Beauty and the Beefcake Page 5

  My phone dings. I glance at the screen, and my heart skips a beat.

  Ares texted me back.

  I pull up my messages, and—

  What in the world?

  He texted me a gif of two baby rabbits, each in a paper cup, their adorable little noses twitching in time.

  I hope this doesn’t mean he wants to eat a bunny.

  Or that he’s picking out pet bunnies for Loki to have some companionship.

  I glance at the monkey under the table.

  He’s licking the bobble head.

  Gammy’s ghost is going to kill us all in our sleep.

  So you’ll be back soon? I text back.

  He doesn’t answer.

  Dammit.

  He’s a grown man, I remind myself. If he doesn’t want to take care of his body, I can’t make him, even if the idea of him wrecking his ankle makes me break out in hives.

  Since I started my PTA program, it seriously kills me when people don’t take care of their injuries.

  I call Alina, because I need someone else to tell me the same thing. She’ll look at this objectively with me.

  “You’re totally screwed on getting a job with the Thrusters if he hurts himself on your watch,” Alina says.

  “He’s a grown man. And I’m not officially babysitting him for the Thrusters. I’m doing Nick a favor because he’s worried.”

  “No one ever expects men to take responsibility for themselves. It’s all on you, babe. Good news though. He’s not at the arena.”

  “You checked?”

  “Didn’t have to. One of those ice dancing shows is in town. If he’s trying to skate somewhere, he’s not doing it there.”

  There are at least a half-dozen other rinks in Copper Valley. I find my tablet in the living room, take a seat where the hockey bobble heads are only kinda watching me, far from the blanket Gammy was knitting, and open a browser. I hope none of the rinks are open on a Monday night.

  Useless hope—they’re most likely all open until at least ten, because nothing closes before ten in a city this size—but there it is.

  “Did you get your stuff back?” Alina asks.

  “No, but I got a good pat-down from a cop. The dickhead told them I’m psycho and they don’t want me in his building.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. He told them I talk to myself all the time, have a freaky doll collection, and coated myself in pig’s blood to protest the bacon he keeps in his fridge.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Everyone knows you only use red food coloring for animals’ rights protests.”

  “And he doesn’t eat bacon. That part never happened.”

  “What what? He doesn’t eat bacon? That’s so not normal.”

  “I don’t eat bacon,” I remind her.

  “Yeah, but you at least gave tofacon a real shot, so you’re forgiven.”

  I frown at my tablet. There are eight skating rinks open until at least ten all across the Copper Valley metro area, some almost as far north as the military base and one so far south it’s outside the I-256 loop.

  “I need to call some of these rinks to see if any of them have seen Ares before rumor central goes nuts and Nick hears I lost him.” An incoming call beeps in my ear. “Oh, wait. Kami’s calling.”

  I say bye to Alina and switch over to Kami.

  “I found Ares,” she blurts out before I can even say hello.

  “What? Where? When? How?” I head to the kitchen. “Where are you? I’m on my way.”

  “Stop! Wait. Just hold on.” She takes a big, loud breath. “I found him, but you’re not going to like this.”

  7

  Ares

  Crimes. Against. Cookies.

  Guy who did this should be shot.

  Grass deserves better.

  I dump another scoop of wet cookie into the garbage can on wheels. Ankle’s not happy. I don’t care. Only way to get stronger is to use it. Show it who’s boss.

  I’m not boss of much, but I don’t put up with anything stopping me from being on the ice.

  Not fond of dicks who dump dick cookies. Could’ve eaten these. Fed starving monkeys in South America. Made them into art.

  Dick cookie art.

  Now they’re just mush.

  Weird twist of fate—Murphy ordered the cookies from Gracie’s website. Didn’t know Manning’s girl was behind the dick cookies.

  Lot of heart went into baking these, even if they were just supposed to be a practical joke against Felicity’s ex.

  And now they’re a waste. All that time and effort reduced to a soggy pile of cookies.

  Felicity’s front door bangs open, and there she is, an angel of screeches and finger-pointing. She’s pretty even when she’s pissed.

  Prettier, maybe.

  All that pink in her cheeks. The way her body moves. The electricity in her eyes. “What are you doing why are you out here you need to put your ankle up oh my god, Ares, tell me you didn’t clear Soggy Dick Cookie Mountain all by yourself and where is your coat and if you don’t get inside and sit down RIGHT FUCKING NOW I’m calling your coach.”

  She stops, looks at me, looks at the ground where the cookies were before.

  Back to me.

  Her eyes go glossy. Her lips tremble. She blinks a bunch.

  “And thank you,” she adds softly. In her real voice. Holding eye contact.

  Looking at me.

  Not like I’m a dumb puck who can’t add two and a rooster.

  But like I’m more.

  Shit.

  I’m a sucker for a good thank you from a pretty lady.

  Liked it better when she was shrieking though. Easy to resist shrieking. Easy to resist when they can’t look you in the eye back.

  Nobody ever holds eye contact. They’d rather look away and rattle on about nonsense.

  I grunt and nod.

  “Please come inside and get off your ankle.”

  There’s still four scoops worth of cookies on the grass and sidewalk. Gonna have cookie dust for weeks. Grew up shoveling snow. One thing I was good at. Cookies aren’t so different.

  I stick the snow shovel under another pile.

  “I bought hamburger,” she blurts.

  I frown and pretend I don’t get the hint that she’ll feed me if I come inside. Seriously consider bending over and grabbing a handful of wet cookie slop. Just to gross her out.

  Got fun to let people think I was even dumber than I am about the time that first million hit my bank account. Money makes stupid funny. Money makes stupid okay.

  How the world works. They see what they want to see, but now they see it with dollar signs behind it.

  “Ares, I will seriously cry if you hurt yourself worse right now. And Nick will kill me.”

  Shit.

  Crying’s worse than thank you. I hate when they cry.

  I toss the shovel and lumber up the steps. Yeah, my ankle feels like my bones are hot coals trapped and swelling between two steel beams, but I’ve had worse.

  “No cry,” I grunt.

  She grabs me by the elbow and wrist like she’s going to guide me through the doorway. Her fingers are hot and firm, and the pressure sends a crackle of heat through my skin that makes my junk swell.

  If Z were here, he’d be talking her into playing nurse for me. The good kind of nurse.

  And that picture isn’t helping the junk swelling.

  Fuck, now I’m blushing.

  Wait.

  Is she blushing too?

  Or is that stain in her cheeks because I’m leaning too much on her?

  Fucking ankle. The pain’s roaring to life like a blender out for vengeance, and it’s making me sweat.

  Maybe I haven’t had worse.

  If this ends my career—

  I swallow hard. No fucking way. I’m playing until I’m fucking fifty. Hockey’s the only thing I’m good at.

  Hockey defines me. Hockey and being Z’s twin.

  Without hockey, all I am is a guy who doesn’t
say much. The dumber of the Berger twins. Probably can’t read. Has his mother buy his underwear. Grunts. Doesn’t know any better than to not eat candy wrappers.

  World doesn’t expect much of me off the ice, and I don’t care.

  Except who the fuck am I if I don’t have the ice?

  And Z has Joey now. He’s something more than a brute on the ice, the smarter of the Berger twins off the ice.

  Has something more to live for.

  Happy for him.

  But I know happy ever after isn’t in my cards. Never was.

  So I need the ice.

  This bum foot won’t stop me. I’ll be back lacing up my skates next week.

  But now I’m thinking about what happens if I’m not, and my heart’s racing. Can’t get enough air. Forehead’s tingling. Sweaty.

  “Ares? Come on. Sit. There you go.”

  I’m on my ass on the flower couch. She grunts, grabs the back of my boot, and hefts my leg up onto the coffee table.

  Cool fingers touch my forehead.

  She’s talking again—she’s always talking—and unstrapping the boot.

  I don’t hear anything she’s saying, because my ankle hurts so bad it’s hurting outside my skin, making the whole fucking room hurt, and fear has a grip on my chest.

  I don’t know what the fuck I’d do with my life if I didn’t have hockey.

  Z, he gets endorsement deals. Talking about being a coach someday for a college team. Or just retiring. Living off Joey. She’s smart. Flies a cool plane. Has a badass career.

  Chase has brains. An assload of money. Dating my sister. He’s got a life.

  I’m just a stupid puckhead playing the part of the monkey the world thinks I am.

  Without hockey, I’m nobody.

  Without hockey, there’s nothing making me okay. Nothing making me right.

  I fucking need to get better.

  I fucking need to get better now. Get back on the ice now.

  A strong hand grips me on the shoulder and pushes me back against the cushions.

  Of course she’s strong.

  Smart, pretty, funny, kind, and strong.

  A five-leaf clover.

  “Ares. Come on, buddy. I need you to work with me here. Sit. When’s the last time you had any painkillers? Did you talk to the team doc today?”

  I grunt.

  Doc called.

  I ignored him.

  He said the same thing yesterday she’s saying today. Stay off the ankle. Take your drugs.

  They’re wrong.

  I’m bigger than the pain.

  I’m bigger than every other fucking thing in the world. I can be bigger than the pain. I have to be, because I’m fucking getting back on the ice.

  I grip her wrist. Her clear green eyes collide with mine, and there it is.

  The fear.

  Shit. I’m big, so I’m scary.

  Except I’m not fucking scary. Not when I don’t have to be.

  “Hockey is my life,” I grit out.

  Her eyes widen even more. She stares back, right in the eye, not blinking. Her lips part.

  Pretty eyes. Sprinkled with gold. Ringed with moss.

  “It is, isn’t it?”

  I nod. It’s jerky, but fuck yes, hockey’s my life.

  Her brow crinkles. “I don’t know what my life is,” she whispers.

  The confession slips into the fog in my brain.

  Dating dicks. Chasing degrees.

  She’s lost.

  Smart woman.

  No direction.

  Loki dashes into my lap.

  Felicity blinks quickly and pulls back. “Hockey. Okay. Yeah. I can appreciate hockey being life. You need to get better.”

  I nod back. If I can get on my feet, I’ll make my ankle stronger. Show it who’s boss.

  She pushes against my chest when I move. Her fingers—fuck.

  Small but powerful. She’s strong for a little thing. And every time she touches me, I feel it all the way to my bones.

  Loki chirps at her. She flips my monkey the bird. “Knock it off. We’re on the same team. We’re going to get Ares back on the ice, okay? But he has to let himself heal. The more he fights it, the longer he’s out.”

  “Next week,” I inform her.

  She smiles at me and does that talking-with-her-mouth-closed thing. “One day at a time, Mr. Force! Today calls for rest, ice, compression, and elevation! Whee!”

  This chick might be pretty, but she’s getting as annoying as the doc. And Coach. The trainers. The whole fucking staff.

  Haven’t even been here half a year. Still meeting new people every day.

  They don’t know me.

  Don’t know everything I can do.

  Her hand goes to my hip, touching my pants, her eyes close, lips closer. I get a whiff of something sweet and lemony in her hair, and yeah, there’s more swelling in my junk. But she grabs my phone and pulls back. “You should put a pass code on—never mind.”

  Yeah. Ares is too dumb to remember a pass code.

  Ares needs to borrow his brother’s agent because he can’t talk to one of his own.

  Ares pays someone to make sure he doesn’t leave the house without his pants on.

  Being dumb—I’m as good at that as I am at hockey.

  The world knows best, right? Why change their minds?

  Here’s what we’re gonna do for you, Ares. We’re gonna get you a three-year, twenty-mil contract, you’re gonna wipe the ice like a fucking superstar, and when your contract’s up, we’ll get you so much cash nobody’s gonna care that you don’t do interviews.

  Felicity puts my phone to her ear, and a minute later, my brother’s voice booms out. “Dude. Finally. You okay?”

  I try to lunge off the couch, but Loki shrieks and Felicity hits me with a teacher glare that makes me feel like a second-grader who can’t spell hat in the spelling bee in front of the whole class and everyone’s parents and the special ed teachers who are shaking their heads because I’m just a fucking dumbass who couldn’t hear right until I got tubes put in my ears at six and couldn’t sit still for anything even once the words started making sense.

  “Hi, this is Felicity Murphy. Nick’s sister. I’m hanging out with Ares, and I can’t get him to stay off his ankle. Can you talk to him? Please?”

  I’m not just blushing now. Now I’m getting mad red. Loki leaps onto my shoulder, wraps his arms around my head, and pets me.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Z says. I can hear him from here. “Put him on.”

  She shoves the phone at me.

  I take it and hang up. Before Z can call back, I send him a text of a llama playing drums.

  He calls back anyway.

  I glower at Felicity and twist so I can shove the phone under my ass.

  Watch her go after it now.

  She puts her fists on her hips and glowers right back.

  Fucking hockey sisters. Mine would do the same thing. Pull out my legs hairs at the same time.

  “Talk. To. Your. Brother.”

  “Beef.”

  “Not until you talk to your brother. And if you don’t take his call, I’m going to call your sister. And then your mother. And then your coach. And don’t think I won’t do it. I don’t even need your phone. I have friends, Berger. I have friends all over the NHL.”

  Loki shrieks at her and hugs my big head tighter. The sound echoes in the chamber between my ears.

  I don’t need this shit.

  But I can’t leave either. Not when Murphy’s sister is dealing with a bad ex.

  Yeah, my ears work fine now.

  And her windows are thin.

  And that pile of cookies isn’t normal. And I know not normal.

  I am not normal.

  “Sock,” I grunt at her. Just to throw her off.

  It’s my favorite game.

  Her eyes narrow to thin slits. “Bird.”

  “Puff.”

  “Fluke.”

  “Sky.”

  “Wool.” She
switches to six different voices and adds, “Walk. Spoon. Pen. Cup. Turd. Gross!”

  “I eat lobsters raw. Your dummies suck at hockey. Puck puck puck stick puck.”

  She blinks, and bursts out laughing. “Did you just trash talk haiku me?”

  Fuck. I never do that off the ice. “Tongue.”

  “Answer your phone. And if you get off that couch, I’ll tell Maren all about your poetry. Loki, you have my permission to bite him if he tries to move.” She turns and strolls to the kitchen.

  My stomach rumbles.

  And my fucking ankle throbs.

  Loki pulls back and peers at me. You okay, buddy? I wouldn’t bite you, but I get scared when you’re hurt.

  Monkey’s not talking, but I swear he is.

  My phone rings again.

  Yeah, fine, I like poetry.

  Still don’t want to talk.

  8

  Felicity

  Tuesday is more of the same. Mostly. Ares squeezes into my car, ignores my hints that we should pick up his car instead—either he doesn’t let anyone else drive it, Nick was lying about him having a car, or possibly that’s where he keeps all of his haiku books and doesn’t want anyone to know—and after we drop Loki for a day of hanging with Kami at her family’s veterinary clinic, Ares spends the morning in the waiting room resting and icing his ankle while making magazine-page paper airplanes that he tosses at our receptionist whenever she’s not looking.

  And I breathe a sigh of relief that he’s taking it easy today.

  I heard he let a three-year-old kick his ass in tic-tac-toe for an hour too. And that the three-year-old’s mom insisted on wiping the crayon marks off the walls herself once their appointment for her older kid was done.

  At lunch, since he’s stayed off his ankle and not gotten me in much more trouble at the clinic, I take him to my favorite burrito bar. I get a sofritas black bean bowl. He orders three steak and carnitas burritos with extra cheese, double guacamole, and a side of chips.

  For the record, he accomplishes this with four grunts, three fingers, and a series of pointed gestures. When I go to pay, he does a ninja move with the crutch that ends with his credit card getting slid into the machine first.

  Both the cashier and I gape at him.