Chapter 3

Chapter 3

 

Tyler Bennett   pov

In my palm, my phone buzzes. On my family group chat, a message appears. One more. Mom: Honey, it's not that horrible.

Beth: Yes, it is.

Mom: It's not at all. Mom: Don't worry, Dad says. By the following news cycle, everyone will have forgotten about it.

Beth: Would you like me to kick Moretti's ass down there? Beth: Since I have some spare time tomorrow, please let me know, buddy. I am able to pencil it in.

It's almost as horrible, if not worse, because my mum and sister have messaged me four times about it despite the fact that I haven't provided them a copy of the photo or even mentioned it to them.

The picture is all over the place. online.

on television. Two of my pals shared the item with me within thirty minutes of it being posted.

I'll be a meme before the day is out if I continue at this rate. I click on the image and close my eyes, attempting, yet again, to tell myself it isn’t as horrible as I believe it is. When I open them again, the picture dominates my screen.

Moretti seemed content and at ease. Fresh. He appears to be the type of man who has a pleasant scent. Just by taking a breath, you can tell the type of person in the room. He's staring straight at the camera.

He has well-cut, short hair. It's still damp. His facial hair is black and a touch untidy.

A small bit of white and a hint of enamel may be seen through his beard. Even though his beard is thick, I can see the scar on his top lip. A serious cut that did not heal well.

When it happened, I was watching the game on TV. We had first met at the Montreal Juniors hockey clinic three or four years prior. At the time, a three-week sleepaway camp seemed like a big thing. He was a year older than me when I was sixteen.

Moretti was definitely already a gigantic jerk back then, but I misinterpreted him since I’d never played against anyone like him before. Not even near. He was incredible. A missile.

Alarming and awe-inspiring. Even then, it was big. Not quite completely matured, but near. Near enough to make everyone else look small. During his first professional season, he sustained the injury. Even though I hadn't succeeded yet, seeing him play gave me the impression that it wasn't impossible and that I would eventually succeed as well.

He was a Chicago player. Although it wasn't at its peak that year, the team was nonetheless good. Nevertheless, it was a good place to start if you wanted to construct your own name.

barely under five minutes remained in the second period of their game against the Tampa Blackeyes. Chicago had lost by one. The match was intense. It was a challenging, muscular game that appeared to depend more on luck than talent.

The entire time, I was on the edge of my seat. By then, Moretti had given me enough indications that he was a jerk. Not that he hadn't. I simply hadn't put them together yet. I suppose that's why I sometimes am a bit sluggish. It was one of those plays that moved so quickly that I had to view the slo-mo video twice in order to fully understand it. With the puck stuck on his stick, Moretti was in their right circle. They had a terrible defence, but he appeared to be unbeatable. The three players were all in a heap on the ice when they both struck him in a synchronised one-two from the left and right. Moretti was furious and dangerously agitated.

Before the other two had completely collapsed into their landing, he was the first to stand up. As his weight went forward, a skate blade made contact. Deep and hard. In an instant, scarlet splatters appeared on the ice. As he clasped his palms to his face, a trickle of blood flowed through his fingers and down the backs of his hands. The audience was silent as he skated out on his own. My heart was in my throat on the couch at home. He returned to the ice a week later.

For the first time in a long time, he was clean-shaven; the only sign that he isn't totally unbeatable is the furious, jagged scar across his upper lip.

I chuck my phone onto the sofa and firmly determine not to glance at it again for the rest of the day. Rather, I go to the refrigerator, open it, and hope against hope that there's a delicious home-cooked supper waiting to be reheated.

No luck. It should come as no surprise that I consumed the final supper my mother brought over last night. To be honest, screw this day and anything related to it. I grab an ice pack from the freezer and press it to my left cheek since I'm already here. Fortunately, it doesn't appear as horrible as it feels, even though my skin is heated and I hiss from the cold. My cheekbone is only a trace of pink. If I’m lucky, it won’t bruise.

I'm at a loss for words on what transpired during practice today. I wasn't the one. In my whole life, I have never engaged in combat other than exchanging a few blows during a heated game. Even in those situations, I'm the one who ends arguments rather than initiates them. I'm not sure what hit me. I was my normal self one moment and someone else the next. I experienced...I'm not sure. It wasn't quite "alive," but it was close.

Perhaps activated? Elevated? All I could see was Moretti's jerkish face as everything around me slowed. My mind vanished, and my heart raced. They were there one moment, and then my thoughts were empty.

Without making a conscious choice, my body reacted, squeezing my hands and swinging my arms. Moretti was the only thing I knew. Where he was. where I was. And I've never felt anything like this deep, red-hot sensation in my chest. A form of pull. a desire. a desire.

Yes, that was the case. A desire, a desire for violence. It was so strange. I’ll tell you one thing for sure, it won’t happen again. I'm not an arsehole; I'm a damned professional. Alright, so that did occur once more. To be fair, though, I wasn't at fault. Yesterday, we went to the gym for stretching and strength training as part of our off-ice practice. Everything went smoothly.

Moretti was on one side of the gym, and I was on the other. We didn't look at each other until we were heading to the locker room. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't tell you what occurred since it happened so quickly. I was quickly shoved into the wall behind me, and then I was lifted onto my toes by two hands on my jersey. Coach didn't see anything when Carter swiftly removed him from me. Thank goodness, because if he had, he would have recognised a part of myself that I was unaware of.

I hulked out. Until I stopped making this weird, guttural sound when I exhaled, Jace and Cole had been holding me back and sitting with me for thirty minutes, chatting to me and giving me back pats. I can’t describe it. However, what transpired tonight was terrible. Much worse. We just faced the Denver Rockies at home in our first game of the season, and things didn't go well. We should have easily defeated the Rockies, but we didn't. Still, two-one. We should’ve been up by at least a goal or two.

We are the superior squad by a wide margin on paper. We should have defeated them and made it appear simple, but we failed to do so.

We gave the impression that it was amateur hour. Twenty minutes after the game, Moretti is seated at his locker room stall, tearing tape while removing his pads from his knees and elbows, his arsehole mouth continuously spewing excrement.

"Hey, Bennett, thanks for the help," he adds in a sarcastic tone. I nod and grin, remembering my mother's advice to rise above it. Do it, she said. The message was straightforward to understand. "Above it, rise." That may even be understood by a moron. "Nice one, bud," he says. "A strategy to maintain puck possession, even if it means losing the game." "I didn't hold onto the damn puck." "I gave it to Carter," I yell.

"How did it go, huh? Well? Two men were after him. I was completely exposed. I tell myself not to dignify whatever he says with a response.

You're not required to. Simply take a shower and go home. You need a good night's sleep. I'm thinking that. When I feel myself lunging at him, that's what's on my mind. My feet hardly make contact with the floor. I tighten my hands and go forward as my anger forms a tight, hot ball in my chest. I swing wildly, my vision fuzzy and tinged with crimson. I deliver the initial blow beneath his ribcage. the second blow as well. My fists smash into bone and muscle. The blow is sudden and brutal. I enjoy it, yet it shakes my head.

When I wake up, half the squad is pressing me to my locker, the other half is holding Moretti back, and the coach is yelling at me. Moretti and I are marched rudely to the coach's office, with Coach leading the way.

As we go, Moretti dares to glance at me and mumble, “Not a word.” Not a word? Not a word at all? We’ll see about it. It turns out that the worst advice I've ever received is to not respond to Coach Santos while he's feeling this way. I suppose the simplest way to describe my few interjections is that they weren't warmly welcomed.

He has been babbling on for what seems like hours as a result. His hair is sticking to his forehead, his nose and cheeks have an unpleasant shine, and he is sweating.

Occasionally, he puts his fingers to his temples and repeats, "You are on the same team," very slowly, as though he were talking to little children who are having trouble understanding a basic idea. I feel worse each time it occurs.

He is correct. He is correct, of course. Battling a teammate is quite different than battling in a game. My cheeks have been burning for the last fifteen minutes or so. Reality is striking hard. I have a pit in my stomach and am feeling a bit unsteady because I am so disappointed in myself.

Each time Coach stares at me, the hole falls a bit deeper. Moretti responds, "Yes, Coach!" after he repeats it four times, so I follow suit.

It appears to work that way. Coach shows us the door after giving us a stern warning about what would happen if we decide to go down this path once more. Moretti and I proceed to the dressing rooms with me leading the way. He breathes loudly and shallowly.

I walk with short, irate huffs that burn the back of my neck. I make an effort not to even glance in his direction and maintain my gaze directly ahead of me. It's finished. It's finished. I'm over his nonsense. I'm also done with mine.

That's the first time I've ever been called into a coach's office for a talk-to, and I'm not going to start right now. I just arrived here. I’ve only played one game badly. I still haven't proven myself. I can't possibly get away with this type of behaviour.

I also don't want to. No. It's over now. I have to keep my head down and concentrate on the important things. Hockey, victory, and teamwork. The Bears are not just any squad.

It's unbelievable how I've been acting. A couple of days ago, when I arrived here, I noticed my reflection in the glass and simply could not believe I was wearing a Bears practice jersey.

 

I appeared to be someone I had only ever imagined myself to be. It was a dream come true, and now look at me, I'm practically as much of a jerk as Luca Moretti.

I really need to get my head out of my ass. Being here is a luxury, and I should start acting as such. The majority of the squad has already left by the time we reach the locker room, and the guys that are still here are finishing off their outfits.

Wet towels dangle from the large hamper next to the shower, and empty drink bottles are scattered around.

The air in the locker room has become thick and stagnant due to steam from the showers. When I breathe in, the oddly delightful scent of perspiration and soap burns my nose. The speckled beige tiles are moist and shiny after the shower's heavy activity tonight. Rivulets that flow down the walls in small parallel lines are the result of condensed vapour.

The room has two rows of showerheads, five on each side, each with a toiletry shelf and a hanger. Eager to escape Moretti as soon as possible, I hastily undress. About the moment I dry off my towel and turn on the tap, he's still removing his protective gear.

As I prepare for the water to warm up, I select the spout that is farthest from the entrance and take a step back.

I step in when it's as hot as I can take it and practically moan as the heat instantly eases my aching muscles.

No matter how fit you are, the first game of the season is still a shock to the system, even though I make a special effort to stay in shape throughout the off-season every year.

My hamstrings are tight and clearly objecting to how I'm treating them, and my legs feel like lead. I move away from the spout, allowing the jet to strike my back and go down my legs.

As the water works, I briefly lose consciousness, but an undeniable presence jolts me back to reality. A gloomy, icy presence.

I know I'm not alone when I feel a tingling feeling at the base of my head. Moretti has arrived. He hangs his towel next to mine and turns on the shower across from me. He is completely nude. He is obviously nude. Everyone takes a nude shower. That’s not my point. I'm trying to say, fuck.

Again, what am I trying to say? Yes. It's Moretti. He's taking his time organising his toiletries on his shelf while he stands across from me. He has his back to me, and my goodness, he's built like a tank.

Even the smallest movement of his arms causes thick, tight muscular knots beneath his skin to ripple. He turns to face me, goes beneath the spout, and tilts his head back. His face is drenched with water. He has wet lashes. He appears nearly serene since he is dark and adheres to one another. Not quite, but almost. It collects in the spaces over his clavicles and flows down his cheeks and neck. I'm not really concerned by his muscular abs and chest. He has tattoos. on his back.

A massive, elaborate piece covers nearly all of his lats and traps. It nearly irritates me for some inexplicable reason. Just irks, not annoyances. It doesn't even bother me; I was unaware that he had tattoos.

That’s all. I never thought he had ink, and I haven't seen him without a shirt since we were teenagers. Not too much ink, in particular. Not ink like this, in particular. Delicious. creative. Dark. Lots of black. Curves and lines. Red splashes. Roses. Roses are the splashes of red. Vintage flowers that resemble vines are climbing his body. Not that I've thought about him without a shirt that much.

Fuck no. Definitely not. Water hits the back of his neck as he bends his head. His lashes start to split, and his mouth opens slightly. I turn around, getting a jet right to the face and not caring at all.

I reach for my shampoo and pour it into my hair, quickly and forcefully running my fingers over my head to make it suds up. I don't need a psychology degree to understand that I don't want to be caught staring at Luca Moretti in the nude. For heaven's sake, yesterday I made eye contact with the man who attacked me. Yeah, no. He would absolutely be the opposite of calm about a misunderstanding like that.

Oh my. Shit. How on earth am I going to rinse my shampoo without looking back? All I can do is sink my head forward and brace with one hand on the wall, allowing the water to strike my crown.

It feels like a tiny price to pay, even as soapy water runs down my cheeks and up my nostrils. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end as the water streams clean. I get a strange, tingling feeling that is worse than when Moretti initially entered the shower.

The water has heated my front, and my lower back is starting to get goosebumps. I'm warm. Hot. And chilly. Hotter and colder than I should be in the shower. Cold seeps up the back of my legs, and I feel warm on the front, as if hot oil has been poured on my shoulders and is slowly moving down my chest.

A shiver goes up my back. My skin is being traced with a hot-cold burn that feels like a chunk of ice. An ominous feeling sets my marrow alight. A sensation of darkness and menace. A distinct, unambiguous sensation of a man's eyes staring at me. Like a harsh fingernail on sensitive skin, it slowly tracks down my body. skin to skin. Where two Jaces meet, the skin is hot, tense, and slippery. You know? My pulse quickens, like a leisurely doodle shifting gears and picking up pace. Why am I responding this way?

I'm losing the story, oh my. I'm losing my mind. Moretti isn't observing me, is he? Is he? If he is, I want to turn back and give him pure hell.

With my eyes wide open and my chin up, I would like to confront him and demand an explanation. I would also do that. I have every right to do so. Those filthy tattoos are the only thing holding me back. The roses. The one on his shoulder blade. The one close to his back. The one in the archway leading to his Uninvited messages is sent by ErrLuca's nerves. Arteries open and relax. Veins constrict. Blood becomes stuck as it travels downhill.

Hold on. What? No! I submerge my hands in the water and allow them to fill. I splash my face in an attempt to recuperate. Once. Twice. It is of no assistance. I glance down. Oh no! This can't be taking place.

I take the tap and spin it thirty degrees to reduce the water temperature dramatically. It was extremely hot in the water. That’s what’s occurred. I felt dizzy from it. The day has been exhausting. A long week. What do you know? This month has been rather demanding. I've relocated teams, cities, and states. Even if you exclude Luca Moretti, the majority of my belongings are still packaged. I'm not who I am. I need to chill down because I've overheated. That’s all. Alright.

Alright, so it's not functioning. It must still be too hot in the water. I completely turn off the tap, resisting the temptation to shriek as the cold water strikes my sternum.

I'm reminded to take a breath by this stomach hit. I scrub myself as hard and quickly as I can after taking three for good measure and adding a generous dollop of soap on my sponge. I rinse off, resolutely refusing to look at Moretti in favour of an impolite, spontaneous dance that eventually results in my body being soap-free. Even though my dick is known to have a life of its own, it is never, ever half-hard in a circumstance like this.

Every time I glance down, pure terror shoots through my veins. I’m left with no option but to alter the angle of the shower nozzle and blast my balls with a spray of cold water. That's it.

Even if my dick is still a bit bigger and thicker than usual, it has the decency to point downward, even though I can see little white spots on the edge of my range of vision. I turn off the water and go because I don't want to encourage any more catastrophes. Never before has a man wrapped a towel around his waist so quickly.

or more tightly. I tuck my tummy in, sucking it tightly. Although it's unpleasant, I believe it's a smart move. It makes no sense to take a chance on anything like this. Moretti says, "Hey, Princess." "You forgot your shit," he says in a thick, scratchy voice that is so low and harsh that my eardrums pick up on every vibration.

Without bothering to dry the shampoo bottle or wring out my sponge, I keep my eyes away, swivel my head slightly more than the circumstances call for, hotfoot it back to my faucet, and toss my toiletries into my bag. I manage to say, "Thanks."

"You're welcome." I'm not sure if it's the regularity of this exchange or the fact that I can know he's grinning without having to look, but something about the way he says it causes me to forget that I'm trying to avoid making eye contact. I'm correct. Moretti is grinning. He appears to be trying to obtain a better view of me by tilting his head and lifting his chin.

I am engulfed by a dazzling black stare. I'm immobile. Fire. Stuck in place, blinking and attempting to recall how to swallow. My hands are trembling so much that it takes me two tries to start the ignition by the time I reach my car and slam the door. I wasn't affected by the ink. Not the thorns or the blooms.

I'm not struck in this way by the bird, the moon, the stars, or even the startling reality of the snake coiling up his spine. It's that I peered down before getting out of the shower, despite my better judgment. Luca Moretti was also quite tough.