Ares

This isn’t breakfast.

I stare at Felicity.

She doesn’t notice.

She’s talking to herself again. Filling the kitchen with an argument between two of her puppets. Something about a carrot somewhere it shouldn’t be.

There’s vegetables where my meat should be.

I can fix my own food, but I don’t turn it down when someone else makes it for me. Be rude. And a waste.

Not so sure about the rainbow on this plate though.

“You want to get better, you’ll eat nutritious food!” she says happily like the cheery cat.

Not looking at me.

Back’s to me, matter of fact. She’s slicing something.

Avocado.

I can name every vegetable on the plate in front of me too.

But I don’t want to.

Vegetables don’t fill me up. Like chewing air. All that work, no food in my belly.

Don’t taste as good as beef either. Or pizza.

Or tacos.

Z’s in a book club in New York. I go when I’m around. They have tacos.

Lots of tacos.

I miss book club.

Mostly I miss tacos. Good plan for lunch. Dozen tacos. Bag of chips. Apple juice.

I like apple juice. It doesn’t judge.

Like skating too, but when she put this plate of air in front of me, she also put her hand on my heart and told me to put my foot up.

You’re not playing tonight. You’re still strong, Ares. You’re still the Force. Staying off the ice today won’t change who you are here.

Can still feel her hand on my chest.

Still see that belief in her eyes.

She believes in me.

Knows I’ll be back.

Gonna help me get back.

Before fucking January.

“Eat,” Tim the Goat says. Puppet’s not even down here, and I can pick out his voice. “All those vitamins are good for you.”

I watch her back.

Nice back. Gentle shoulders. Straight spine. Curvy ass.

My eyes get stuck on the ass.

Makes eating vegetables better, watching her ass sway while she works.

Now my junk’s getting happy again.

Interested.

Can’t go to morning skate. Murphy, Lavoie, Frey—they all told me to take some time to cool off. Rest up. Get better.

Ice used to be one of my favorite words.

Now it’s just the shit people try to rub all over my foot while it’s propped up on a chair.

Might as well spend the time watching Felicity’s ass instead.

Nice round hips. She’s not big—nobody’s big, compared to me and Z. She’s curvy. On the short side, even for a girl.

Strong.

Strong hands. Strong legs. Slender, but strong. Toned.

I shovel a spoon through the vegetable potato thing on my plate, eyes glued to those perfect globes, and I miss my mouth.

Loki laughs.

He’s at the weak chair. One I can’t sit in, or it’ll break. Got fresh strawberries and plums on his plate. Plantains too.

What?

I watch cooking shows.

Like to watch food.

Like to eat more.

Everything.

Meat. Bread. Cheese. Beer.

Candy.

Order it all through an app. Easy.

Loki picks my spilled vegetables off the table.

I go back to watching Felicity’s ass.

She doesn’t eat meat.

Haven’t asked her why. Should. Wonder if I stare at her long enough, if she’ll figure out the question.

She frowns at me. “Are you staring at my ass?”

I grunt.

Of course I am.

It’s a nice ass.

Wouldn’t mind touching it again.

Would like to touch it again.

Touch all of her. Cheeks. Neck. Breasts. Belly. Inner thigh. Ass.

She goes pink. “You have guacamole on your chin.”

“Save for later.”

Her head tilts thoughtfully. “You won’t mind if it goes brown by then?”

I shrug. “Eat candy wrappers.”

Extra fiber. Plus, people don’t ask questions when you eat candy straight with the wrapper on.

They just assume that tells them everything they need to know, and they give you a wide berth.

Like it better that way. Can’t disappoint people when they think you’re an idiot.

“I’ve seen the videos,” she says.

I hold up my hands and wiggle my fingers.

Me and Z, we figured this out a long time ago. Act like something’s hard—like our fingers are too big to unwrap shit—and everyone around us jumps to do it.

Ambrosia still cuts my steak when we’re home for Christmas.

Felicity’s watching my fingers and going pinker. “Don’t even. You can knit a row on Gammy’s blanket, you can unwrap a mint.”

Ah. She noticed the blanket got fixed. “Murphy did it.”

She slides open a creaky drawer and pulls out a misshapen knit potholder that looks more like knots than knits. “Nick was proud of this. He doesn’t knit well.”

I look at Loki, then back to her.

Monkey did it.

She crosses the small kitchen to stand beside me. Doesn’t have to bend down far to get to eye level.

Pretty eyes.

Smart.

She sees more than most people do. “You’re a really bad liar,” she whispers.

She’s not wrong.

But she’s one of few who care enough to notice.

Her gaze drops to my lips.

My junk roars to attention.

“I gave up beefcake years ago,” she muses, “but you’re really making me reconsider.”

Before I can come up with an appropriate facial response, she leans closer and licks my chin.

I’ve sprouted a fucking redwood in my pants.

My lungs are tongue-tied.

She smells like strawberries.

“All clean.” She pulls back, smiles, and crosses the kitchen.

Doesn’t get far though.

Because I snag her around the waist and pull her into my lap.

The chair creaks.

I freeze.

She goes wide-eyed. “Gammy’s ghost will kill us if we break this chair,” she whispers.

“Likes me,” I reply.

Without breathing.

Because if I breathe, I might break the fucking chair. Two in one week isn’t good.

Don’t need to give Felicity a complex either.

She stares me right in the eye.

It’s my trick. Watch people. See how long it takes them to flinch.

Learn a lot that way.

See through assholes on the ice that way. Line up for the face-off, stare the other center in the eye, wait to see if he’ll blink, let him know who’s running the ice today.

Works good on sisters’ boyfriends too. Used to anyway. Before Ambrosia and Chase finally hooked up.

With Felicity, it makes me want to kiss her.

Unbutton those top three buttons on her tight purple sweater-shirt thing. Touch her nipples. Stroke her pussy.

Lay her on the table, peel her out of those tight leggings, and have breakfast between her legs.

Fuck.

I blink first.

I never blink first.

“Why don’t you like to talk?” she whispers.

Like she knows it’s a choice.

Conscious.

A game.

How few words can I use to get my point across?

Can I do it without using two-syllable words?

Sometimes not. Have to use a good motherfucker now and again. Not often, but now and again.

“Too much hot air,” I tell her.

It’s half the truth. Maybe.

I get half a smile.

Fuck, she’s pretty.

Even with the black eye and bruised nose.

Maybe especially with the black eye and bruised nose. Like she dropped her gloves and let an asshole have it.

“Couldn’t hear,” I hear myself say. “Tubes. Six. All quiet until then.”

She tilts her head. “You were six before anyone noticed you couldn’t hear?”

“Had Z. Didn’t need to hear.”

She winces. “You two must’ve been a handful.”

Handful?

Sixteen handfuls. We’d shovel sand in each other’s diapers and race through the house. Played hide the baby when Ambrosia was born. Terrorized the neighborhood pets. Drank Ma’s perfume. Pissed in the rose bushes.

I grin.

Good times.

And that was before we started school and met Chase.

She puts her hand in my face, then adds a second. “Stop that. You’re adorable when you smile.”

“Fucking beast,” I correct.

She laughs.

The chair creaks again. She scrambles up, and this time, I let her go.

Loki’s watching me.

You’re in trouble, dude.

Got that right, little monkey.

I rub my chin where Felicity licked it.

Last time I took a girl out—not just hooked up, but went out—spent the whole dinner pulling her hand off my crotch.

She didn’t want to go out.

She wanted a piece of the Force.

Same with the girl before.

And the girl before.

I’m not a man. I’m a thing.

The big brother. The protector. The freak.

Want to know a secret?

I always liked the smart girls.

But they never saw me.

Until Felicity.

“What are we doing today, Felicity?” she asks herself as Lucy.

“Home game tonight, Lucy,” she answers herself as Tim. “What do you think we’re doing?”

“But there are hours and hours and hours until then, Tim! Who’s going to entertain us until we can go cheer on the Thrusters?”

“Well, Lucy, I have an idea, but I don’t think Mr. Force is going to like it.”

“I’m not going to like it,” she says as Harold.

“Shut up, Harold. You don’t like anything,” Tim replies. “Felicity’s friend Alina’s coming over. She’s bringing her cello. And we’re playing Rock Band all morning.”

“There goes the neighborhood,” Harold announces.

“That happened the minute you moved in, dickhead!” Lucy says cheerfully. “I’m so excited. I can’t wait to sing. Does Alina know any more boy band songs?”

“I think she learned some this week, Lucy,” Tim answers.

Felicity slides a look at me.

Watching.

Waiting.

Weighing my reaction.

“You can join us,” she says quietly.

Like she’s not doing it for me.

Giving me something I’ll enjoy since she’s not going to let me go lace up and skate with the team this morning.

My hand’s shaking while I shovel more potato vegetable crap into my mouth.

I fucking love singing.

Addicted to boy band songs.

Can tell myself all I want that she saw singing work with Ambrosia and Chase the other night. That she’s giving her friend a chance to hang with a pro hockey player. That this is how she spends every Saturday.

But I can’t tell myself I’m immune to having her do something this nice for me.

Can’t tell myself I’m not falling under her spell.

I fit her mold. She likes hockey players. Likes muscles. Likes tough.

She’d do this for anybody.

But she’s doing it for me.

Making me want her.

Even though I can’t have her.

Not like I want to.