Preston

“Hey, dick,” Drake says to Jamie. “Would you stop feeding your girl with your fingers? The rest of us have to eat from that bowl.”

Jamie sets down the bowl of penne pasta on the marble island in the kitchen, his fingers covered in spaghetti sauce. He steps out from between Shannon’s legs and helps her down from the counter. She giggles when he whispers something into her ear.

“We were taste testing,” Jamie informs us with a cocky smirk on his face.

“Great,” Drake growls. “Now that your slobber is all over our food I can’t wait to eat it.”

I sit at the kitchen table between Drake, Tucker, and Trent, my chair pushed back against the wall. “Give him a break,” I say to Drake, pointing at Jamie and his girl of the week. “Nerds don’t get as many chances to hook up with girls who look like that.”

With Shannon at his side, Jamie carries a few plates and bowls over to the table. “Hey, I can hear you, Spidey.”

I hate that fucking nickname.

The room erupts into laughter, but I don’t find it the least bit funny.

“Don’t call me that.”

Like I had a say in my name.

I cross my arms over my chest, irritated. “It’s your dad’s fault I got stuck with this name.”

“Your dad shouldn’t have bet mine that he would beat him at video games, of all things.” Jamie pulls out a chair for Shannon and then takes a seat at the table next to Tucker. “He should have known better.”

“What are you guys talking about?” Shannon flicks her dark locks over her right shoulder and cozies up to Jamie, waiting for him to tell her the story.

“Our parents are best friends—” he starts, and Shannon interrupts.

“Wait, did you guys all grow up together?”

He nods. “Parker’s mom is my dad’s best friend. They’re kind of like brother and sister.”

“So, that makes you two like brothers.” She points between Jamie and me.

“Yeah,” Jamie says. “Sort of. We’re all family, like one really weird dysfunctional family.”

Drake snorts. “Speak for yourself.”

Shannon glances around the table at each of us. “That’s pretty cool. You guys all knew each other before you came to Strick U. It must make it easier for you to play hockey together.”

“I don’t know about all that,” Drake interrupts.

“It’s definitely an advantage we have over other teams,” I say. “Coaches have a hard enough time getting all the egos to play together.”

“We fight all the time,” Tucker says.

“True,” I counter. “But we don’t stay mad at each other for long.”

Drake laughs. “I just beat the bitchassness out of you.”

“You wish.” I motion my finger toward me. “Come at me, bro. Let’s see how tough you are.”

He shakes his head, entertained.

Trent holds out his hand to silence Drake. “I’m hungry. Would you two stop measuring dicks until after we eat?”

“You guys are crazy.” Shannon laughs, filling a plate of pasta for each of us. “I hope all of you brought your appetite because I made tons of food. Jamie said you can eat an army under the table, so I kind of overdid it. There’s enough left for the rest of your teammates if you want to invite them.”

“Nah,” Jamie says. “They can fend for themselves. I’m saving the leftovers for us.”

Shannon stands up to pass plates of pasta and garlic bread around the table, and Jamie takes this as an opportunity to smack her ass. She has a nice ass, one I can’t help but lean back more to admire.

“Are you planning to make this a regular thing?” Tucker asks Shannon, shoveling a forkful of pasta in his mouth. “Because I could definitely get used to this.”

“Me, too,” the rest of us mutter in unison.

I wouldn’t mind having her hang out at the house. She’s easy on the eyes. Gets along with the guys. And doesn’t seem like a pain in the ass. Guaranteed dinner every night sounds good to me.

My dad always cooked for us when he was home. That was his thing. He catered to my mom when they were dating, and she hasn’t lifted a finger in the kitchen since. I wouldn’t trust my mom’s food, anyway. She’s better at ordering from a menu.

“Wanna play Mage Wars after we eat?” I ask Jamie. “I’m finally out of level twenty-five. That one was such a bitch.”

“Oh, I love that game,” Shannon says, surprising all of us.

The entire table’s focus shifts to her, our eyebrows raised, as if to say explain yourself, woman.

“My younger brother is obsessed with it,” she elaborates. “I still live at home with my parents. At least for now. My brother makes me play with him. It’s the only way I can get him to go to bed on time. We play Mage Wars for an hour and then bedtime. Seems to work.”

“My dad created The Fallen universe. Mage Wars is based on one of his earlier games,” Jamie tells her.

Over the years, there have been different versions of the original game that made his dad famous in the tech world. The Fallen: Mage Wars is his newest creation and by far the hardest of all of the games.

Her face brightens. “Are you kidding me? That is so cool.”

“R.E.G.A.N., the artificial intelligence in the game, is named after my mom,” he adds.

She holds her hand over her heart, in awe of what Jamie’s telling her. “Really? That’s so cute. Your dad sounds like a keeper.”

“My mom thinks so,” Jamie jokes.

“Jamie is a genius,” I tell Shannon, and her smile widens. “A total nerd.”

I give Jamie a hard time about being a nerd all the time. He’s just like his dad—obsessed with computers, comic books, video games, and Star Trek. They even have the same name and similar features. But all the nerd jokes go out the window once we’re on the ice.

Jamie and me are both defenseman. We’ve been paired together for years, meaning we work in unison to stop the opposing team from scoring and create new opportunities for our team.

“I like nerds.” Shannon scoots her chair closer to Jamie’s, their elbows touching on the table. “Especially hot ones that can shoot a puck.” Her eyes are so wide and green they stand out against her soft features.

Jamie is getting laid tonight. No doubt about it. This girl is practically on her knees, ready and waiting. Her hand is under the table. Maybe he’s already getting some action. Shannon is impressed with Jamie’s background. I guess there’s a first time for everything. In my experience, girls don’t have a clue about video games. Most of them only care about our trust funds.

Jamie hooks his arm around her back, pulling her into his chest. He plants a kiss on her lips that turns into them going at it in front of us. Everyone at the table is used to women asking about our parents. Apart from Jamie, all of our dads are former NHL hockey players. Everyone on campus knows it. We don’t keep it a secret, though we don’t openly advertise it either.

Drake’s mom is a famous romance author. She writes super taboo and dirty books that even make Drake blush. A lot of girls have the same reaction as Shannon when he tells them his mom is the Sydney Carroway. Tucker and Trent’s mom owns Sports Buzz, an online newspaper all of us read. It’s similar to SBNation. And with my mom being a legendary sports agent—the more I think about it, we have pretty awesome parents. We lucked out big time.

“You ready for the game?” Tucker asks me, ignoring Jamie and Shannon, who are now leaving the dining room, with Shannon draped over Jamie’s shoulder and him smacking her ass.

This is normal for us. We’re so used to each other that none of us care about who’s hooking up where. Even the dining room isn’t sacred. Every inch of this house has been christened by one of us.

“Yeah, I guess,” I say. “I think this is going to be my best year.”

“Best year for the team, too.” Trent sinks his teeth into a slice of garlic bread, speaking between bites. “We’re winning again this year.”

Our team made it to the Frozen Four the last three years, but we only won the NCAA Men’s Ice Hockey Championship once. All of us want it. Bad. One final win before we leave college for the NHL.

“I wish the announcers would stop comparing us to your dads,” Tucker says.

“Oh, I know,” I say. “Like I need a fucking reminder of the ghost of Alex Parker.”

“It pisses me off.” Drake shakes his head. “My dad’s been retired for years.”

I grunt in acknowledgment. “Trying to live up to the legacy of Alex Parker ain’t easy.”

Tucker and Trent nod.

“These asshole announcers expect us to be them,” Tucker says, “when all we’re trying to do is play as hard as we can to get NHL scouts to notice us. Sometimes, I feel like I’m living in the shadow of Tyler Kane. Our dad,” he says, pointing at Trent, “retired over ten years ago. Get over him already.”

Tyler Kane is still part of the Philadelphia Flyers organization. He’s the general manager, and my dad is now the coach. Because of that, it only draws more attention to us.

“Right,” Drake says. “It’s fucking bullshit. My dad’s shutout against the Blackhawks in game seven has been in highlight reels since I was a kid.”

“They won the Cup, though,” Tucker says. “That game was pretty sick.”

The only people who understand what I go through are seated next to me at this table. We were bred to become hockey players. But expectations are a bitch. Measuring up to not only our father’s impossible standards, but also those in the hockey world, is no easy task.

We were born to do this. Hockey is in our DNA. So, why does it sometimes feel like we can never surpass the players who came before us?

“Suck it, troll,” I yell at the TV, beating the magician, who kind of looks like a troll in Mage Wars.

With Jamie and Shannon fucking on the other side of the wall, I need a distraction. They’re louder than the sound effects the game makes when you find the hidden mage. But once I reach the dark tower, I have to answer a question. If I get it wrong, I have to start the level over.

I select the answer from a series of three possible choices. “No,” I scream. “Stupid fucking troll.”

The gray-bearded mage grows larger, towering over my player. “You are unworthy,” he tells me while laughing, taunting me with his evil cackle. Then the images on the screen pixelate, until they turn into melted lava. The screen flashes Game Over. I stare at it, unblinking.

I lost. Again. Dammit.

Angry, I throw the controller across my bedroom. It hits the door and lands on the carpet next to an open Bauer hockey bag. Which reminds me I have shit to do for tomorrow. The game starts at seven. Less than twenty-four hours from now.

Pushing myself up from the floor, I let out an aggravated groan. I spent two hours working on that level, all for nothing. Lifting my phone from the bed, I consider calling Uncle Jameson to yell at him for making a game that’s impossible to beat. Instead, I open my messages.

Preston: You evil troll, give me the answer to level 26.

Jameson: Not a chance, buddy.

Preston: I hate you right now.

Jameson: :(

Clutching my phone, I consider chucking it across the room. Mage Wars gets me so damn mad. But I’m addicted to it. Scrolling through my messages, I ignore those from girls I’ve hooked up with in the past. I need to focus for tomorrow.

I stop when I see Bex Bryant’s name. For a second, I forget all about Mage Wars. Bex’s ass in those tight shorts come to mind. And now, I’m even more frustrated.

Should I text her? I said I would.

But that was before her dad lectured me. He was right. I’ll be out of here at the end of the year. There’s no point in forming attachments to girls when I might be living across the country next year. One-night stands are more my speed. No commitment. No feelings. Nothing to hold me back from my dreams.

I hover my finger over her name, torn by my predicament. Coach Bryant knows I’m taking Bex with me to meet my mom this weekend. It’s not like we are hiding it from him.

I open a new message, about to type what I normally would to a girl I like. But Bex isn’t a random chick. So, what do I say?

I begin typing, Hey, girl, what’s up? And then realize I sound like an asshole and erase it. Definitely not smooth. What’s wrong with me?

With other girls, I would tell them to come over and be done with it. Easy. It works every time. I can’t do that with Bex. She would never respond to my typical brand of assholery.

So, I think long and hard about everything I know about basketball. My mom is a fanatic. Her prized possession is a ball signed by Michael Jordan. She shows it off where everyone can see it, front and center on a table in our living room.

Nervous and overthinking everything, I tap the keys, hoping Bex doesn’t tell me to fuck off.

Preston: There’s something wrong with your jersey.

A few seconds later, a chat bubble appears.

Bex: Who is this?

I sigh, now realizing my attempt at sports humor was stupid. But I keep going.

Preston: Parker

Bex: Oh, hey. What’s wrong with my jersey?

Preston: It’s not on my floor.

Bex: OMG. You’re an idiot. Remind me why I gave you my number again?

Preston: Because I’m taking you to meet my mom.

Preston: I can’t believe I just typed that. You should feel special.

Bex: And why is that, Mr. MVP?

Preston: I’ve never introduced my mom to any of the girls I know.

Bex: I was already nervous. Now, I’m even more freaked out.

Preston: Don’t sweat it.

Bex: I’ll try.

A few minutes pass where I attempt to come up with something clever. Instead, I try being myself. With Bex, I can relax, lower my guard. There’s something about her that sort of settles me, despite how anxious I am about making the wrong move.

Bex: Did you want something other than to tell me you’d like to see me naked?

Preston: I never said I want to see you naked.

But I do.

Bex: Your message implied it. Was there a point to texting me this late at night?

Preston: Late at night? It’s 10 PM. What are you 90? Sorry, Grams.

Bex: I’m tired from practice and school. You should be in bed, too. Your big game is tomorrow. Good luck, by the way.

Preston: I’d love to get in bed with you.

Bex: Parker, Parker… Peter Parker. You’re such a bad boy. Do you ever think with the right head?

I glance down at my growing erection and shake my head. Nope. Only the one that counts. I’m rock hard from talking to her. All I can think about is being balls-deep in Bex.

Preston: I never think straight when it comes to you.

Bex: My dad has rules. We’ve already broken one of them. On Saturday, we will technically break another one.

Preston: How many rules does he have?

Bex: Three

Preston: Have you broken them for anyone else?

Bex: Not for a long time…

Preston: What are they?

Bex: No talking to his players. No hanging out with his players. No dating his players.

Preston: I can guarantee you’ll never break the last one.

Dating is out of the question. I don’t have time for drama. This year is all about winning the Frozen Four again and being drafted into the NHL. I play hockey almost every day, and when I’m not, I work out. If anyone understands a collegiate athlete’s schedule, it’s Bex.

Bex: Yep. That will never happen. All we can ever be is friends.

Preston: I’ve never had a friend who’s a girl.

Bex: That’s because guys like you objectify women.

Preston: Not true.

Bex: Look at the first few messages you sent me and then tell me I’m wrong.

I do as she asks, now realizing my mistake. Instead of a joke, my message reads like a dirty pickup line. I’m surprised she’s even talking to me after what I said. Idiot.

Preston: You’re right. Sorry, Bex. I thought it was funny. Guess not.

Bex: Oh, I thought it was funny. I expect it from you. You’re all the same. This is why my dad has rules. To keep me away from guys like you.

Preston: I don’t want to stay away from you.

I stare at the screen in horror.

Why did I write that?

Because it’s true. I like Bex.

From the second she bumped into me in the locker room, I haven’t been able to get her out of my head. Bex must be at a loss for words from my confession. Two minutes pass. Then another five. Still no response.

Shit. What did I just do?