Page 145 of Forbidden Hockey
“You’re not giving up hockey for college,” he says.
Oooookay. Didn’t expect that. I laugh, but he’s not laughing. “Oh, you’re serious.”
“Yeah, I am. You can tell Hunter it’s not happening.”
“Last I checked, I’m my own fucking person, Travis.”
“Could have fooled me. The Dirk I know wouldn’t give up his dream to make his brother happy.”
“I already told you?—”
“I know what you told me, and what you told me is bullshit. Anyway, it’s not happening.”
“Because you said so?” I check, and I hope the sarcasm in my voice reaches whatever dark place he’s in.
“Because I fucking said so.” He sneers.
Not gonna lie, something about his toxically dominant tone is appealing, and not just because it’s hot, because I want someone to stop me. I might actually fucking need an intervention at this point. Even the lure of joining the UBC men’s varsity hockey team wasn’t enough to appease the ache that’s not a permanent resident in my chest. The AHL isn’t the NHL, but it’s still pro hockey.
“The nineteen fifties called, Trav, they want their domineering, patriarchal bullshit back.”
His lip curls, my verbal jab having done little more than the equivalent of spraying a bear with bear spray. “Watch it, pretty boy.”
“Oh, yeah? What are you gonna do about it, Trav?”
“Whatever I have to. You’re not giving up hockey for your brother or anyone.” He shrugs, walking away from me like his word is final.
How is it that his talking like that has me hating him with more fury than I’ve ever felt, and my dick hardening at the same time? Makes no fucking sense.
Do not get hard. Do not like this.
My blood boils. “That how we do things now, Trav?”
“It’s how we should have done things in the first place.”
“Or maybe you’re just saying that because you’ve decided to team up with Elkington to get rid of your Robin problem, and you don’t want to feel guilty about it. Well, fuck you. If I can’tdo what I want, then you don’t get to either. No plotting Robin’s demise.”
His eyes darken, growing ever more feral. I’m yanked forward until I collide with his body, his hand fists into my shirt. It becomes a shouting match.
“You don’t have a kid. You don’t understand.”
“I understand plenty. It’s your ego, Trav.”
“Dash is scared. He doesn’t feel safe. I want to make him safe.”
“Listen to yourself. You think plotting murder’s the only way to be a good dad. He wants you here. He wants you to help him raise grandbabies for fucksake.”
“I don’t need advice from you on being a good dad.”
“And I don’t need you telling me what to do with my life.”
“Right, guess that’s your brother’s job, eh?”
“Maybe it is,” I say just to piss him off more. “And since you’re not my brother, you can fuck right off.”
My feet trip over themselves as he shoves me against the wall, crowding over me, pinning me with his stare. He slams his hand beside my head, and the sound reverberates through the wall and my bones at the same time.
His mouth gets close, right beside my ear. “Nuh-uh. He doesn’t own you—I do.”
