Did my father know what we’d done to Eva? That blackmailing her for information on the team had turned into us fucking her? That she’d turned into an addiction that burned through my veins like a drug? That I’d fallen in?—
No. Fuck that. I didn’t love her. I could never love someone who’d betrayed me this completely.
Even as I tried to convince myself, my body rebelled. My cock hardened, remembering the weight of her in my lap.My hands shook with the need to touch her soft skin, to bury my face in her hair and breathe in her creamsicle scent that haunted my dreams.
Pathetic.
My father was about to get everything he ever wanted. Eva would go public the second she realized she didn’t need us anymore. I’d get kicked off the team. Coach would lose his job. Tristan would lose his scholarship and his shot at the NHL.
All because I couldn’t resist her.
Every thought pulled apart my bleeding chest a little further.
Eva on her knees.
Tristan yanking her hair back and kissing her.
Coach devouring her gorgeous pussy.
My father’s expression when he told me I’d marry Delaney or he’d hurt Eva.
He’d fucked up my friendship with Tristan. Christ, he’d fucked with Coach. Now, he had the power to destroy everyone I’d ever cared about to force me to do what he wanted.
And he would.
I curled up into a ball on my bed, as if by making myself smaller, I could hide from the consequences of my actions. As if I could crawl into my own skin and disappear.
Fuck her for existing.
Fuck her for making me believe I could be someone worth loving.
Fuck her for proving I was right to never try. I wanted to forget, but without Eva’s sweet pussy to bury myself in, there was only one way to do it.
I rolled out of bed and yanked on a pair of sweatpants. The stairs didn’t creak as I walked down them. The housewas silent, my teammates in bed, resting after the disaster of a weekend so they could be up early for Monday’s practice.
For a long moment, I stared at the liquor cabinet until the memory of Eva sliced through me—sitting at the counter when I came home last week then getting up to give me a fucking hug.
Fuck her.
I didn’t want to remember. I didn’t want to face the kind of man I was. I certainly didn’t want to go to practice tomorrow and face the team. So why bother?
The cabinet creaked when I opened it, and I grabbed the first bottle I found—an outrageously expensive bottle of mezcal. Silently, I took a swig, relishing the burn.
Bottle in hand, not bothering with a glass, I walked back up the stairs and disappeared into my room.
I raised the bottle in a mock toast to my reflection in the dark window.
“To getting exactly what I fucking deserve.”
The mezcal burned away the sharp edges of betrayal, leaving only the familiar ache of being completely, utterly alone.
I’d been right all along. I was my father’s son, and we destroyed everything we touched.
Even the things we loved.
Especiallythe things we loved.
4