3. 3

3

Robbie McGuire

My phone buzzes in my hand. A message pops up on my family group chat. Another one.

Mom: It’s not that bad, honey.

Beth: It is.

Mom: It really isn’t.

Mom: Dad says don’t sweat it. Everyone will forget about it by the next news cycle.

Beth: Do you want me to come down there and kick Decker’s ass?

Beth: Let me know, bro, ‘cause I have some free time tomorrow. I can pencil it in.

Given that I haven’t sent my mom or sister a copy of the photograph or so much as mentioned it to them, yet they’ve felt it necessary to message me four times about it, it’s exactly that bad, and then some. The photograph is everywhere. Online. On TV. Two of my friends forwarded the article to me within thirty minutes of it being posted.

At this rate, I’ll be a meme before the day is over.

I click on the photograph and close my eyes, trying, yet again, to convince myself it isn’t as bad as I think it is. When I open them again, the image fills my screen. Decker looks relaxed and happy. Fresh. He looks like the kind of guy that smells good. The kind of guy you know is in the room just by inhaling. He’s looking directly at the camera. His hair is short and well-cut. It’s still wet. His facial hair is dark and a little unruly. There’s a tiny hint of enamel, a little sliver of white, peeking out through his beard. Even though his beard is thick, I can see the scar on his top lip. A deep gash that healed badly.

I was watching the game on TV when it happened. It was three or four years after we met at the Seattle Juniors hockey clinic. A three-week sleepaway camp that felt like a huge deal at the time. I was sixteen, and he was a year older at the time. Decker was probably already a giant dick back then, but I misread him because I’d never played against anyone like him before. Not even close. He was amazing. A missile. Terrifying and awe-inspiring. Big, even then. Not quite fully grown, but close. Close enough to dwarf everyone else.

The injury happened during his first pro season. I hadn’t made it yet, but watching him play made it feel like it wasn’t impossible, like it was just a matter of time before it happened to me too. He was playing for Chicago. A good team, though it wasn’t at its best that year. Still, it was a decent place to start out and make a name for yourself. They were playing the Tampa Blackeyes with less than five minutes left of the second period. Chicago was down by one. It was a tight match. A hard, physical game that looked set to come down to luck as much as skill.

I was on the edge of my seat the whole time.

Decker had left plenty of clues for me that he was an asshole by that time. It’s not that he hadn’t. I just hadn’t pieced them together yet. I guess I can be a little slow about things like that.

It was one of those plays that happened so fast I had to watch the slo-mo replay twice to unpack it. Decker was in their right circle, puck glued to his stick. He looked unstoppable, but their defense was shit-hot. Both of them hit him, a simultaneous one-two from the left and right that left all three players in a heap on the ice. Decker was irate, dangerously inflamed. He was the first to get up, pushing himself up before the other two had fully crumpled into their landing. As his weight shifted forward, a skate blade made contact. Hard and deep. The ice was instantly splattered with red.

There was so much blood that a stream of it ran through his fingers and down the back of his hands as he clamped them to his face.

He skated off without assistance, but the crowd was quiet. At home, on the sofa, my heart was in my throat.

A week later, he was back on the ice. Clean-shaven for the first time in a long while, with an angry, jagged scar across his top lip, the only evidence he isn’t completely invincible.

I toss my phone onto the sofa and firmly decide not to look at it again for the rest of the day. Instead, I head to the fridge, opening it and hoping against hope to find a lovely home-cooked meal ready to be heated up.

No luck.

Unsurprising, as I know damn well I ate the last meal my mom brought over for dinner last night.

Honestly, fuck this day and everything about it.

As I’m already here, I get an ice pack out of the freezer and hold it against my left cheek. My skin is warm, and I hiss from the cold, but thankfully, it doesn’t look as bad as it feels. There’s only a pink smudge across my cheekbone. If I’m lucky, it won’t bruise.

I don’t know how to explain what happened at practice today. It wasn’t me. I’ve literally never been in a fight other than throwing a few punches in the heat of a game in my entire life. And even then, I’m the one who breaks fights up, not starts them. I don’t know what came over me. One second, I was my usual self, and the next, I was something else. I felt…I don’t know. Alive isn’t the right word, but it was something close. Activated, maybe? Heightened? Everything around me slowed and all I could see was Decker’s asshole face. My blood pumped hard and my thoughts evaporated. One second, they were there, and the next, my mind went vacant. My limbs reacted, hands clenching, arms swinging, with no conscious decision from me. The only thing I was aware of was Decker.

Where he was.

Where I was.

And this deep, red-hot thing in my chest that I’ve never felt before. A kind of pull. A want. A craving.

Yeah, that’s what it was.

A craving. A craving for violence.

It was fucking weird .

I’ll tell you one thing for sure, it won’t be happening again. I’m a goddamn professional, not an asshole.

Okay, so it did happen again. But in my defense, it wasn’t my fault. We had an off-ice practice yesterday, hitting the gym for strength training and stretching. It went okay. I stayed on one side of the gym and Decker on the other. It wasn’t until we were on the way to the locker room that we made eye contact.

It happened so fast that I couldn’t tell you what went down even if I wanted to. A quick shove sent me into the wall behind me, followed by two hands on my jersey, lifting me onto my toes. Luddy pulled him off me quickly enough that Coach didn’t see anything. Thank fuck, because if he had, he would have seen a side to me I never knew existed. I hulked out. Bodie and Katz had to hold me back and sit with me for half an hour, patting me on the back and talking me down until I stopped making this strange, guttural sound when I breathed out.

I can’t explain it.

What happened tonight is worse though. Way worse. We’ve just played our first game of the season, a home game against the Denver Rockies, and it didn’t go well. The Rockies are a team we should have beaten easily, but we lost. Two-one, but still. We should’ve been up by at least a goal or two. On paper, we’re the better team by a linear mile. We should’ve beaten them and made it look easy, but we didn’t. We made it look like amateur hour.

Twenty minutes after the game, Decker is sitting at his stall in the locker room, ripping tape as he pulls his pads off his elbows and knees, a constant torrent of shit spewing out of his asshole mouth.

“Yo, McGuire,” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm, “thanks for the assist.”

I smile and nod and remind myself what my mom said about rising above it. She said to do it. The message was clear and simple. “Rise. Above. It.” Even an idiot could follow that.

“Nice one, bud,” he continues. “Way to keep possession of the puck, even if it means costing us the game.”

“I didn’t keep the fucking puck. I passed it to Luddy,” I snap.

“Uh-huh, and how’d that go? Hmm? He had two men on him. I was wide open.”

Do not dignify anything he has to say with a reply, I tell myself. You don’t need to. Just hit the showers and head home. A nice early night, that’s what you need.

That’s what I’m thinking. That’s what’s going through my mind when I feel myself lunge at him. My feet barely touch the ground. My fists clench, rage forming a hot, tight ball in my chest, propelling me forward. I swing blindly, my vision hazy and tinged with red. I land the first punch under his ribs. The second punch too. My fists crunch into muscle and bone. The impact is blunt and jarring. It rattles my brain, but I like it.

By the time I come out of my stupor, half the team is pinning me against my locker, the other half is holding Decker back, and Coach is screaming his ass off.

Coach leads the way as Decker and I are unceremoniously marched to his office. As we walk, Decker has the balls to look at me and mouth, “Not a word.”

Not a word?

Not a fucking word?

We’ll see about that.

So it turns out that not talking back to Coach Santos when he’s in this kind of mood isn’t the worst advice I’ve ever been given. I did interject a couple of times, and I think the best way to put it is that it was not well received. As a result, he’s been droning on for what feels like hours. He’s sweaty, nose and cheeks sporting an unhealthy sheen, and his hair is clinging to his forehead. Every now and then, he presses his fingers to his temples and says, “You are on the same team,” very, very slowly, as if he’s speaking to young children struggling to come to grips with a simple concept.

Every time it happens, I feel worse. He’s right. Of course he’s right. Fighting in games is one thing, but fighting a teammate is altogether different. For the past fifteen minutes or so, my cheeks have been burning. Reality is hitting hard. I’m so disappointed in myself that a pit has formed in my belly and I’m feeling a little shaky. Each time Coach looks at me, the pit sinks a little deeper.

The fourth time he says it, Decker says, “Yes, Coach!” so I do the same.

That seems to do it. Coach issues a strenuous warning about what will happen if we choose to go down this road again and shows us the door.

Decker and I walk to the locker rooms with me leading the way. His breathing is shallow and loud. Short, angry huffs that singe the back of my neck as I go. I keep my eyes straight ahead of me and take pains not to so much as look in his direction.

It’s over. It’s done. I’m done with his shit. I’m done with my own too. I’ve never been called into a coach’s office for a talking-to like that, and I’m not about to start now. I’ve only just gotten here. I’ve only played one game—badly. I haven’t proven myself yet. There’s no way I can get away with this kind of crap. Nor do I want to.

No.

It stops now.

I need to keep my head down and focus on what matters. Hockey, winning, and being part of a team. Not just any team, the Vipers.

I can’t believe I’ve been behaving like this. A couple of days ago, when I got here, I saw my reflection in the glass and literally could not believe I was wearing a Vipers practice jersey. I looked like someone I’d only ever fantasized about being. It was a dream come true, and now look at me, being almost as much of an asshole as Ant Decker. I need to get my head out of my ass in a very big way. It’s a privilege to be here, and I need to start acting like it.

By the time we get to the locker room, most of the rest of the team has already made tracks and the guys still here are in the final stages of getting dressed. Empty drink bottles are strewn all around and wet towels hang out of the big hamper near the shower.

Steam from the showers has wafted into the locker room, thickening the air and making it stagnant. The strangely not-totally-unpleasant smell of sweat and soap sears my nostrils when I inhale.

The shower has seen enough through traffic tonight that the mottled beige tiles are glossy and wet. Vapor has gathered and condensed, forming rivulets that run down the walls in tiny parallel lines. There are two rows of showerheads in the room, five on each side, with a hook and a shelf each for toiletries. I undress quickly, eager to get away from Decker as fast as I possibly can. He’s still getting out of his protective gear by the time I hang up my towel and flick the faucet on. I choose the spout farthest from the door and step back as I wait for the water to warm up. When it’s as hot as I can handle, I step in and almost groan from the instant relief the heat on sore muscles brings. Every year I go out of my way to maintain condition during the off-season, but no matter how fit you are, the first game of the season is still a shock to the system. My legs feel like lead, my hamstrings tight and making their objection to my treatment of them plainly known. I turn my back on the spout, letting the jet hit my back and run down my legs. I zone out for a second as the water does its work, only to be jolted back to the present by an unmistakable presence.

A cold, dark presence.

A tingling sensation at the base of my skull informs me I’m not alone. Decker is here. He hangs his towel beside mine and starts running the shower directly opposite me. He’s stark naked. I mean, of course, he’s naked. Everyone showers naked. That’s not my point. My point is…fuck. What’s my point again?

Right.

It’s Decker. He’s standing across from me, taking his time to arrange his toiletries just so on his shelf. His back is turned to me, and damn, he’s built like a tank. Thick, hard muscle knots under his skin, rippling with even the slightest movement of his arms.

He steps under the spout, facing me, and tilts his head back. Water cascades down his face. His lashes are wet. Dark and sticking together in a way that makes him look almost peaceful. Almost, not quite. It runs down his cheeks, down his neck, and pools in the hollows above his clavicles. His chest and abs are built, but that’s not the main thing giving me pause.

He’s inked.

On his back .

His traps and lats are almost completely covered in a huge, intricate piece.

For some hard-to-explain reason, it almost annoys me. Not annoys, just irks. Not even irks—I just didn’t know he had tats. That’s all. I haven’t seen him shirtless since we were teens, and I never imagined him having ink. Especially not so much ink. Especially not ink like this. Tasteful. Artistic. Dark. Lots of black. Lines and curves. Splashes of red. Roses. The splashes of red are roses. Old vintage roses that look like vines climbing his body.

Not that I’ve spent a lot of time imagining him shirtless. Fuck no. Definitely not.

He bows his head, letting water hit the back of his neck. His mouth drops open slightly and his lashes begin to part.

I spin around, taking a jet straight to the face and not caring at all. I grab my shampoo and slather it into my hair, digging my fingers across my scalp hard and fast to get it to sudd up. I don’t need a degree in psychology to know that Anthony Decker is not a man I want to catch me looking at him naked. The guy attacked me yesterday for making eye contact with him, for Christ’s sake.

Yeah, no. He would definitely be the opposite of cool about a misunderstanding like that.

Oooh .

Shit.

How the hell am I going to rinse my shampoo out without turning around again?

I have no choice but to brace with one hand on the wall and drop my head forward, letting that water hit my crown. Soapy water pours down my face and gets up my nose, but it seems like a small price to pay.

As the water runs clear, the hair on the back of my neck stands on end. I feel weird, tingly, like when Decker first walked into the shower, but worse. My front is hot from the water and a rash of goosebumps forms on my lower back. I feel warm. Hot. And cold. Hotter and colder than I should be in the shower. Warm on my front, like hot oil has been poured on my shoulders and is slowly tracking down my chest while cold creeps up the back of my legs. A chill runs up my spine. A hot-cold burn that feels like a block of ice is being traced over my skin.

An eerie feeling sets my marrow alight. A dark, menacing feeling. An inimitable, unmistakable feeling—a man’s eyes boring into me. It moves down my body, tracking slowly like a blunt fingernail on sensitized skin. Skin on skin. Hot, taut skin, slippery where two bodies meet.

Huh?

My heart rate spikes, a gentle doo-doof changing gear and speeding up.

Why am I reacting like this? Jesus, I’m losing the plot. I’m going insane. He’s not…like, Decker’s not checking me out, is he?

Is he?

If he is, I’d like to spin around and give him unadulterated hell. I’d like to face him, chin up, eyes wide open, and demand an explanation. I’d do it too. I’m well within my rights to do it.

There’s only one thing stopping me: those fucking tattoos. The roses. The one on his shoulder blade. The one near his spine. The one in the arch that leads to his…

Errant nerves send unsolicited signals. Arteries relax and open. Veins contract. Blood flows downward and becomes trapped.

Wait. What?

No!

I cup my hands under the water and let them fill. I splash my face in an attempt to recover.

Once.

Twice.

It does nothing to help.

I look down.

Oh fuck no! This cannot be happening.

I grab the faucet and turn it thirty degrees to cool the water temperature significantly.

The water was too hot. That’s what’s happened. It made me lightheaded. It’s been a long day. A long week. You know what? It’s been a long month. I’ve moved cities and states, not to mention teams. Most of my stuff is still boxed up, and even if you take Ant Decker out of the equation, it’s been a lot. I’m not myself. I’ve overheated and need to cool down.

That’s all.

Okay.

Okay, so it’s not working.

The water must still be too hot.

I turn the faucet all the way down, fighting the urge to squeal when icy water hits me right in the sternum. It’s a gut punch that reminds me to take a breath. I take three for good measure and pour a healthy dollop of soap onto my sponge, scrubbing myself as hard and fast as possible. I rinse off, steadfastly not turning to face Decker, choosing instead to perform an ungraceful, step-on-the-spot dance that ultimately leads to my body being soap-free.

My dick, admittedly an appendage known to have a mind of its own—but never, ever in a situation like this—is still half-hard. Pure panic courses through my veins every time I look down. I’m left with no choice but to adjust the angle of the shower nozzle and blast my balls with a shot of cold water.

That does it. I’m seeing tiny white spots in the periphery of my field of vision, but my dick, while still a little thicker and heavier than normal, has the decency to point down. Not wanting to invite any further disaster, I shut off the water and get the fuck out of there. No man has ever wrapped a towel around his waist faster. Or tighter. I suck my belly in hard as I tuck it in. It’s uncomfortable, but I think it’s wise. No sense in taking chances about this kind of thing.

“Hey, Princess,” says Decker. His voice is deep and scratchy, so low and gruff, my eardrums register each individual vibration, “you forgot your shit.”

I keep my gaze averted, head turned a little more than the situation warrants, and hotfoot it back to my spout and throw my toiletries into my bag without bothering to dry the shampoo bottle or wring out my sponge.

“Thanks,” I manage.

“You’re welcome.”

I’m not sure if it’s the normalcy of this part of the interaction or the fact that I can tell without looking that he’s smiling, but either way, something about how he says it makes me forget I’m trying not to make eye contact.

I’m right. Decker is smiling. His head is cocked, his chin raised as if to get a better vantage of me. A glittering black gaze takes me in and swallows me whole.

I’m frozen. Fire. Rooted to the spot, blinking and trying to remember how to swallow.

By the time I get to my car and slam my door shut, my hands are shaking so hard it takes me two attempts to start the ignition.

It’s not the ink that got to me. Not the roses or thorns. Not the swallow, the moon, the stars, or even the shocking realism of the serpent coiled up his spine that’s affected me like this. It’s the fact that, against my better judgment, before I left the shower, I looked down.

And Ant Decker was rock-hard.