Chapter Eight

THERE’S A CERTAIN kind of high following a performance that Sydney has never been able to replicate elsewhere.

Not that she’s tried to use more conventional methods, but there is nothing like the ecstatic buoyancy that comes from leaving the stage to thunderous applause, heart in her ears and sweat running down her back, throat sore and chest full, knowing she did her best, and it was enough. She was enough.

Coming off stage after a solid show makes Sydney feel as if she could do anything. Be anything. Like maybe she could live out the bravery in her lyrics.

Rex scoops her up in a spinning hug as they crash into their dressing room backstage, and then Sky jumps onto Rex’s back, and they all three end up in a pile on the nearest couch, yelling incoherently at one another. Devo, following them from the wings, rolls his eyes but smiles as they press obnoxious kisses to one another’s faces and muss sweaty hair and recount the best parts of the show.

“Jesus,” Rex says, smooshing Syd’s cheeks together. “The bridge for ‘Sins of Our Father’ was the best you’ve ever done it. I nearly forgot to come in for the chorus; I was so distracted listening to you. It’s like you’re a goddamn banshee. Or a siren-banshee hybrid.”

“Okay, but your vocals for ‘Become the Monster’” she retorts, knocking their foreheads together. “Fucking ace. And you !” She rolls, taking Sky with her off the couch and onto the floor, squeezing her tight enough that she makes a wheezing noise. “Best drummer in the world! Your solo in ‘Divine Rights’ was just— Marry me now.”

“We’ve talked about this,” Sky says gravely. “I don’t believe in the institution of marriage.”

“And, also, I have first dibs if she changes her mind,” Rex reminds them, chin propped on stacked hands. “Get your own prospect. “

“Mm. I suggest someone around six foot three,” Sky says. “Professional athlete. Socially awkward. Weirdly into you.”

“Currently walking down the hallway,” Rex mutters.

Sydney and Sky both look toward the door, and yes, even upside down, Sydney can recognize the bulk of Matts’s backlit frame.

“Oh,” Matts says as he’s directed into the room by someone with a clipboard and an earpiece. “Sorry. Should we come back later?”

A whole group of men stands behind him, all peering into the room with equal curiosity. It occurs to Sydney that Sky is straddling her in a way that could be mistaken as something other than platonic.

“No, come in,” Syd says as Sky laughs into her neck, completely unhelpfully. “Come in. Sorry.” She tries to shift Sky off her unsuccessfully. “Rex, a little help here?”

Rex stands, tying back his hair, then scoops Sky up and relocates them to the couch.

“They all get cuddly after a performance,” Devo explains to the Hell Hounds as they make their way inside. “It’s the dopamine or something.”

Matts offers Sydney a hand, and she lets him pull her up to her feet and directly into a hug.

“I’m super gross,” she warns him.

“I’m a hockey player,” he reminds her.

She probably lingers a little longer than she should, relishing the weight of his arms around her shoulders, the firmness of his chest against hers, and the warm smell of him that shouldn’t be familiar but is.

“Hi,” she says, finally putting some space between them.

“Hi,” he agrees.

“And,” she says, looking behind him, “it appears you’ve brought half the Hell Hounds roster with you. A veritable pack of hounds. Wait, I can do better than that.” She considers for a moment. “Hark! A host of hellish hounds.”

“Hallelujah,” Sky shouts.

“Someone please stop them before this turns into a five-minute alliteration event,” Devo says.

That’s a valid concern.

Matts reintroduces everyone, even though they all met the night before. Within minutes, Sky has vacated the couch and pulled her drumsticks out of her back pocket to teach Kuzy how to spin them. Rex and Jeff have fallen into a conversation about Rex’s tattoos. And Sydney is left with an attentive group of very large men. The room suddenly feels much smaller despite its tall ceilings.

“I have to admit,” Rushy says, “I was mostly here to watch Matts fanboy, but you guys are amazing. Like, I typically don’t go for this kind of music—”

“He prefers banjos,” Alex interrupts. “And harmonicas. Mandolin, if he’s feeling risqué.”

Rushy ignores him. “But your energy and the lyrics — Do you write your own songs?”

“I write most of them. Rex helps. He wrote one of the ones we did tonight. ‘Sins of Our Father.’”

“Which one is that?”

She hums the lead-in to the chorus and quietly sings.

’Cause what you call love, I call indifference

Just fuckin’ spare me your so-called deliverance

I’ll spit on heaven’s gate and welcome hell’s fire

Before I kneel to a god who’d create in me condemned desire

“Oh, shit,” Rushy says. “Yeah. Kinda want to send that to some family members of mine.”

“Rex had a stretch there, senior year of high school, where he cranked out an album’s worth of songs, coming to grips with his faith and his queerness not being mutually exclusive, regardless of what certain people in his life said. That’s the only song that made it into the album, but there are some other bangers for sure.”

“Jesus didn’t say that, bitch,” Matts says.

Sydney stills. Along with pretty much everyone else present.

“What?” Alex says.

“Sorry,” Matts shoves his hands in his pockets. “That’s the title of one of the other songs, right? And all the verses are him arguing about things attributed to Jesus that aren’t, uh, biblical. It’s…both educational and hilarious. The end of every line rhymes with the word ‘bitch.’”

“A lot if it is slant rhyme,” Sydney says. “But, yes.”

The only place that song was publicly recorded was in a video posted to her personal channel over three years ago before they had a record deal or even a decent camera. Which means Matts has been watching her channel and not watching casually but going through the archives. Sydney can’t deal with that right now.

“So,” she says brightly. “You guys didn’t want to stay in the audience for the main event? I saw your tickets; you have good seats.”

“Oh, I think we got our money’s worth,” Jeff says, slapping Matts’s back as he moves to join the main group. “But we wanted to say hi; we’re going back to our seats in a minute.”

“I’m not,” Matts clarifies. “They are. If that’s ok.”

“We’re going to be hanging out here” Syd says, “until the VIP event stuff when the Killer Sunday guys are finished with their set. Won’t be very interesting.”

“I’m good here,” Matts says again.

“Well, all right then.”

“I hate to be that person,” Devo says to the Hell Hounds from where he’s been lurking by the snack table. “But until they hire an actual manager, I am that person. Would y’all be cool with taking a picture for the band’s socials?”

The assorted hockey players present apparently do not mind being used for free marketing. Sky ends up on Kuzy’s shoulders, and not to be outdone, Matts then insists on putting Sydney on his shoulders. At this point, Rex loudly declares he’s being left out, so Alex and Rushy help him onto Rome’s shoulders. The rest gather around, and a minute later, Devo airdrops a dozen photos to everyone involved. Alex and Kuzy immediately duck their heads together to argue over who gets to post which photo.

“So…” Sydney’s still on Matts’s shoulders, one hand cupped under his pleasantly scratchy jaw for stability, the other holding her phone. “Do you have a PR person who’s going to lose their mind if I caption this ‘We got high backstage with the Hell Hounds’?”

All the hockey players turn to look at Jeff.

“Why?” he says. “Why am I always chosen as the default adult?” He sighs. “I think that should be fine.”

Sydney posts it.

The Hounds say their goodbyes and head back to their seats, Sky and Rex return to the couch, and Sydney…is still on Matts’s shoulders.

He’s got his fingers curled around her ankles, and he’s idly walking around, checking out the snacks and drinks and the carefully organized piles of chaos surrounding the collection of utilitarian black couches.

“You can put me down, now,” she points out. “Unless you need to get an extra workout in.”

Matts makes a derisive noise. “Please. You’re not even my warm-up weight.” But he drops into a crouch, as if that’s a normal thing to do with over 100 pounds of human on his shoulders, and releases her ankles so he can offer her a steadying hand to dismount. This works right up until she catches the toe of her left boot in the stretchy fabric of his T-shirt, and then she’s careening toward the floor, her phone clattering to the linoleum, her arms tucked to her chest because she’d rather get a concussion than break one of her fingers. Except she doesn’t have to worry about a concussion because Matts catches her. Or he doesn’t so much as catch her as fall with her, twisting to take the brunt of the impact. They end up in a reckless sprawl of limbs, both cursing.

“Shit,” Syd says. “Ow. Are you okay?”

When Matts answers, she can feel his mouth against her ear, feel him groan, just a little, as he shifts underneath her to sit up. “Yeah, I’m good. Are you?”

She has no idea. All Sydney knows is that her palms are pressed to his chest, and her face is smashed into his neck, and she can’t complain. It’s nice real estate. She would happily live and die right here.

Matts manages to push them up into a more conventional seated position and laughs, shoving hair out of her face. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

For a second, her fingers curl tighter into his shirt before she forces herself to let go.

“A-okay, right as rain,” Sydney says, which is not something she has ever said in her life. “Nice save.” She pats his pecs, then stops immediately. That’s not the thing to do if she’s trying to regain normal brain function.

Matts’s hands are still in her hair. She should tell him it’s a lost cause between the sweat and the humidity, but if he’s touching her, she’s not going to give him an excuse to stop. And the way he’s grinning at her is— Sydney typically rolls her eyes when romance novels describe smiles as “devastating,” but— That shit is pretty devastating.

“Friendly reminder that there are other people in the room,” Devo says blandly.

Matts withdraws his hands.

Sydney considers fratricide. “Sorry.” She tucks her toes to stand, and Matts follows her, collecting her abused phone on the way to his feet.

“Not broken,” he says, like it’s a personal triumph.

When Matts passes it back to her, Sydney’s middle fingertips touch his last two knuckles, and they both pause, looking down at their hands. She’s stuck, for a moment, following the natural path of his wrist with a pretty set of bracelets to the subtle map of veins that climb up his tanned forearm, to the thin, clinging T-shirt stretched around his bicep. If the shirt is meant to highlight his frankly ridiculous shoulder-to-waist ratio, it is assuredly serving its purpose.

“Hey,” Matts says, releasing the phone only to reach for her face. “You’ve got— Can I?”

She makes a noise that is meant to be a yes, and he interprets it that way, cupping one hand behind her head to hold it steady while he uses his opposite thumb to wipe from the crest of her cheekbone up to the corner of her eye.

“The wing of your eyeliner is all smudged on this side,” Matts says, ducking to bring his face closer to hers. “You’ve got a raccoon thing going on.”

“How do you know it’s called a wing?” Syd asks, which isn’t scintillating dialogue, but her managing a cohesive sentence when he’s bent over, face inches from hers, lip tucked between his teeth in concentration, is encouraging.

“Eli,” he says as if it should be obvious, and yeah, maybe it should be.

Matts uses the edge of his thumb to wipe along her waterline, looking pleased with himself.

“There,” he says quietly, “better.”

He doesn’t move away.

“Are you seeing this shit?” Rex mutters quietly from the couch.

“Unfortunately,” Devo answers.

Sky hushes them.

It’s enough to break them apart, Matts looking sheepish, Sydney hoping the low light is enough to camouflage the flush creeping up her neck.

When they join Rex and Sky on the couch, Sydney leaves a calculated amount of space between them, but Matts braces his hand on the cushion beside her, overlapping their pinkies. It’s somehow even more fraught than when she was sitting in his lap.

Rex and Sky pick up right where they left off, breaking down the highs and lows of their performance, and Sydney tries to breathe normally and figure out what the hell is happening to her.

She has had actual sex before.

She has touched people carnally .

She should not be having an existential crisis over their pinkies touching.

She’s having an existential crisis over their pinkies touching.

“That kid at the end has bragging rights for life now,” Rex is saying, and Sydney forces herself to focus on the conversation. “Imagine if your first kiss was a rock star on stage at a show.”

“If only,” Sydney says breezily, looking at Sky.

“Watch yourself,” Sky mutters.

Matts’s face has gone weirdly placid, probably because he has no idea what they’re talking about.

“My first kiss was Sky,” Sydney explains, “when she was decidedly not a rock star.”

“And Sky’s first kiss was me,” Rex says. “Also, pre-rock star.” He leans over Sydney’s lap so he can speak directly to Matts, lowering his voice as though they’re sharing a secret. “We didn’t have a lot of options, considering our social status at school.”

“Who was your first kiss?” Matts asks Rex.

“No,” Devo says from where he’s leaning against a wall. “Subject change.”

Rex makes a kissing face at him. “Darling, was it not memorable?”

Matts glances between them. “It was Devo ?”

“Come back with a warrant,” Devo says.

“Huh,” Matts says, “I didn’t know you were—”

“I’m not,” Devo mutters, aggrieved. “Which was very much confirmed when I very briefly kissed Rex.”

“To be fair,” Rex says, “I was kind of an asshole about it.”

“He was crying,” Devo says.

“I was not crying ,” Rex argues. “I was sixteen and emotional and simultaneously had seasonal allergies. And I thought if I was pitiful enough, my best friend’s hot older brother might kiss me. And I was right, so…”

Sydney’s phone lights up on her thigh, and she frowns at the notification that Devo has airdropped her—

Another photo.

In the photo, Sydney sits in Matts’s lap, knees bracketing his hips, fingers splayed, bright with rings, on his chest. One of Matts’s hands is on her lower back, the other has a handful of curls that he’s trying to tuck behind her ear. He’s grinning at her as she looks at him with enough naked affection to have her immediately angle the phone screen away from Matts’s view. If he didn’t notice while it was happening, she sure as hell doesn’t want him to be aware now.

Fuck.

Fuck.

She needs to get her shit together.

*

SYDNEY ISN’T PARTICULARLY proficient at getting her shit together.

She manages to be normal when talking to Matts—or as normal as she gets—for the next few weeks, through five more shows with Killer Sunday. But even if Sydney manages to sound unaffected in texts and FaceTime calls, she is, in actuality, pretty damn affected by Justin Fucking Matthews.

A significant part of the problem is that when she tries to pull back, to keep her responses short and limit the time she’ll talk to him when she’s most unguarded—in those drowsy midnight post-concert come-down hours—he doesn’t let her. Oh, she has no doubt that if she told him to leave her alone, he would, but she doesn’t want to do that because she doesn’t want him to leave her alone. She just wants— Sydney doesn’t know what she wants. No, that’s not true. She wants him . And perhaps an even more significant part of the problem is that she’s starting to think having him is a possibility. Because she knows she’s not completely unfortunate-looking. Her DMs are full of prospective suitors. And sure, most of that attention isn’t really for her; it’s because she’s quasi-famous. But all the earnest compliments, the inside jokes, the quiet attentiveness, paired with his now- constant presence in her life, makes Sydney think Matts might be interested in something more than friendship. Maybe even something more than a one-night stand.

Either Sydney has to lean into that potential or lean away, and leaning away isn’t working. Leaning in, however, is terrifying.

“So,” she announces to Sky and Rex the first night they’re back at the ranch for their break. “I’m considering wooing Justin Matthews. Thoughts?”

Sky, sitting at her drum kit, chokes briefly on the water she’s drinking, then bends to use her shirt to clean up the mess she’s made on the snare.

“I like him. I thought you were just going to be friends with him though,” Rex says, picking idly at his guitar.

“That was the initial goal, yes. But that’s been achieved now, and I’m considering…adjusting the plan.”

“You realize romance isn’t part of the standard linear progression of a friendship, right?” Rex says.

“Obviously.” Sydney gestures between them. “But it’s not an atypical outcome either. And I like him. A lot.”

“I won’t lie and say I don’t think you have a chance,” Rex murmurs, eyes on his hands. “But do you really want one? You’ve seen the shit Eli has to deal with. The hockey world isn’t going to be kind to you.”

“The actual world isn’t kind to me,” she argues.

“Fair enough.”

“I think you should go for it,” Sky says.

“I think I might,” Sydney agrees.

Rex sighs. “At the very least, you’re cranking out some killer lyrics with all the pining, right now. Do you think love or heartbreak would generate more content?”

Sky tosses Sydney the water bottle, and she catches it with one hand, the other still wrapped around the neck of her guitar.

“I don’t know,” she says. “I guess we’ll find out.”

*

SYDNEY INVITES MATTS , along with the rest of the Hell Hounds and their significant others, to the annual Warren Easter cookout. The band is back for a two-week break between their last show with Killer Sunday and their first show as the headliner for a six-city stretch. The Saturday of the Easter cookout is right in the middle of the Hounds’s three-day break, and by 4:00 p.m., there are close to fifty people on the property, children included, as well as a handful of dogs. But no Matts.

Sydney keeps finding excuses to go inside so she can squint down the hall through the glass door to the front yard. She knows she’s being ridiculous, but he’d said he would be there at three, and, as far as she knows, he’s not the kind of person to be late.

“Probably family stuff,” Eli says. “Don’t start worrying until he misses dinner.”

Sydney spends some time petting Hawk to console herself before Hawk is enticed away by Boogie and some sort of corgi-demon mix that belongs to their neighbor.

She’s brushing dog hair off her jeans, considering sneaking inside one last time before joining the others, when a hand touches her shoulder.

“Hey, sorry I’m late.”

Matts is wearing aviator sunglasses and a denim jacket over his white T-shirt and work pants. His boots are the same familiar scuffed brown ones he wore to the last cookout. His hair is—well, there’s no denying it’s some species in the mullet genus now. Or maybe if a mullet and a mohawk had a very confused baby. His hair is clipped shorter on the sides of his head around his ears, but it’s longer, thick and wavy, down the center of his skull, with half-formed curls falling into his eyes and over the collar of his jacket.

He might be the only person in the world who can pull it off.

She might also be biased.

Sydney’s trying to decide if the agony of hugging him is a good idea when he makes the decision for her.

It’s possible he smells even better than he did the last time she saw him in LA.

“Well,” Sydney says. “You have perfect timing.” She steps back, only to grab his sleeve so she can pull him toward the group of people congregating at the back gate.

“Oh? Why?”

“You’re in for a treat, Matthews. It’s Power Wheels NASCAR time.”

He lets her drag him down the slope of the lawn past the pool. “What’s Power Wheels NASCAR?”

“You know, I bet you can figure it out from the name.”

“Are there…children racing little cars?” he asks.

“Better. There are adults racing little cars. A glorious spectacle to behold, truly.”

“Are you counting yourself in that adult category?”

“I am, smartass. You want in, or are you just watching?”

“I feel like participating might violate the part in my contract where I promise not to do activities that could potentially put my health in jeopardy.”

“Excellent point. Spectating only for Lord Matthews, lest he injure his royal heinie.”

“Hey. Tailbone injuries are nothing to joke about,” Matts says, trying and mostly failing to smother a laugh.

“You’re right,” she agrees somberly. “It’s just so easy to make them…the butt of a joke.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Her dad has mowed a track in the front pasture and marked the turns with orange spray-painted stakes. The vehicles are collected at the starting line, which is also spray-painted orange.

“What happens if a cow is in the way?” Matts asks, eyeing the herd that has started to amble forward, curious, in the distance.

“Obstacles,” she says. “Part of the fun. You want to come check out my ride? It probably won’t win, but I haven’t had as much time to work on it this year.”

Sydney leads him to her car, a bubblegum-pink Barbie Jeep plastered in band stickers with a Bluetooth speaker zip-tied to the back roll bar.

“You do this every year?” he asks.

“This is the eighth in a row. First year, we used stock kids’ cars. Second year, Devo modded his without telling anyone and cleaned house. After that, we made the rules.”

“Which are?”

“Helmets for everyone on the course, no drivers under the age of fourteen, no mods that go faster than twenty miles per hour. Any make or model is allowed, provided it isn’t a motorcycle or four-wheeler. And your engine or battery of choice must fit within the original blueprint of the vehicle.”

Sydney pops up the plastic seat and gestures for him to inspect the interior compartment with a bow. “My liege.”

Matts leans over, hands on his knees, and lets out a startled laugh. “Are those Milwaukee drill batteries?”

“Yep. Two M18 lithiums.”

“What comes standard in these things?”

“Twelve volts.”

“Jesus. Do you just…immediately wheely?”

“Nah, not as long as I’m leaning forward. I’ve added extra weight to the front too.”

Matts straightens, looking at the line of little plastic cars as the racers approach their vehicles.

“Are everyone’s like this?”

“More or less. Devo and Sky have DeWalt’s in theirs, and my mom rigged up an old gas lawn mower engine. She fudged the rules by using a truck as her base car, but technically, the engine does fit in the back of it. She’ll probably smoke us all.” Sydney points to the tiny Ford Raptor a few feet away. It’s decorated with flower decals. “And then we have a couple extras for people that want to join who didn’t bring a car.”

He runs a hand through his hair, watching as Sydney’s mom pulls the cord to start the engine on the Raptor. “Is this even legal?”

“We’re sure as hell not going to ask,” Devo says, sliding by them to get to his green Lamborghini. Alex, Eli, and Hawk approach with him, and Alex appears similarly baffled. Eli, who attended the year before, looks delighted.

“No cops at Pride, and no cops at Power Wheels NASCAR,” Eli says.

“Why?” Alex asks.

Sydney opens her visor to answer, but Matts beats her to it.

“Well NASCAR was basically born from a direct competition with police.”

Sydney gestures for him to continue.

“I mean,” Matts says, “NASCAR only exists because there were a whole bunch of moonshiners during prohibition who needed to outrun cops. So, they started souping up shitty old trucks that didn’t look like much, but then could—”

He makes a shoom noise, driving his hand, palm flat, fingers pointed, toward Alex. “And because humans are incapable of doing something without making it a competition, moonshiners started having races to prove who made the best cars for outrunning cops. And then those turned into bigger and bigger events that eventually turned into NASCAR. So, it was born from country folks turning their beaters into the best possible smuggling vehicles to say ‘fuck you’ to the police.”

“Exactly,” Sydney agrees.

“Thank you, Wikipedia,” Alex says.

Matts sketches out a bow that looks very similar to the one Sydney gave him a few minutes before.

“Racers, to the starting line!” Sydney’s dad calls through a megaphone.

The group ambling down the hillside splits into two. Half of them converge upon the cars, the other half claim spectating positions.

“Well, Lord Matthews,” Sydney says, “this is where we part.”

He closes her visor for her, knocking two knuckles to the top of her helmet. “Be safe.”

“Alas,” she says, snapping the seat back into place so she can climb into the Jeep. “I make no such promises, for the arena is unforgiving and fraught with peril.”

“Fraught with cows maybe. Wait, hold on.” Matts slips off one of his bracelets—the jade one—and goes down on one knee to pull her hand off the steering wheel and slide the bracelet onto her wrist. He’s gentle when he adjusts the leather closure cords.

“There,” Matts says, quiet and private and too serious for the previous timbre of the conversation. “A token for my knight.”

“I’m honored.”

She’s still caught on that “my.” My knight. My. Possessive.

“All spectators to your seats!” Sydney’s dad calls.

Matts takes a step back. Then another. “Good luck.”

Sydney reaches down to wrap her fingers around the steering wheel, and the bracelet slips to settle like a too-big cuff over the tendons in the back of her hand.

She is suddenly much more invested in winning.

Sydney glances over at the line of cars to her left as her dad brings the megaphone back up to his mouth.

Devo is similarly hunched in a cannonball position. Rex, too tall to fit both legs inside the vehicle, has one knee bent over the door, toes up, heel an inch from the ground.

Her mother is looking right at Sydney with an expression that says they will be talking later.

“On your marks!” her dad says.

Sydney leans forward over the tiny windscreen.

“Get set.”

She tucks her elbows between her knees and touches her boot to the gas pedal.

“Go!”

She’s first off the starting line.