Breakneck Hockey (Heartbreak Hockey #3)

8. My Alderchuck

Chapter 8

My Alderchuck

Sutter

I made the mistake of spying on Alderchuck through Rhett while Rhett was away camping with his new boyfriend Logan. What I heard only set my blood boiling. Alderchuck, pretending like he doesn’t give a shit about me when I know that’s not fucking true.

I was supposed to meet Rhett for a drink now that he’s back in town, but I ditched. Instead, he showed up at my apartment, threatening to bang the damn door down. He’s strong enough to do it. As much as I don’t give a fuck about threats from anyone, I felt less like going through the trouble of getting my damn door fixed than seeing his face, so I let him in.

He stepped over the pile of shoes at my door, and his Pradas landed on the sticky floor where I spilled something two nights ago. I’ve had the guys and gals over every night this past week. Some of them might still be scattered among the bedrooms, judging by that pile of shoes. And that’s where we’re at, Rhett analyzing me, trying to decipher my mental state.

My best friend is an imposing figure. A little taller than my six foot and four-inch frame, with wider shoulders. That’s a feat. I’m not a small guy by any measure, and I don’t meet guys who are bigger than me often.

He plucks a red pump from the pile. “Something I should know about you?”

I snatch the shoe from him and throw it at the floor. “I’m not fucking women. I’m not fucking anyone.”

Not from lack of trying. I did fool around with a couple of guys who showed up to the ragers the guys and I have been throwing, but I keep kicking them out of bed. They’re boring. Do everything I say. Try to impress me.

It made me miss Alderchuck’s mouthy ass. There’s gotta be another brat out there who can take my gruffness.

“Disgusting. What the hell’s going on here?” Rhett says.

“Having a little fun before I leave. You got a problem with that?” I leave in two days. Fuck, I don’t know why I’m still here. Training camp isn’t for another couple of weeks, in late September, but I booked a flight, choosing to get the fuck out of town earlier.

Maybe distance will douse the flames of my obsession with Alderchuck.

“I’m not your mother, but I am a concerned friend.”

His penetrating gaze rakes up and down. I’m shirtless, my hair’s tied back in a red bandana. I smell like I haven’t showered in five days, even though it’s been two max. Okay, maybe three. Meanwhile, Rhett looks like a million bucks. It’s a literal statement, but it shines through him.

“Love looks good on you, buddy,” I say. And I’m genuine. He deserves it after all that bullshit with Jack. Rhett was the first friend I made when I moved into the upper-class neighborhood with Mom. He already owned the school, and I needed in with him. I was pissed that Mom was making me go to some preppy private school. I can admit now that fourteen-year-old me was scared shitless. In the school I came from, the underdog got his ass beat.

I knew that from having been the underdog who worked his way to the top, so I could hand out beatings. I wasn’t fucking around when I got to the new school. It was easy to tell Rhett was king, so I walked up to him and asked who I had to beat the fuck out of to get a seat at the table.

He shook my hand, ever the businessman even at fourteen.

“No need for that,” he said. “You’re Francisco Domingo’s son, aren’t you?”

“Stepson,” I said.

Rhett shrugged. “Same thing. My father says it’s about who you know, and Francisco is a great man to know.”

We were fast friends after that. My stepdad’s name got me in the door with him, but Rhett appreciated my lust for adrenaline, and we bonded over hockey.

I was going through a lot of shit when I met Rhett, so he’s seen me go through it. I saw a therapist after what happened to my dad until I said all there was to say, and I wasn’t getting into trouble anymore. Well, much trouble. I’m still me after all.

That’s how you get me— adjusted enough .

Adjusted enough was the going psychological term when I was going through therapy. Adjusted enough to live a “normal” life, not completely free of the past, but free enough to prevent me from becoming a serial killer. Adjusted enough to keep my cool in most situations, except on the ice.

And when it comes to Casey Alderchuck.

I sift through the selection of bottles on the kitchen counter, swirling them, looking for signs of life. Rhett snatches the vodka out of my hand.

“Get dressed. You’re coming with me.”

I yank the bottle back. “Hair of the dog, or I’m gonna puke all over that nice fit you’re sportin’.” Taking a hefty swig breathes life into my veins as alcohol burns its way down my throat.

“Get your jacket. I’ll drive.”

Rhett’s phone buzzes more than three times on the way to wherever we’re going. Each time he checks it with a growing smile. “Logan,” he says, answering my unasked question.

“That’s a lot of texts. It’s giving Baby Reindeer.”

Rhett laughs. “He’s dying to know ‘the tea’ about you.”

That word has to have come from Logan. Rhett doesn’t use words like “tea” in that context.

“Then you might as well turn this car around. I’m not telling you shit if it’s just gonna get back to … people.” People is one people. Alderchuck. Alderchuck can fall off a cliff into a pit of vipers after the shit he pulled. It’s just like him to pull something like that. Backing me into a corner. Breaking our agreement before the flavor wore off. He’s a Goddamn liar.

“Logan’s trustworthy.”

“Don’t care.”

“Everyone knows anyway, Mitch. I swear to fucking God, that family works like a hive mind. If one person knows, they all know, and Casey’s been telling Jack and Logan everything.”

I scrub a hand over my face. It’s a damn soap opera. I hate fucking soap operas.

“What’s Alderchuck sayin’ about me?” No. That’s not me getting involved in the soap opera. I have a right to know what’s being said about me, so I can plan my attack.

Rhett keeps his eyes on the road. “Nothing good. What did you do to him?”

“What did I do to him? The question is ‘what did he do to me’? He gave me an ultimatum, which was shit. I don’t cater to the whims of brats. What the fuck was I supposed to do?”

“Lock his ass down. Or do you like hearing about him fucking other men?”

I punch the dash of his expensive car. Mother fucking ow . Man, what’s this thing made of? The only thing damaged is my hand. I shake it off.

“I don’t make stupid decisions, Rhett. Casey and I dating would be about as stupid a decision as I could make.” It would be what I call a dick decision—making a decision with my dick. Fucking him is fun. Dating him would be my worst nightmare.

“You really believe that, don’t you?”

“I know so. We only mesh in bed. We don’t get along in any conceivable way outside of bed.” Learned that on my first night with him. The best thing he did was turn down the coffee I tried to give him. All we do is fight. “He has a tattoo of a heart with poutine in the center. We’re not from the same species of human.”

Rhett’s golden luck strikes again, and he snags a parking spot on the street in front of The Coffee Shoppe, the place in town where everyone seems to want to get coffee, even though there are a gazillion other coffee joints in this city.

Walking in with a celebrity like Rhett is an experience. He waves like he’s the damn king, looking like he stepped off the cover of GQ. I look like I’m from every episode of Sons of Anarchy with the hangover to prove it. All I’m missing is the bike. I have one, but it’s one I don’t ride.

For some reason, people are staring at me too. I’m not as comfortable with the attention as Rhett is. I’m used to keeping to myself and my crew. Maybe the rumor mill will tell the internet that Rhett and I are an item after this. That’s all it takes to start shit and Rhett and Logan always seem to be involved in some kinda internet shitshow.

We grab coffee and my leather jacket creaks as I sit in a booth too small for guys like me. I’m a fucking sardine in this thing. Whatever. A quick coffee to get through this interrogation with Rhett and then I’m out of here. I have to be on a plane in two days, which leaves two more nights of boozing, and I’m gonna live it the fuck up.

“Your mother called me,” Rhett says.

“Fucksakes.”

“She couldn’t get a hold of you for a week.”

“Yet you’re the one barging into my apartment.” It’s not like she doesn’t have a key fob. She made me get her one. Not an uncommon thing for a mom to have, but our reasons are different than most. I’ve been fine for a long while now, but she worries about me. I haven’t gone off the deep end since I was in my teens, but it’s natural for her feelers to rise when I’ve gone radio silent.

“She didn’t know what she would find.”

“God. What did she think she would find?” Alright, so I didn’t think her concern would go that deep. My fucking bad. I shake my head and whip out my phone.

Me

Still alive, Ma

I also open the string of texts from my sister Isla. I was afraid to open them. I might be four times her size, but size means nothing when you’re up against a woman with Giancola blood. Giancola from my mother’s side but add that to some feisty Puerto Rican from Francisco and you get a feminine wildfire.

L’il Sis

I know you’re alive, but not for long when I get to you. Text our mother.

Oh, add some inclination to violence from Big Brother. Isla’s all of ten years old. If she keeps going like this, she’s destined for jail or running the country. Not sure which.

“I don’t know,” Rhett says. “Is there a reason you’re picking fights with a grizzly bear?”

He means that metaphorically, though, maybe a fight with a grizzly bear would get rid of the unmanageable tension that’s been living in my body. I’m like one of those pressure cooker things with no outlet. I’ll admit that this thing with Casey’s sending me to the precipice.

I’m always one bad day from an explosion, it’s my state of being, but since I wet my dick with fucking Alderchuck, my body’s constantly on fire. A series of continual explosions. I’m agitated for no reason. I’m thinking about things I haven’t in a long time. He’s dredged all the years of buried and fermented torment to the surface.

The only cure? Pounding Alderchuck’s ass. Yeah, my poison is my cure. How poetic.

I play with the rim of my coffee mug. Rhett knows me well, but he only knows parts of me. He’s never seen my shadow. But he’s a smart man and he knows I have one. Do I give him some insight to that?

“You remember what I told you about my dad?”

He nods, knowing I’m not referring to Francisco.

I take a deep breath. “I was … I-I was … fuck .” I take a swig of black coffee and let the bitterness sting my tongue. “I was there. Under the bed. Saw the whole thing.”

Red. Rust red. Sickening squelches of knuckles sinking too deep into flesh.

“Fuck, Mitchell.”

Rhett’s the only friend who gets to call me Mitchell without getting punched in the face. My full name makes me sound like I’m a junior accountant.

“That’s why all the therapy … when we could afford it, that is.” I run a rough hand through my hair, forgetting about the bandana I’m wearing, knocking it off, so I rip it off. “But therapy only gets you so far, the rest I had to put into this box. Not a real one, understand? Like a … like an imaginary one in my head.”

That’s where all the terror of that night lives, a monster trapped in a cage, pacing, waiting, dying to get out.

He nods, his face resembling stone.

“I’ve had a tight lid on that damn box since I was a teen.” Does it get rattled now and then? Sure, but the lid never, ever comes off, locked with more locks than I have on my doors. I rub a hand over my chest, where my heart is, wishing I could rip the damn thing out. “Fucking is just fucking, understand?”

I beg Rhett with my eyes to get what I’m saying, even though I’m not giving him much.

“There’s a fine line between fear and vulnerability,” he translates. “I have a new understanding of that these days. They live in the same place.”

“Yeah.”

“A real relationship requires a level of vulnerability you can’t give without ripping that lid off the box.”

“That. Exactly that.” I lean my head back. “I need some fucking nicotine.” Casey’s vape pen always had something candy-scented in it because he’s addicted to fucking sugar. He’s gonna end up with type II diabetes that way.

“Logan wants to go to The Foxy tonight. He wants to have an experience before he goes to college. Come with us,” Rhett says as if what I said wasn’t the equivalent of spilling my heart onto the table. I know what he’s up to. He wants to keep an eye on me.

“You’re going to take your man to a place where everyone will want to fuck him?”

“They can look all they want, but no touching.”

“You won’t last an hour.”

“Bet. Come watch the drama unfold. Casey will be there,” he says to combat the hesitation clear on my face.

“Which makes it a stupid idea. No.”

Rhett shrugs. “Suit yourself. But without you there, who’s gonna stop Doug Smith from touching his ass?”

My fingernails dig into the wooden bench. Now I’ll have to go, even if it’s just me creepily watching from some place of darkness in that disgusting bar, waiting to strike if anyone touches him. I meant what I said to Casey, I don’t want him—other than to fuck—but primal instincts have taken over. No one else gets to have him either. Not until I’m done with my fucked-up obsession.

“You can go to jail for inciting murder, Elkington.”

Rhett smirks. “Don’t be ridiculous. Elkingtons don’t go to jail.”

I took a long shower. I went to Mom and Dad’s so that Mom could ream me out while Dad pretended not to watch from his perch in his leather La-Z-Boy. Ream me out is mildly putting it. She chased me around with a slipper until she got a few good whacks in. But then she forgave me for being a shithead, and squeezed the life out of me. I deserved her ire. I know better than to ignore her after what we went through with my other dad.

Isla threw her fifty-pound body at me. I gripped her around the waist, lifting her, while she tried to beat my shoulder in.

“Okay, scrapper,” I said. “Save those fists for the game.” Isla likes watching me play hockey, but she’s a ballerina to her core.

“Wat’cha all dressed up for?” She sniffed. “Cologne too?”

I put on a nicer pair of jeans than I usually do and boots. Switched out the leather jacket for a stylishly torn jean jacket. Guess it’s dressed up for me.

“It’s just aftershave. Goin’ out.”

“With who?” she singsonged.

“No one.” Nothing makes you more defensive than a ten-year-old girl accusing you of liking someone. And I don’t know what possessed me, but I pulled out my phone to show her a picture of Casey—just one in my collection of many—passed out on my bed. His dumb shiny curls were all over the place. His lips were swollen from me kissing them so much. Why does a hockey player have eyelashes that long?

“No one, eh? No One is cute.”

“Hey, you’re not supposed to think boys are cute.”

“For you, dumbass. Cute for you. I’ll probably marry a girl—girls are smarter.”

A girl can still break her heart just the same. I don’t want to think about her dating anyone for a long time. “Can’t argue with you there, sweetheart.”

I park a few streets away from the nightclub I still can’t believe Rhett’s taking Logan to, and walk my ass the rest of the way with hands in my pockets. I’m not planning on drinking—for once. Seeing the family knocked some sense back into me, which I knew would happen, which is why I avoided them in the first place. I’m cutting back on the sauce for the upcoming hockey season.

Why am I bothering to go at all? If I have to pick one reason, it’s to keep men away from Alderchuck. How do I spin that into logic? I don’t. It isn’t logical. I can’t follow him around twenty-four-seven, but I can be here tonight.

If I get to pick two reasons I … well my protecting people complex seems to have kicked in for Alderchuck. He’s here to get drunk, I know it, and what if something happens to him?

And, okay, okay, if I get three reasons, I want to fuck him so damn bad. It’s been too long without my dick inside him. The burn for him alone; I might combust.

Rhett’s put me on the VIP list, so I don’t have to wait in line or pay cover. I recognize the crowd of likely suspects at a table in the back of the club. Logan’s on Rhett’s lap, still gorgeous, even with his face pinched like he’s been sucking on lemons. Jack’s got his arm around Coach Meyer, who has to have been forcibly dragged here. Neither Alderchuck’s here yet, but Dash and Dirk are leaning against each other in the booth. Their little found family is a bit too incestuous for my liking. Always with their hands all over Casey.

They scowl at me in sync. “Who invited him? Rhett,” Dash accuses.

Rhett smiles. “Guilty. You’re welcome.”

I don’t know what that means, but I don’t give a shit. Logan pats the seat next to him and Rhett.

“Get your ass over here. You’re my man’s bestie, that means we need to get to know each other … I think.”

“Shit, he must be wasted, Rhett,” Jack says. “Tryin’ to make friends? I can’t wait to tell him tomorrow.”

“I’m drunk, not unconscious, Jack,” Logan complains.

“We’ll see if that’s still true in twenty minutes.”

“You guys start at the house?” I ask.

“Lo wanted his favorite champagne. We ubered here,” Rhett explains, running hands through Logan’s hair.

“You took an Uber?”

“I know, right? Wanted to try it so I ‘talked’ him into it,” Logan says, stressing air quotes around the word talked. Talked means he sucked his cock, didn’t he? Oh, Elkington. You are so dick whipped, bro. “No one lets me do anything, but tonight we’re on an adventure.”

Jack’s laugh roars over the music. “Fuck, we need to film this for tomorrow.”

I grab myself a cranberry and soda and suffer Logan’s interrogation. Mostly questions about my friendship with Rhett that last all of a song, and then Logan’s favorite song comes on—or so he shouts loudly—and he drags Rhett onto the dancefloor. Rhett shrugs an apology at me, but I nod that it’s fine. I’m never gonna be that dick-whipped for someone, but I think they’re fucking adorable and shit.

“What the fuck are you doin’ here, Sutter?”

Tearing my eyes from the couple of the summer, I plant them on an infuriated Casey Alderchuck.

“Hey, kitten.” I down the rest of my drink and signal to the server for another one.

“Do I need to get a restraining order? Because I will. Stay away from me.”

I hold my hands up like I’m innocent, like he’s not the sole reason I came here tonight. It’s been almost a week without him. I just want a taste. Something to tide me over for the hockey season.

“I’m hangin’ with my bestie before training camp,” I lie. “Not everything’s about you.”

“Bestie? You don’t use that word, which means you’ve been talking to Logan. That fucking traitor. Elkington’s infested his mind. I’ll be at the bar drowning in tequila,” he informs his brother.

The other Alderchuck plants himself next to me at the table. They’re identical, but they’re two completely different people to me. Maybe if I only caught a quick glance across a room, but no, even in a crowded bar, I know the difference. Plus, my Alderchuck smells like watermelon Jolly Ranchers. This one smells like … I don’t know, but it’s the opposite of sweetness.

“He hates you,” Other Alderchuck says.

I laugh. “I know that.”

“Then you’ll keep to yourself?”

“Not a chance.”

His hands clench and he pauses to stare at me while he contemplates saying more. Something’s definitely there, on the tip of his brain, wanting to roll off his tongue. He bites his lip in half to keep his words to himself.

“You two are idiots,” he says, pushing away from the table. “But you’re also grown-ass men. I need alcohol.”

Not gonna lie, that gives me hope that I’ll score a little nookie with Casey before I leave town. Obviously, Other Alderchuck’s picked up on something other than hate from his brother or his response would have been different. I don’t need Casey to like me, he just needs to continue to crave my dick like he has been. Wonder if I can get his brother to talk once he’s knee-deep in tequila?

I keep to myself, the silent observer, drinking cran and soda after cran and soda, giving the impression that I’m drinking my face off. Casey stays away from me, but I don’t miss his gaze landing on me every so often. I make kissy lips at him. He scowls.

There’s a lot of dancing, but Casey knows what’s good for him because he doesn’t dance with anyone other than his friends, probably remembering what happened in the yoga studio.

That’s a good little Alderchuck.

Someone slumps beside me, and cotton candy permeates the air. A wave of his energy lights my body aflame, and old things stir to life.

“You’re a dick, Sutter. I came here to get laid, but that’s ruined with you sitting here, looking all Silence of the Lambs.”

His slurred words warm my cold heart. I run my fingers through his messy curls. These are mine. This is mine. He’s mine.

“Mission a-fucking-ccomplished.”

“Then you should have to fuck me.”

“You were pretty adamant that you wanted me to, what was it? Get run over by a Zamboni when you were sober, so too bad for you. You’ll have to try again another time.” Like tomorrow, but I don’t say that. Got to play a little hard to get.

I only partially give a fuck about his sobriety in this case. I know he wants me no matter what he fucking said before, but I won’t have him accusing me of taking advantage of him while he’s drunk.

“So? You’re drunk, too.”

“Nope. Sober as a judge. Cranberry and soda.” I swirl my glass.

He leans against me, closing his eyes. “Yeah, shoulda known you’d do something like that.”

I laugh. “I did it because I knew you were gonna drink your face off like the irresponsible shithead that you are. Someone has to watch over you, and it’s not gonna be your friends—or your brother. They’re all six sheets to the wind.”

“They’re watching me fine,” he says.

“Then you admit you need to be watched.”

“A little. But that’s not the only reason you’re here.”

I cinch his hair by the roots and kiss his forehead. “Not the only reason. I’m also here to keep your ass away from Doug Smith.”

He smirks with his eyes closed. “Knew that would piss you off. As soon as I saw you here, I told him not to come. I didn’t feel like cleaning his blood off the floor.”

“Good boy.”

“Fuck you, Sutter.”

“You’re not even trying, kitten.” He’s my little praise whore. I know he liked that.

“I don’t know how you can be such a possessive asshole. You’re the one who doesn’t want me,” his drunk ass murmurs.

I run fingers over the hickeys my mouth left on his collarbone so deep they haven’t quite disappeared yet. It’s one of my favorite places to leave hickeys on him. Markings, more like. My markings. Bet I’d find my teeth imprints somewhere on him, too, still lingering from our last fuck fest. I wanna tell him what these little skin ornaments are. I wanna remind him that my claim on him is still a claim, however unconventional.

I contemplate kissing him—he’ll get it if I kiss him like I kiss him—but there’s a commotion and a very drunk Logan storms our way, spinning just in time to poke Rhett in the chest. “You’re such a fucking gorilla!”

Rhett puts his arms around Logan who sobs into his chest. I think we’ve reached the time of the night when it’s time to put all the drunken brats to bed.

Logan pushes off him. “Let’s go then.” He pushes his way through the crowd, but it’s slow going for him at his size. Rhett’s got a minute or two. Rhett leans over for a bro hug with a handshake.

“Everything alright?” I ask.

“Too much to drink. I’ll follow him down the road, and then lift him over my shoulder so I can carry him to our ride like my gorilla forefathers intended.” His eyes land on the pile of Casey beside me. “Looks like tonight worked out. Night, brother.”

“Get the fuck out of here, Elkington,” I say, fondly. I shake Casey awake after he’s gone. “C’mon, Alderchuck. Let’s get you home.”

“Huh?” He blinks, stretching. “Naw. I’m good t’go.” He stands up. “You’re not the boss of me, Sutter.”

Casey flips me the double bird and wanders back to the dancefloor where Dirk pulls him into his body.

Don’t like that. But I’d rather it be Dirk than a rando on the dancefloor. I observe a lot of things on that dancefloor. The other Alderchuck has a thing for that Dash kid. I immediately put Dash in the brat category because Other Alderchuck’s a toppy type if I ever saw one. Just one of the many reasons I knew it was him walking up that day at The Wicklow instead of my Alderchuck.

But also, there was no fire. None. Not even a flicker. For the briefest of seconds, I thought I’d been cured of my affliction, but then I spied Casey behind the bar and the familiar incineration of my flesh flared. He doesn’t know what he does to me, and he never will.

Dirk, though. What’s his deal? Not sure. He seems close with Dash in a different way than the other Alderchuck. But it’s so hard to tell anything with the way their whole crew always has their hands on each other.

Just another reason Casey and I are better as rivals who fuck. I’d never allow that and I can imagine the fit he’d throw if I ever told him all the friendly molesting stuff he does with his friends had to stop. The few times I’ve had a boyfriend, I definitely didn’t want to see them as close to their best friends as Casey is with his. Mercy’s grinding his teeth down to the nerve as it is. I’d behead someone.

Other Alderchuck ambles off the dancefloor in search of more booze. Perfect. I wag a can of tequila soda from the selection of drinks I had brought to the table. He takes the bait. I doubt it’s because he’s foolish. Other Alderchuck doesn’t look like the kind of guy you underestimate, but he’s the kind to have the manners of a saint—until you piss him off.

I can’t call him Alderchuck—I only call Casey that—and I guess I can’t call him Other Alderchuck to his face if I want him to tell me what was on his mind earlier. Too impersonal.

“Stacey.” I give a stiff nod.

“What do you want, Sutter?” he says, opening the can and taking a hearty pull.

Okay, so tempers run in the Alderchuck family, but he’s not angry about me. Those stony eyes of his flick toward the dancefloor too many times and land on the pretty one. Dash is pretty in a different way than Logan is.

“Since we know that I’m not going to keep to myself, and we’re grown-ass adults—your words—any advice for me?”

He glares through my soul in a very Alderchuck-y way. Yeah, I see it, I see how they’re alike, but I still know he’s not my Alderchuck, and not just because they’re in different clothes.

“If you think I’m going to give you an instruction manual on how to get my brother back in bed with you, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

No. I didn’t think for a second that he’d help me get him in my bed, even though that is my goal.

“I was thinking more along the lines of, since I probably am gonna have him back in my bed, what are best practices for pissing him off less?” Because let’s be real, I’m going to piss him off as much as he pisses me off, but keeping it to a minimum means more satisfaction for everyone.

Letting my gaze drift, it lands on Casey who’s currently got his friends’ hands all over him. I’ve had to pull him away from those hands a few times when I’ve stopped by the house. I’m about ready to do it again if it goes any further.

Stacey sighs so heavily, that I can hear it above the deafening music. “Yeah, you’re right. Even I see that coming. I’m not gonna stop you, because you’re his mistake to make, but I don’t know that I have any useful advice for a fuckuationship. Unless … have you changed your mind?”

In other words, do I want to take Casey up on his offer of boyfriends?

I snap my eyes to his. “No.” My heart races.

“Then I have nothing. Come back if you ever do.” He finishes his drink and he’s back on the dancefloor, beelining it for one man. At least he removes Dash from Casey, but Casey molds himself against Jack, wordlessly daring me to do something about it.

Seriously, how has Jack’s boyfriend not done something about them by now?

Just when I think I can’t stand it anymore, Dirk saunters over on his way to the bar but stops when he sees the drinks at our table. I offer him one.

“Dirk, right?” I ask.

“Yep.” Dirk’s got thicker muscles than the Dash guy, built more like Jack and Casey. His ball cap’s spun backward and he openly sizes me up. “Casey won’t shut the fuck up about you. It’s annoying as hell.”

“He’s saying nice things, I hope?” I smirk. I’m sure Casey’s saying the vilest things about me, especially after turning him down.

I get a smile from Dirk for my witty sarcasm. It’s a half-one, but it means I’m right. And I’ve confirmed that Casey’s talking about me. I still get under his skin. He’s thinking about me.

“You two are so messed up.” He downs a beer and heads in the direction of the restrooms.

Jack Leslie’s next. He’s drunk and furious. Words slurring and everything. “Why’re you still here, Sutter? Your bestie’s gone. No reason for you to be skulking about.”

“Drink?” I offer.

His eyes cut to the dancefloor and then back to me. “Not if it was the last drink on earth.”

I bet Mercy told him to stop drinking. They have that vibe. “I have water too.”

“Yeah, okay, fine.” He sits and downs half the bottle. “You look like a creeper, lurking over here in the shadows, giving drinks away. Just sayin’.”

I shrug. Don’t really care what he thinks. “Get it all out, Leslie. Tell me how I should stop bein’ such a dick to your friend.”

“Nah. I think he likes that part, to be honest. Casey’s kind of a dick, or, well, he’s not actually, but that’s how people perceive him because he’s blunt and says what’s on his mind. He doesn’t have to hold back with you and it’s a relief for him.”

Interesting. “Then what do you want to say to me?” There’s something. Jack’s easy to read. A “wears his heart on his sleeve” kind of guy.

“Look, I’m low-key in favor of you two. Don’t let that get to your head. Part of me wants to tell you to hit the bricks, but Casey’s my bestie and he’s …”

“What?” I pry. I can see in Jack’s dizzy eyes that he’s had enough to drink to have looser lips.

“Casey’s a happy-go-lucky guy because his brother made sure of it,” Jack says.

Don’t know that I’d use the phrase “happy-go-lucky” for the guy always trying to beat the shit out of me, but I know what he means. Casey’s generally optimistic.

“Mhm.” I take another sip of my cran and soda.

“When the brothers went through some shit, Stacey didn’t let the demons in. Casey’s demons. They were knocking at the door, but Stacey made sure they never got in. From what I can tell, Stacey did such a good job that Casey doesn’t know why he needs what he needs. His needs are always met. If you can’t meet his needs, Sutter, stay away from him.”

“Um, you gonna tell me what those needs are?”

“I mean, there are a few, but there are three main ones. Come a little closer.” He puts his hand on my bulky shoulder. I lean in. Smack! Pain blooms across my cheek. Jack laughs his ass off. “Not telling. You gotta figure that shit out yourself or you’re not worth it.”

I glare daggers at him and plot my revenge next time we’re on the ice, but I did kinda walk into that one. Jack leaves before I kill him, and I’m alone again to ruminate. That was a little too much like The Ghosts of Christmas—the drunken version—for my liking, being visited by Casey’s loved ones one by one. Past. Present. Future.

At least I got the information I was looking for, but how do you figure out the needs of a guy who doesn’t even know his own needs? Plus, wasn’t planning for it to get this deep. All I wanted to know was enough to not piss him off—as much—so I wouldn’t be deprived of his ass. Knowing I’m not forgotten bolsters me, though, and I’m a fix-it, problem-solving kind of guy, so naturally I want to solve the puzzle Jack presented me with.

Everyone’s on the dancefloor again, which means more bumping and grinding, and my fists clenching, begging to be used to punch the faces of all Casey’s friends because they’ve got their hands all over him. If one friend is pulled away from him, another takes their place. But it’s when Stacey nudges Dash toward an unpaired Casey that it hits me.

Physical affection.

That’s a big one for Casey. Now that I see it, the way everyone ensures he has what he needs, it’s obvious. It’s the new thing preventing me from storming onto the dancefloor and pulling him away from them. Though, maybe it should be me—and only me—giving him that kind of physical affection.

Dirk, Mercy, and Stacey drag sloppy drunk Casey, Jack, and Dash off the floor.

“Aw, c’mon, Merc. One more song,” Jack whines.

“No. We have a baby that’ll need us tomorrow. Remember him?”

“’Course, I do. He’s safe with Bea and Trish, though, so we’d better get to do it a few times when we get home.”

“Jack, inside voice. Jesus, baby.” But Merc kisses him and doesn’t seem too bothered by his TMI.

I’m glad they’ve finally decided to leave on their own. I was about to drag Casey off the floor and make him go home, but this is easier. I take a final sip of my cran and soda.

Casey chuckles. “Better get the last drop of your—” He trips, and I prepare to catch him, but his drunken stumble sends him into another drunken patron.

“Hey, watch it, man,” he says, giving Casey a little push.

Shit.

Alderchuck isn’t reasonable in the best of times. He’s like a rabid golden retriever.

“Motherfucker.” Casey’s hands plant onto his chest and he knocks him into the sea of people. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. That guy and several more drunken idiots like him, scramble up from the floor, hell-bent on exterminating the source of the problem.

Casey.

Stacey and I step into the fray and two bouncers file in from the sides. One of them is a guy I know from high school days. “Hey man, sorry. We’re getting our crew outta here. This is all a misunderstanding,” I explain.

“Alright, just get goin’. We don’t need no fights tonight. Cops have already been here too many times this week.”

“Thanks, man.”

I grip Casey by the neck, but I have to frog-march him out of The Foxy. As we hit the street, the original dude Casey knocked into sneers as we walk out.

“Yah! Keep walkin’,” Casey shouts. “We’re hockey players. You’re lucky we don’t beat your asses.”

Fuck. Fuck me. We’re not on the Goddamn ice, Alderchuck.

I send Casey flying, just in time to take buddy’s fist to the face. Spit flies from my mouth as my head whips right, but my periphery catches the flash of movement, and I duck, swinging a punch to his ribs.

We’re hockey players. We take and give hits for a living. He also tried to hit my Alderchuck. Yeah, he was a fucking loudmouth who deserved it, but he’s mine and nobody hits him but me—on the ice only, of course.

I lay into this guy. Blood wets my hand. He lays into my face twice as hard.

There are sirens and red and blue lights. I pin buddy down long enough to track down Stacey Alderchuck. “Get him out of here.”

“Hey! Hey, no. Stace!” Casey protests.

“He’ll meet up with us later,” Stacey lies to get him moving. I’ll be doing something very different later, probably involving a holding cell. Don’t know where the rest are, but hopefully long gone.

Two officers pull me off the ground, slamming me against the car. Cold metal slaps around my wrists. I recognize the guy arresting me. Vancouver’s not supposed to be quite this small, but some luck is on my side tonight.

“Whoa, there. Buy me dinner first, eh? I’ll come peacefully, Rem.”

“Mitch?” Remy says.

“Yeah.”

“Sorry, I have to take you in, but I’ll stop roughing you up. What happened?”

“Wrong place, wrong time.” My gaze travels to the edge of the street, beyond Vancouver’s raging nightlife. Silhouettes bounce and bob against the thin veil of light that makes it that far. I imagine the curls falling over his face, long lashes blinking, his lips against the back of my neck.

It’s more like wrong place, wrong lifetime. I can’t give him what he wants, but fuck him if he thinks we’re done.