Page 57 of Monstrous Serpent

My thumb traces the edge of the phone case. Jenkins probably hates us. He should. But he kissed me back. Nobody made him do that.

And Hunter.

I saw him looking at me, stroking. Saw the huff of breath and the way his hips snapped harder.

The back of my throat goes dry.

In eight years of friendship, and two threesomes, he's never reacted to me like that.

“Ohhh, this got more interesting.” Rua is leaning over the table, reading my texts.

I lock the screen and put my phone face down on the table. “Mind your own business.”

He sits back, but the smile that’s been on his face all night is gone. “Be careful. He’s not like the others.”

“The others?”

He nods. “Let’s just say Knight, Novotny, and Walsh are more like us than you think. But Jenkins isn’t part of their group.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “And?”

Rua taps a finger on the table, eyes locked with mine. “We don’t come from rich families. Not like the ones in Crestwood. Jenkins finds out about what you and Kincaid—what we do—then all of us go to jail.”

He’s right.

My thumb runs over the scar along my palm to the Patrick Star tattoo on the inside of my wrist.

Jenkins might have kissed me back, but he’s not like us. And if he finds out what I’ve done, what I am . . . I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, closing my eyes.

I killed Hunter’s father to keep him safe. Bashed his skull in with a rock.

“Atlas?”

My eyes open, and I sit taller, jaw set. “Jenkins won't be a problem. Hunter comes first. Always has. No one threatens that.”

Chapter 16

Cody

Three goals. Ezra Isaksen put up three goals against Wisconsin this afternoon, and the highlight reel already has 40,000 views.

The first one was disgusting. Top shelf, glove side, off a one-timer from the left circle that the goalie didn't even move on. The second was a redirect off a cross-crease pass, which, fine, that's positioning and timing. But the third was a breakaway where he deked the goalie out of his jockstrap, tucked it five-hole, and glided away like he just checked his mailbox.

Fucker didn't even look like he was trying.

I scroll back to the first goal and watch it again, my thumb pressing into the side of my phone. Michigan's arena is packed, the student section going crazy. The commentators won't shut up about his Hobey Baker campaign and how this is “the statement game” of opening weekend.

I got one assist against Quinnipiac earlier today. In a game we lost.

One assist.

Nobody's making a highlight reel out of a puck I passed to Walsh behind the net. Nobody's tagging me in anything.

“Dude, stop moping.” Doyle holds up a wrinkled button-down, sniffs it, then shoves it back into his suitcase.

“I'm not.” I don't look up from my phone.

“Uh, yeah, you are.” He pulls out a different shirt, tugs it on, and checks himself in the mirror on the closet door of our hotel room. “You and Henneman were solid out there today. I’m the one who fell at the blue line. That shit was so embarrassing.”