9. Brayden

Chapter nine

Brayden

W hy does it seem as if my head is being smashed with a bat, and why is it unbearably hot?

Reluctantly, I open my eyes, only to shut them immediately. The sun shining into my room has me squinting and trying to roll over, only to be greeted by more warmth. What in the actual hell? A hard body lies between me and my wall. With a groan and a struggle, I finally free myself from my cramped single bed. I can't recall anything, especially how I ended up completely naked. My eyesight follows my clothes and someone else's from the door to my bed. I spin on my heels and look at the body in my bed. Lance lies on top of the covers, butt-naked also, catching flies. I glance over at the bed on the opposite wall and tucked up fast asleep is Cope. I really don't deserve him as a roomie. Not only is he one of my best teammates, but the unlucky fucker got saddled with me as a roomie. The number of mornings he had to wake up to not only my bare ass but someone else's would put you off asses for life.

I wince, hoping we weren't loud last night, not that Cope ever mentions it, but still. After everything yesterday, I think I'm being quite a jerk right now. I turn to my bed and lean down, gently shaking Lance.

"Mmmm," he mumbles, pushing his face further into the pillow.

"You gotta go," I hiss, trying to keep my voice down. I don't think I can face Cope this morning, not even for this, but how I acted yesterday. I know the only place that will help is the gym, and having Lance here is delaying that.

"I've got to go out. Get up and go." I sigh before grabbing some gym clothes and walking into the bathroom. I slouch myself against the door and let my head lull back. Closing my eyes, the disaster that happened yesterday replays over in my head. I was on top of the world on the ice. I was home. Then a few words and it was ruined. I always get told not only by Coach, but by Kal, ‘don't rise to it. Control your anger on the ice, Quake.' That's all I ever hear, and I try, I really do. But when it comes to my brother, that's the one person I can't hear bad about. They don't know what it was like growing up for us; they don't know the sacrifice he made for me. He is the way he is because of me. Images of plumbing Mackey's face come into a clear vision in my head. I don't even know where Bexley went after the game. I pull my phone out of the pocket of the pants I picked up and see I tried to call him last night. Thankfully, he didn't pick up. God knows what I would have said. I don't want him to know that the fight started over him. He pulls himself away from me too much as it is. If I tell him I potentially fucked up my future because someone bad mouthed him, he will pull even further away from me. Him being there yesterday was huge and I don't think he realized what it meant to me.

I scrub my hand down my face, trying to get rid of the destructive energy that fills me, and walk over to the sink. I splash water on my face, trying to wake myself up and brush my teeth. I'm praying for everything; Lance is gone by the time I'm out of this bathroom. He knows this dance; he knows that he always has to go in the end. He's a bit of fun. Someone I need when I need to let steam off.

I take more time than needed to be in the bathroom and stroll out. Cope is still fast asleep, thank God, and my bed is neatly made, and there is no longer a body lying there.

I slip my trainers on and grab a bottle of water before leaving. It's 9 a.m. on a Sunday, I can't imagine the gym is full. I make my way across campus, barely seeing anyone, thankfully. I need to sweat this sensation out of me. The sense that I let everyone down yesterday, followed by going out and getting wasted at a bar and not remembering anything, is quickly filling me with dread and anxiety.

No one likes not knowing what they did when they were drunk.

As I get closer to the doors, I break into a small sprint, eager to get inside the gym. As soon as those gym doors open and I see the open space empty, I let out a sigh of relief that I felt I have been holding in since I left my dorm. This is what I needed, no one to disrupt me and to sweat all this alcohol out of my system. I jump straight on the treadmill to get myself warmed up. Images of yesterday still filter through my brain even though I have music filling my ears, which normally always distracts me. Even with increased speed and pushing myself to the limit, nothing changes. As I step off the treadmill, anger consumes me, and I crave to unleash my fury on Mackey's face once more. I need to get this anger out of me. With the sweat running down my back, I strip my top off. I know Coach will kill me if he finds out, as well as Kal, but I need to get this out of my system and the only way to do that is the boxing unit. This is connected to the gym, but the coach is skeptical about us using it. He says not only are our legs precious, but our hands need to hold those sticks so we can't fuck them up. Even though I played a game and scored with a fractured wrist, the coach is strict about things such as this. Fuck it. As I open the door, I freeze in place. Right in front of me, there's a guy facing away, shirtless, and he's intensely going in on the bag. Like a continuous cycle, he holds onto anger and must release it with every connection to the bag. The exposed back is coated in sweat, creating a shimmering effect when the light hits it. Every punch causes his broad back to flex and his muscles to contract. My gaze follows the perfectly shaped ass embraced by tight shorts, revealing strong, muscular legs. My cock stirs in my shorts as my eyes meet the tattoos that run down both arms and across his upper back. His back is fucking beautiful. I can't imagine what his front loo—

There's no way.

Sweat drips down his face as his sapphire blue eyes, surrounded by darkness, fixate on mine.

"Brayden," Hearing my name spoken breathlessly by him catches me by surprise, causing an unexpected stir in my pants.

"Sir," I give him a tight-lipped smile and nod, turning on my heels and straight out of here. What the fuck was that reaction? How am I getting hard over my teacher? Fuck. I needed the outlet, but not with him around. I don't see why he can't back off, why he has to be one of those meddling teachers who think they can fix everything.

"Hey, wait up." I hear Mr. Stiles' voice reach my ears.

For fuck's sake.

I keep my head down and quicken my pace. The last thing I want to do is talk to anyone, but especially him, after yesterday and, uh, just now. It was only a reaction; I get them a lot. I don't need to freak out. I obviously didn't know it was him.

"Brayden," his urgent voice is now louder, right next to me. His fingers brush my arm, sending an electric jolt through my body. I instinctively step away and turn to face him. A deep frown mars his face, concern etched in every line. He stands a few inches taller than my 6-foot frame, but in this moment, he seems to tower over me, his presence overwhelming. It's as if he surrounds me, his intensity wrapping around me like a cloak.

"You good?" his eyes search mine, the frown still prominent on his face. I didn't realize how blue his eyes we—. Shit.

"Yeah," my voice comes out cracked. "I'm on my way out." I follow up while moving away and continue to walk toward the door. Mr. Stiles doesn't leave it there, though, as his fingers tap my arm once more.

"I'm finishing up if you wanted to go in there," I stupidly allow my gaze to connect with his again and hate the way my eyes track every drip of sweat that runs down his head. Fuck. Clearly, Lance wasn't enough last night.

"Na, you're good. I'm heading out." Confusion still mars his face as he gently nods, but before I can say anything else, the sound of my ringtone fills the awkward silence. I pull my phone out and see an unknown caller pop up. I frown as I answer the call and bring the phone to my ear.

"Hello?" I ask more than a question instead of a greeting.

"Uh, Brayden?" The person also sounds as if he's asking me a question.

"Yeah, who's this?" My eyes meet Mr. Stiles again, who stands there still staring at me. He's waiting for something, I nod my head at him as a gesture of goodbye because I cannot have his body this near me for a second longer. I begin to walk and then freeze.

"It's—never mind. You need to get back to your trailer. It's your brother—" The noise of an ambulance or cop car, the latter probably, blares through the phone.

"Shit. I'm on my way," before I can get a reply from whomever that was, my phone is already in my pocket and I'm pushing through the doors. My mom's trailer is at least twenty minutes in an Uber from here. I pull my phone back out, opening up the Uber app, and notice the phone shaking in my hand. My heart thumps in my chest. What the fuck has happened? Every dreadful thought goes through my mind. Is he hurt? Has he hurt someone?

"Why won't this fucking app load?" I shout in a panic at no one but myself.

"Brayden," as if forgetting about Mr. Stiles, my eyes swing up and he stares at me, panic laced in his eyes as they flit between mine. I swing my head back and forth as panic begins to settle in.

I need to get to my brother now.