29. Brayden

Chapter twenty-nine

Brayden

T he rush of victory and Mr. Stiles's unexpected presence linger as I step into the shower, water cascading over my skin. His lips, soft, insistent—haunt me, igniting a fire within. How can someone be so flawless? I used to believe winning was the peak of my happiness, but now I know better. It's him—the way he looks at me, the way he makes my heart race. I scrub myself clean, making sure I use plenty of soap and kicking myself for not bringing my aftershave with me. Once I'm out of the shower, I grab my phone and find a message from Kal and Tray in the group chat?

Kal:

Have you finished talking to Bex?

Tray:

I got beers, we're ordering pizza, do you want your weird BBQ base, chicken and pineapple pizza?

It's not weird but OK. I don't know what excuse I can say to them, so I do what I do best and ignore them. Getting changed quickly; I pull on my baseball cap, but not before brushing my hair back.

Kal and Tray took my hockey gear with them when they left, so I grab my phone, placing it in my pockets of my gray sweatpants and leave the locker room. Anticipation seeps through my body with every step I take out of the stadium. Knowing I'm finally going to spend time with Mr. Stiles fills me with excitement. Maybe I can finally get to know him more. Ask him questions, dig deep into his life. I know nothing about him, only what I see on his Instagram.

Once I leave the stadium, I turn left and walk toward Walmart, pulling my cap down tight. My hotel is right next to this stadium, and I can't risk Kal and Tray seeing me. As I approach Walmart, I see a blacked out chevy parked up which sticks out like a sore thumb. Why do I have this feeling this is Mr. Stiles' car. I pull my phone out and there is already a text from Mr. Stiles.

Sir:

I'm here. Black Chevy.

I smirk because I just knew it. I walk up to the Chevy, open the door, and I swear every time I see him; he takes my breath away. I get in the car and those damn butterflies start up again when his scent wraps around me.

"Hey," he says, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he leans over, brushing his lips against mine, his voice low and intimate. His fingers trail along the edge of my jaw, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake.

"Hey," I reply, my cheeks flushing. Who the fuck is this person that keeps blushing? It's pissing me off. I've faced opponents on the ice, brought them down to their fucking knees, but this man has the power to turn me into a blushing mess.

As we drive, Mr. Stiles talks about my game today. His enthusiasm is contagious. He describes my plays, the precision of my passes, the agility in my footwork, as if he's analyzing a masterpiece. And I soak it all in, hungry for his praise. It's different from the locker room banter, the high-fives from teammates. This is validation from someone who matters, someone I want to impress. The cityscape blurs outside the window, and I realize we're leaving the familiar streets behind.

"Where are we going?"

Mr. Stiles smirks, his eyes dancing with mischief. "Wait and see," he replies.

His hand rests on the gearshift, fingers tapping a rhythm only he knows. The tension in the car is palpable, a magnetic pull that draws me closer. He's shed his sweater, revealing a short-sleeve sweatshirt that clings to his arms. One hand casually drapes over the top of the wheel, the other bent, elbow resting on the car door. His profile is a study in contrasts—the strong jawline softened by the curve of his lips, the intensity in his eyes tempered by a hint of vulnerability. The urge to leap onto him and devour him while he drives—it's primal, raw. I fidget in my seat, the ache and want for him twisting inside me. This hunger, it's not normal. My body rebels when I can't touch him, making me feel needy—a sensation I've always despised. Needy isn't in my vocabulary; it never has been. But he changes everything. Mr. Stiles—his presence ignites unfamiliar feelings, pushes me beyond my boundaries. I huff, gaze fixed on the passing landscape. His car veers onto a dirt track, and I raise an eyebrow, glancing sideways.

"Should I be worried?" I ask, half-teasing.

His smirk is wicked. "Scared that I'm taking you to have my way with you up in some mountains?"

"I could think of worse things," I reply, my pulse quickening.

We climb, trees crowding the path until suddenly, it opens up. Mr. Stiles eases the car to a stop, reversing it to the edge of a cliff. I step out, and awe washes over me—it's breathtaking.

"What is this place?" I ask, staring across Chicago as the sun dips, casting a warm glow. The city lights twinkle, painting a canvas of the city's beauty.

"I call it the viewpoint," he says, his voice distant, lost in memory. "I'm not from Chicago. I'm from Baltimore, but my brother and I used to come here sometimes. He found it in his college days." I love that already. I'm catching glimpses of him.

"Let's stay here for a couple of hours," he says, leading me toward the back of his car. With a precise motion, he unlatches the trunk, revealing blankets and a picnic basket.

"You didn't," I tease, biting my lip to suppress a laugh.

"Is it cheesy?" His wince is cute as he rubs the back of his neck.

"Kinda, but cute," I reply, walking closer to him. Standing face-to-face, I suddenly feel unsure—how do I act with him? Can I kiss him? His gaze locks onto my lips, and he leans in, brushing them with a tender kiss. I want to pout like a spoiled schoolgirl when he pulls away; I can't get enough of him.

"After you." he smirks, gesturing for me to climb onto the back of his truck. I laugh, throwing my head back, and jump up, settling down, overlooking the city. It's breathtaking up here. Mr. Stiles joins me, moving with a swift accuracy that somehow makes him even more attractive.

He opens the picnic basket, and my eyes zero in on the candy. "Candy?" I ask, my grin threatening to burst out.

His lips twitch. "Something tells me you have a sweet tooth. You didn't finish your shake the other day—that was my fault—so I thought I'd make it up to you." The memory of him mentioning a date, and my stomach sinking, floods back. And in Mr. Stiles's eyes, I see echoes of that moment, a shared vulnerability.

"Plus," he says, as if unveiling a secret, "you have candy in almost every other Instagram photo."

"So, you do watch me?" I grin, our eyes locking in a silent conversation that goes beyond words.

"All the time," he confesses, his tone casual yet loaded with meaning. "I like watching you." My heart stumbles, caught off guard by the simplicity of his words. He likes watching me. The thought sends a rush of warmth through my veins. His gaze shifts, tracing the city lights ahead.

"You create a weird calm in my chaos," he continues, voice low. "To everyone else, you're a quake—a force to be reckoned with. But to me, you're my calm amid the storm."

The butterflies in my stomach take flight, their wings brushing against my ribs. No one has ever made me feel this way—valued, wanted. Happiness blooms inside me like a secret garden I never knew existed. "I don't like it when you don't post," he admits, shaking his head. "Everything gets too loud when I can't see if you're OK, what you're doing." His vulnerability hangs in the air, a fragile bridge between us.

"Sorry." He chuckles, self-deprecating. "I definitely sound like a weirdo who's lures you up into the mountains now."

But I'm already falling, tumbling headlong into something I can't name. "I like you watching me," I confess, heat rising in my cheeks. I've always been the one who leaves guys flustered, but when did the tables turn?

"Some of my posts are for you," I reveal, digging through the picnic basket. Sandwiches nestle in a container at the bottom. This—this is an actual picnic, and I'm giggling and squealing like a girl inside. No one has ever done anything so thoughtful for me.

"Was that the mirror one the other day?" Air gets lodged in my throat as I lift my gaze to meet his. His eyes, dark and intense, lock onto mine.

"What mirror one?" I tease, my lips curving into a knowing smile. I remember the photo, the one meant only for him. He pulls out his phone, revealing the screen and there I am, captured in that stolen moment. "You took a screenshot of it?" My shock is genuine; I hadn't expected him to keep it. His gaze remains fixed on the image, hunger clear in his expression.

"How could I not?" His voice low and gravelly. "Look at you." And suddenly the picnic, the candy, the sandwiches, all fade away. There's only him and the magnetic pull between us. I lean in, my body moving on its own accord, and our lips collide.

He's so fucking addicting. All I want to do is kiss him all day. I lean up, and he stretches his neck to keep his lips locked with mine as I swing my leg over and firmly sit in his lap. I can't say I've ever sat on a man before, but it feels right. I ache to feel his skin against mine, to be so close that there's no space left for air. My fingers trace the curves of his face, threading through his hair, pulling him impossibly nearer. Our lips hungry and desperate, as if we've been starved for each other. Our tongues dance, a wild rhythm of longing, and I lose myself in the taste of him—intoxicating, addictive. I grind myself down on Mr. Stiles's already hard dick, and he moans into my mouth. Mr. Stiles pulls back as he constantly fucking does.

"We have to stop," he grits out with his eyes closed, and his nostrils flared. He's teetering on an edge, and I'm ready to push him off.

"Why?" I moan, grinding myself into him harder as I kiss down his jaw. I want to fit his swollen dick in my hands, in my mouth, in my . . . Shit. I've never bottomed in my life, so why all of a sudden do I get a feeling as if I will die if I don't get fucked by Mr. Stiles?

"Bray." Mr. Stiles grips my hips making it harder to move, and I stop kissing down his neck and meet his eyes. His hooded and hazy eyes stare back at me, but he winces.

"I'm not doing anything with you here. And if you keep grinding yourself on me the way you are, my tiny bit of resolve hanging on by a thread will snap."

"I'll cut it for you, no problem," I rasp.

His laughter dances across my lips, a gentle kiss that leaves me breathless. His touch, a silent command, urges me to move. Awkwardly, I untangle myself and return to my seat. Shame swirls within me, threatening to consume me from the inside out. Mr. Stiles's fingers find my jaw, lifting my gaze to meet his intense eyes.

"Look at me," he demands, his tone sharp. I comply, but my eyes remain downcast, unable to meet his intensity. "Brayden," he snaps, and my heart races. "I ache for you, my hands on your skin, your touch on me. It's consumed my thoughts for weeks." His confession hangs in the air, raw and desperate. "More than you'll ever know." His soft eyes hold mine, a silent promise.

"You mean more to me than fooling around in the back of my truck, exposed to the world. I already lost control in those locker rooms—it won't happen again." My pout betrays my frustration. "After group next Saturday, if you're still interested, I'd like you to come over. I'll cook us dinner."

"Me come to yours?" I ask, taken aback. Mr. Stiles reclines to his original position.

"Yeah. Why not?" His nonchalant shrug sends a shy thrill through me, and I nod, a smile lighting up my face. When I look at him, it's as if the world, previously dull, suddenly gains color. Mr. Stiles stands out, a vibrant color in this otherwise bleak existence. I can't make out what that means, but when he's near, the voices in my head hush, and the demon's retreat.

A sudden flash startles me, and I blink rapidly, caught off guard.

"What the fuck was that?" I frown. Mr. Stiles turns his phone, revealing a picture of me, smiling, teeth on display, staring directly at him. In that frozen moment, I appear happy, content, someone in love.

Fuck.

Shit.

No.

No way.

My gaze shifts from the screen to Mr. Stiles, who studies the image as if it's the best piece of art he has seen. "This," he says, voice low, "is my favorite version of you. So fucking beautiful Brayden, and those eyes . . . "

He trails off, a soft laugh escaping. His finger traces his own lips. "The way you look at me with those endless blue swirls—it's become my addiction. I can't imagine a day without it." His head tilts, eyes locking onto mine and then he studies the picture again. "Now I get to see it every day."

My heart races, and I'm suspended in a cloud of happiness, weightless and dizzy with possibility.

Shit.

I'm so fucked.

"Eat," he smirks, closing his phone. I unwrap the sandwiches and laugh.

"Peanut butter and jelly? Am I five?" I tease.

"I don't care how old you are. Peanut butter and jelly will never not be the best sandwich filling there is." he states confidently.

"You stand correct," I reply, taking a bite. The flavors explode in my mouth. "God, these are good. How have you kept them so fresh?"

"I had a cooler. Took them out when I picked up the car," he explains, biting into his own sandwich.

You really went all out just to see me, didn't you?" The city lights twinkle in his eyes as he focuses on me.

"You're worth it." His words hang in the air, and I try to swallow the goofy grin threatening to escape. To distract myself, I take a massive bite of my sandwich and then rummage through the rest of the picnic to see what else I can distract my racing heart with.

"Tell me something about yourself," I say to Mr. Stiles.

We've devoured the picnic and now sit in the back of the truck, surrounded by darkness. The only light comes from the scattered city lights ahead. Mr. Stiles opens up a blanket, draping it over us. When he rests his arm on my shoulder, I feel myself melt into a puddle, my face nestled against his chest. It's the calmest I've felt since childhood—back when Bex would cuddle me in bed, shielding me from the world. In those moments, I was the safest person on the planet. Bex created tales of an invisible shield around us, protecting us from everything. I'm back to being protected by that invisible shield.

"There's nothing interesting about me," Mr. Stiles replies, his heartbeat a lullaby that makes me drowsy. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything," I whisper. Then a memory surfaces. "Who's Jace?"

His chest stills, freezing the surrounding air. I lean up, meeting Mr. Stiles's gaze. His eyes remain fixed on the city lights, their colors like shards of glass.

"My nephew," he finally says. "One of the best people ever to grace this planet." He smiles, taking a sip of water. "He was special."

Was?

"Mr. Stiles, I—"

"You can call me Boh, or Bohdi when it's only us," he interrupts gently. "You don't have to apologize for my loss or say the usual things people do. I can't talk about it right now, but he's gone, and no matter how much I wish otherwise, I can't bring him back. But one thing I believe." He pauses, running his fingers along my jaw.

"He brought me to you." He takes my hand, linking our fingers, and gazes down at our tangled hands. "I truly believe that."