Zeus

Ares has been mother-henning me to death since we left the golf course. Eat a cookie. I go spray for bugs. Grunt. Scratch. Snort. Go jack off in the bath.

No fucking way. My dick’s in the penalty box again.

And I’m gonna go find the biggest fucking spider on the planet and stare that mofo down until even those creepy eight-legged butt-yarn mutants know who’s the king of this fucking jungle.

Dammit, now I’m sweating again.

I bang out of the bathroom naked, because hotel towels are for pansy-assed normal size dudes, and it ain’t like Ares has never seen my junk before.

“God, Zeus, can’t you pretend to have some modesty?” Ambrosia digs her fingers into her eyeballs like she’s trying to claw them out. She’s in the corner in a chair while Ares sprawls over my bed, watching some cooking show on Food Network.

“Nobody invited you,” I tell her.

“I’m on spider patrol.”

Ares snickers and chomps on one of those little chocolate mint things. Dude’s addicted. Has the best breath in the NHL.

“Quit being a dick,” I tell my sister while I root around in my bag for clean clothes.

“You like Joey Diamonte.”

“Didn’t I just tell you to quit being a dick?”

The thing about Ambrosia—Bro, See-uh, whatever the fuck she wants to be called these days—is that she ain’t scared of shit. Not spiders. Not jail. Not tattoo needles. Not the Easter bunny—don’t think I won’t fucking cut you if you repeat that—and not me or Ares.

Which means it’s damn hard to get her to shut up when she’s got something on her mind. “You need lessons in courting a woman,” she informs me.

“I know how to fucking court a woman.”

“Not this woman. She’s got bigger balls than you do. And she totally tried to cover for you. She told us you were dodging a baby bunny.”

I turn and give my baby sister a full frontal, because it’s really all I’ve got.

Also, what the fuck does it mean that Joey tried to save face for me? That she likes me? That she really did see a baby bunny?

That I’m a pansy-ass moron for wondering if she likes me?

Whatever. Point is, chicks don’t cover for me. Most of ‘em never find out I’m afraid of fucking spiders.

They never care enough.

“Chase’s dick is bigger,” Ambrosia says.

“The fuck it is.”

“Fine. But it’s still better.”

Ares turns the TV volume up until all we can hear is Martha Stewart trying to out-Dogg the Snoop.

My brother’s always got my back. I dig out the third bag of chocolate mints I’ve got hidden under my underwear and toss it to him. He catches it single-handed, grunts, and nods.

“Take them out of the wrappers this time,” I say over the TV.

He flips me off.

When your fingers are the size of bratwurst, it’s fucking impossible to wrangle the little shit sometimes.

Or so we like to let people think. Unreal what kind of stupid crap they’ll do for you when they think you can’t do it yourself.

Case in point? Ambrosia flops onto the edge of the bed—only part there’s any room—and tackles the chocolate wrappers for Ares.

“You going on her plane?” she asks me.

I grunt.

Because there’s no fucking room. All booked up until almost Halloween, the reservations agent told me. Well past the start of hockey season.

I reserved the whole fucking jet for an off day in early November.

By then, I’ll be back in Nashville with the Preds, through training camp, traveling for away games, hitting practice like a beast, doing a few puck bunnies every week, and Joey Fireball Diamonte will be a distant memory.

A blip in the Zeus Berger memory bank.

“I’m just fucking with her,” I tell my sister.

Ares pounds a finger on the remote, sending the TV into blackness. He growls at me. “Lie.”

“Even you aren’t too big for biology,” Ambrosia says with that smirky grin she’s had ever since she started sleeping with my best friend a few months ago. “Face it, you big lug. We’re all wired to want a mate. And you want her.”

“So? She’s hot.”

Both my siblings roll their eyes.

Probably because they remember that time I thought the neighbor’s dog was hot, but until you’re a ten-year-old kid in a man’s body, shut the fuck up and don’t judge.

“You like her,” Ares says.

“I like you too. Doesn’t mean I have to sleep with you.”

“Fine,” Ambrosia says. “You think she’s nothing more than pretty boobs and a big brain. Guess you don’t really want one of those seats Chase got for her flight tomorrow.”

Motherfucker.

When I’m done playing hockey, I’m gonna be a damn billionaire too. Chase gets all the fun.

Ambrosia’s smirking again. I missed her smirking ass too much the last few years to get mad about it though. If she has to be annoying, at least she’s happy. “When’s your flight booked?” she asks.

“November,” I grunt.

Ares gives me a high-five brow wiggle. Ambrosia pumps a fist in the air with a squeal of joy. “I knew it!”

“Shave,” Ares tells me. “Dress nice. Smell good. Hold doors.”

“Somebody been trying to teach you manners while I wasn’t looking?” I demand.

His cheeks go pink. He grunts, tosses three wrapped candies in his mouth, and flips the TV back on.

Huh.

“Don’t even try to change the subject.” Ambrosia waggles a finger at me. “He’s right. Get dressed. Something nice. And we’re taking you for a haircut, and you damn well better have a fresh stick of deodorant somewhere, because you’re going to need all the help you can get.”

“I don’t want a fucking girlfriend.”

She just smiles.

Nothing good ever comes when my sister smiles.

But if she’s helping me work my way to proving to Joey that I can do her like she’s never been done before, then fine.

Ambrosia can stay and help.