my tattoo, their eyes wide with curiosity and admiration. While I’m not one to bask in the spotlight, it felt nice just to have conversation with others.

Suddenly, Trayton interjects loudly, announcing to the girls that I’m gay. Some of them sigh in disappointment and walk away, leaving Trayton chuckling at the scene. Two of the girls, however, simply shrug, giving me a once-over as if I were a prime steak on display, and one of them says, “I don’t mind.”

I don’t have the energy to explain that, first, I do mind, and second, sexuality isn’t a simple switch that can be flipped on and off. It’s not as simplistic as some might think, and not every “hole is a goal.”

Thankfully, Brayden comes over and gently pulls me away from the awkwardness, for which I am immensely grateful. As I join in other conversations, I begin to feel at ease, almost forgetting that I’m not technically part of the team. Despite not being a hockey player, they always make me feel like I’m one of them and as if I’ve always been on the team. Especially Cope. He just took me under his wing as if it was so natural and just never looked back.

God, I’m so thankful for that guy.

Trayton hasn’t hurled any insults my way yet, which is nothing short of a miracle, but I’ve noticed him shooting daggers at me. It’s as if he’s waiting for the perfect moment to unleash his hateful shit.

I hear Kal grunt, and Trayton spits out some swear words. Brayden’s demeanor shifts instantly; his relaxed features tense up, and a stormy intensity clouds his eyes. I tilt my head to see what has caught their attention—a group of big guys is entering the room. Judging by their size, I’m guessing they are hockey players.

I glance back at my table, and Cope slides into the empty seat next to me, leaning in to whisper, “Arctic Bears.” I frown in confusion, and then realization dawns on me. That’s Mike’s team. Shit. I haven’t texted him back since Trayton decided to invade my mouth that night. Literally.

“Oh, okay. Rivals, right?”

“Yep. Davenport College.” I glance back over my shoulder, catching sight of the group standing by the pool table. They’re smirking, their eyes glinting with a mix of challenge and mischief. I don’t see Mike, thank God. That’s when I shift my gaze back to Brayden.

Quake.

I’m not scared of a fight. I’ve been through my fair share of them, but right now, I’m just enjoying the music and the laughter around me. It would be a shame for all of it to come crashing down.

“What happens now?” I whisper to Cope, so quiet it’s barely audible over the dull roar of conversation. His eyes are fixed on our rivals like he’s calculating them. Before Cope can reply, Kal slams his beer onto the table, the sound echoing around us.

“We treat them as if they’re not here,” he declares. He’s steady and commanding. Everyone’s attention shifts to Kal, and then, with a collective breath, they lift their beers, taking long pulls, though the air is still charged with tension.

Chatter begins again, and soon enough, the group across the room fades into the background like an old song no one wants to hear.

I’ve had four beers, and the liquid courage is making me feel slightly buzzed and more than a little smiley. I’m aware of my surroundings, the way the room spins gently around me. Cope stays close, his presence like a warm blanket, which makes me relax and maybe drink a bit more than I should.

“Beer?” I ask the table, raising my empty glass. Everyone lifts their glasses, signaling they’re still good. I weave my way through the crowded room toward the bar. It’s packed, and I find myself standing there for five minutes, watching as the bartenders move like choreographed dancers. One finally glances my way, holding up two fingers to signal it’ll be a couple more minutes. I’m in no rush, so I lean against the bar, observing the chaos of people shouting for attention. That’s when I feel someone squeeze in beside me. Without looking, I move along slightly.

“Thanks,” he says. I turn my gaze to him.

Mike. I kinda forgot how hot he was. His dirty-blond hair falls in casual waves, and his ocean-blue eyes have a depth that could easily pull someone under. A sharp jawline frames his face, leading down to a smile that could melt ice.

“Hi, Mike.”

“Daxton.” He smirks. There’s a slight awkwardness, but I would have expected him to be hostile toward me. Instead, he just stares at me with a hot-as-fuck smirk. Then the barman interrupts us.

“What can I get ya?”

“Beer and whatever Mike here is having.” The words slip out of my mouth before I can stop them, my usual restraint nowhere to be found. It’s just a drink, right? Mike’s face lights up with an ice-melting smile again, a dangerously attractive grin that makes my heart skip. He turns to the bartender with a nod.

“Make that two,” he says smoothly before focusing entirely on me. His gaze flickers to the table where the guys are gathered, then back to me, taking in my five-foot-eleven frame and one-hundred-and-eighty-pound build. “You’re with them a lot, aint ya?”

I chuckle, nodding my head. “Cope’s my roomie.”

He nods. “Now it makes sense why he has a constant death glare on the side of my face,” he says, smirking down at me. He’s taller than me by a few inches, his broad shoulders filling out his snug shirt, hinting at the strength beneath.

He leans in, his lips almost brushing my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. “Are you checking me out, Daxton?” he murmurs. The warmth in my cheeks betrays me, and his fingers lightly trace the blush.

“Cute,” he teases. His smirk exudes a charm that’s impossible to resist.

We chat for about twenty minutes, the world around us fading into the background, until Cope interrupts. His eyes narrow at Mike, his posture tense as if ready for a confrontation. But Mike just responds with that irresistible smirk.

“I’m going back to the dorm. You coming?” Cope asks firmly.

I glance between Cope and Mike, my mind racing. “I was hoping to get to know Daxton a little better tonight,” Mike interjects, his words layered with suggestive possibilities. Maybe casual encounters are more my speed than dating. It’s all I’ve ever known, and I can handle that. “We got rudely interrupted last time.”

“Cope, I’ll see you back at the dorm later,” I assure him.

“Or tomorrow,” Mike adds. Suggestion is thick in the air. Cope growls—yes, actually growls—and pulls me aside.

“Dax,” he says all serious.

“It’s fine, it’s nothing. I’m happy with that,” I say, placing my hand gently on Cope’s arm, trying to reassure him. “I’m good. I know he’s a bear or whatever you call them, but it’s just harmless fun.” Cope stares at me, his brow furrowed with concern.

“I don’t care that he’s a bear. I just don’t want him taking advantage of you.”

“I’m good,” I repeat, hoping my eyes will convey the certainty I feel in what I’m saying. Cope’s gaze flickers between me and Mike, then back to me, his jaw clenching tightly.

“Hurt him, and you can kiss the ice goodbye because I’ll break both your legs,” Cope warns.

Mike bursts into laughter, the sound echoing. “He’s good,” Mike says, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

Just when I thought Cope wasn’t going to drop it, he lets out a deep breath and walks away, his shoulders still tense. “Just going to the restroom,” Mike says as he stands up. I nod, settling into my chair and picking up the drink, the condensation leaving a cool ring on the table.

I’ve done this before. Bex and I went to enough parties, and I’ve hooked up with a few guys, but that’s it. So why do I feel a flutter of nerves now, like butterflies in my stomach?

“You’re fucking joking, aren’t you?” A harsh voice cuts through my thoughts.

Fucking great.

I turn in my chair to face Trayton; his expression is furious. “Why did Cope just say you’re staying here with that fucking loser?” he demands, his eyes blazing.

“Go home, Trayton.” I sigh, trying to turn away. But before I can fully swivel my chair, he grabs it, spinning it back so that he’s right in my face. The intensity of his presence is overwhelming—his scent, his glare, his proximity.

“He’s a fucking rival,” Trayton growls, low and rumbling. “You don’t fuck the rivals.”

Screw him.

I lift my chin defiantly, ensuring my gaze locks onto his firmly. Those piercing, fucked-up bluey-green eyes, like shards of ice, have the power to make anyone tremble with vulnerability. Yet I refuse to give in.

No. No. I despise him and those damn eyes.

“I’m not a hockey player,” I grit out through clenched teeth, rising to my feet and forcing Trayton to stumble back a few steps. Determination fuels my movements as I close the gap between us, ensuring my words are delivered with unshakable certainty.

“So, if I decide to fuck the rival,” I whisper, my lips brushing against his ear, “I will.”