Shep leans in. “But not in the way you’d like,” he whispers.
“I’m … uh … fuck, no.”
“Yeah, sure, Cap. But look, if you need help with anything, that’s what we’re here for.”
I know that. They’re great. But I’m the captain, the house president, they’re not supposed to look after me.
“I’ve solved our breakfast dilemma,” I say, changing the subject. “Chef’s gonna make us breakfast wraps. We’ll swing by after morning practices, grab a few, and head to class.”
It took some finagling, but thankfully, it was in the budget, something I had to run by Coach. It was a weird meeting. He looked at me funny, like there was something he wanted to say, but when I explained the grief we were getting for not showing up to his brother’s class on time, he nodded and said he’d approve it. Since he was agreeable, I let it go that the likely reason his brother was on my ass in the first place was because of him. Didn’t even mention it. But there was an undercurrent of understanding anyway, as if he could feel the words that were drumming around in my skull. It’s probably the first time I’ve had any real beef with Coach. We’ve never been besties, but we’ve had an amicable business-style relationship. His brother’s appearance seems to be shifting that.
“That’s awesome, man,” Shep says.
“Breakfast wraps are the perfect solution, Cap,” Lars, our goalie, says from the other side of the locker room.
Huh. I thought I’d get push back, but everyone’s so agreeable about it. It makes Professor VanCourt right. Not that I’ll tell him.I thought my rule was limited to on the ice, but yeah, maybe they do hang off my every word.
All that does is up the responsibility factor.
“Yeah, wish I’d thought of it sooner,” I say. It reminds me of the huge secret I hope no one ever finds out: I don’t have my shit as together as I make it appear. Someone who did would have figured that out from the beginning, and we wouldn’t have to show up late to class.
That’s settled, now for the thing that’s twisting my stomach in knots. I didn’t think this was gonna be a big deal, it’s just clothes for fucksakes. Taking a breath, I slide into the long-sleeved button-up I chose for today. I started with extra-fancy, so he’d know I was serious. If he knows I’m willing to follow orders, maybe he’ll lay off everyone else. Next are the black slacks, the black socks, and my freshly shined-up shoes.
Bender notices first, letting out a low whistle. “Nice, Cap. You dressing up for someone?”
Yes.“Leave it.”
He shrugs, snickering. The rest of the team looks away when I glare at them. Other than that, it’s fine. So fine.
And it is, until it comes time to put my jacket on, the only thing he didn’t object to. At least, that’s how I’ve been framing it in my mind, but as I slide the first arm in, it hits me. Permission. I have his permission to continue wearing it.
No. That’s not the full picture either. He specified the jacket. Some things were options—like the choice of shirt, pants, and shoes, so long as they fit within a category of dress. The jacket was a requirement.
Just like that, its meaning’s shifted.
On the surface, it’ll still look like I’m showcasing team pride, but VanCourt and I will know what it really means.
Obedience.
Almost like a collar.
One I have to put on myself every day. One he didn’t have to give to me. This jacket doesn’t belong to me anymore; it belongs to him.
And so do I.
All signs say I’m supposed to hate that, but I don’t.
Not even a little bit.
6
Luke
It’s the stiffened way he sits. That’s how I know he gets it, what I did to his jacket. Once a badge of pride, now a quiet form of control. Letting Ace wear the jacket is more powerful than stripping it off him. Instead of freedom and bro-ship, he’ll feel me, wrapping around him all day long, every thread of it whispering to him, reminding him who owns his ass.
Besides, I like the look of it on him, especially dressed so prettily for me. But I’m almost annoyed. He’s followed everything to the letter, leaving no room for me to punish him—or so he thinks. I make the rules, I never said they’d be fair. I like having control over him a bit too much.
His stare burns into the back of my skull. He wants to challenge me, he’s probably confused as to why he hasn’t, used to being in charge. But his instincts are overriding all conscious thought. As uncomfortable as he must feel in his own skin, there’s got to be something very right. Something worth exploring, or he wouldn’t still be following the breadcrumbs I leave for him.
