Page 6 of Riding the Pine

With each inch our faces come closer together, my heart rate kicks up faster and faster. There’s a voice in my head somewhere in the far distance whispering it’s a bad, bad idea. Complicating my brothers’ friendship by kissing Scott isn’t a good idea, not at all. And yet, just a little closer, and we’ll be kissing.

Neither of us is stopping this train.

His nose skims against the side of mine, like he’s testing the water, making sure I’m not going to pull my head back from his. When our skin connects, he sucks in a sharp breath, like he feels the buzzing of electricity between us as well.

He tips his head, closing his eyes. I close mine. Our lips are so close you probably couldn’t slide a postage stamp between us. My heart stops in my chest, my breath freezes, and my muscles tense, anticipation seizing my body, holding me hostage.

His bottom lip grazes mine, and I?—

A thunderous banging on the hood of my car startles us both, drawing me out of my cloudy haze. My head snaps up, catching Scott’s nose and making him yelp.

“Fuck.” His hands fly to his face to cup his face, and I reach out to cover his hands with one of mine.

The banging starts up in earnest, and I finally give my attention to the ruckus out the window.

Artemis stands glaring at both of us. He’s fully kitted out for practice, so the hammering on the hood of my car is his gloved fist, making it even more dramatic.

Asshole.

“Fuuuuuuck.” Scott groans into one hand, while his other arm searches for the arm hole of his coat.

Artemis’s glare radiates into the car like fine-pointed laser beams. “Hurry the fuck up,” he barks.

I wave him off, dismissing him with wiggly fingers while I use my other hand to help a now-spooked Scott into his coat. “Ignore him.”

He looks at me with fear in his eyes, real, tangible, honest-to-god, bone-deep fear. A fear so strong it leaches into my skin, sending a shiver along the length of my spine. I force an awkward laugh. “He’s all bark, you know. I know on the ice he can be... aggressive. But out here, he’s a moody bastard, sure, but?—”

“I can’t lose them.” That’s all the explanation I get before he hightails it out of my car, grabs his gear, barely slamming the trunk shut, and without a second look back at me, follows Artemis in the building.

A few minutes pass as I sit in the cool quiet. I press my palm against my own heart in a futile bid to slow the racing organ still squashed against my ribs. I swallow down the bitterness at the back of my throat, once, twice, then thump my chest with the side of my fist, as if that’s going to make a difference.

A caustic laugh burst from my mouth in the darkness.

Guess Scott’s not different after all. I guess he’s just like everyone else, choosing my brothers over me.

Figures.

CHAPTER 4

Athena

The first period has barely started and already my brother’s warming the bench in the sin bin. While Apollo, the precious first born son, is all finesse, elegance, and the top goal scorer on any team he graces with his divine presence, Artemis... well... he’s not.

Artemis is a silent assassin. He’s big enough and scary enough, to simply terrify the fuck out of anyone who skates in his direction. But, if someone’s dumb enough to drop their mitts or try any funny business with him—or anyone else on the team for that matter—the guy’s a bulldozer.

I can’t say he’s an enforcer, that term has connotations that I don’t necessarily agree with. While Artemis is the team "fighter," the "tough guy," he’s most certainly not a "goon" or a hot head. He doesn’t generally fight for the sake of fighting. He’s calculated, like a spider weaving a web and lying in wait, goading his prey to fall victim to his sticky trap.

Does he annoy the shit out of his opposition? Absolutely.

Does he hit like a freight train? Fuck yes. And the whole arena feel it in their teeth when he lands a hit.

They’re young, only sixteen, but I already know that as soon as they leave college I’ll be buying NHL shirts with their names on it. They’re just that good.

Thankfully, they weren’t born with whatever inherent skill for playing hockey that Canadians seem to be. My brothers had to work for it, all of them, including my insanely talented, younger brother and goalie of the team, Ares. They all have more talent in their little fingers than some of the guys out here tonight, and they’ve all had to bust their asses to get here.

Growing up I was forced to watch the Mighty Ducks movies, and one of the characters, Fulton Reed, practices shooting the puck in the street. That was Apollo in our backyard. If they weren’t forced to do homework they’d have spent every waking hour at the rink, much to our father’s overwhelming dismay.

He fucking hates hockey, which only serves to make us all love it harder.

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