Page 1 of Iced Out Mate

Chapter One

Started At Hello

DYLAN

Anxiety sucked major donkey balls.

I paced around my living room, looking around for something to do to keep my mind busy. To stop it from racing in a hundred different directions, none of them leading me anywhere I actually wanted to go. It felt like a pile of ants had been dropped in my chest and were crawling outwards.

I already vacuumed. I cleaned the kitchen this morning. I cuddled with Nike on the couch and I played a video game that I could hardly focus on, causing me to lose more times than I could count and get yelled at by some fourteen-year-old with early onset anger issues. I’d already gotten a warning for talking back to the little snot heads so I decided to keep my smart mouth shut and just turn it off. I went into my bedroom and stared at the pile of laundry that needed to be folded. I put away three shirts and a couple pairs of socks but still couldn’t stop the anxiety from smacking me repeatedly across the face and punching me directly in the chest.

None of it worked. My skin still crawled. Brain still buzzed. Heart raced for no apparent reason, since my fight-or-flight instincts must have been fried at birth.

I dragged myself over to my kitchen, the tiles cool against my bare feet. I checked the sink, finding nothing to clean. Looked in the fridge for some beer—it was already five o’clock which gave me the societal green light to start drinking, even if it was a random Sunday at home.

Nothing.

In fact, my fridge was pretty empty. I had my meal prep containers full and ready to go (chicken, brown rice, and veggies—yum… for a hamster shifter), but maybe I could busy myself with some grocery shopping?

Which would then require me going to the grocery store, something I wasn’t particularly fond of.

I shut the fridge door. A tiny and hungry meow followed the sound of it closing. Nike looked up at me with half-closed eyes. He likely woke up from a nap and launched himself off the couch the second he heard me opening the fridge. He could have been in a coma and that cat would have risen like the second coming for a nibble of fresh ham.

I smiled before crouching down and giving him a couple chin scratches. He looked at me like, Thanks, bud, but we both know that’s not what I came here for.

“Sorry, sir, your order is coming right up.” I opened the fridge door to another—much louder—meow. Cool. I didn’t want to get him upset and lower my star rating.

The crinkling of the bag made Nike even more awake. He nudged his body against my leg, looking up at me, tail shivering in anticipation. “Here you go, sir. I hope it pleases you.” I balled up a tiny piece of deli meat and tossed it down on the floor. Nike pounced on it like a lion. He swallowed it down, gave a meow of thanks, then bumped into my leg asking for more. “Coming right up.” I tossed down another piece. I’d give it to him by hand, but I learned my lesson from the first couple days I’d brought him home. I’d never had a cat—hell, I never even had a goldfish—so I wasn’t really aware of just how sharp their teeth and claws were.

I quickly learned after I tried to be nice and hand-feed him some kibble. Maybe it was because he was extra hungry after I rescued him, but the little bastard nearly took off a finger. Thankfully my shifter healing closed the two deep bleeding wounds on my hand fairly quickly.

I still wasn’t sure if that moment gave my sidekick a taste for fresh blood, though.

After nearly an entire slice of ham, I figured it was time to close the kitchen and hand out the bill. Nike quickly entered dine-and-dash mode once he realized the ham was being put away. I closed the fridge door to see his black tail curling around a corner and disappearing back into the living room.

“I’ll just comp this one,” I called out to him.

The sound of kitty litter being moved around answered me. Great. He wasn’t paying his bill and he was blowing up the bathroom.

I leaned against the kitchen counter and rested my head against the plain wood cabinet.

That was a nice five-minute reprieve, but unfortunately feeding my cat wasn’t the cure I was searching for.

What about a hookup? That could possibly help solve this random oil slick of anxiety I’d woken up covered in. I could keep my mind and body focused entirely on someone else’s. Get myself out of my head. Give—and get—some head in the process. Win-win.

Except I knew that’d only be a temporary fix. Especially lately.

I wasn’t always this anxious. I lived a fairly carefree life and liked to have that reflected in how I acted and felt. Except life has a way of chipping away at the effortless smiles and hearty laughs. My first real anxiety attack happened sophomore year when I was failing in my science classes. Academics—or anything requiring major brain power—was never my strength and having that made obvious with the grades I was bringing home made me feel crushed, over and over again. It didn’t matter how good I was doing in gym class or in hockey. My father was one of those men who could cut you down with a look—and considering he was a fucking rocket scientist there were some big shoes to fill and a lot of nasty looks and comments when those shoes weren’t the right fit for me.

Then things got exponentially worse when my family ripped apart at the seams.

The anxiety attacks evolved into full-blown panic attacks. They weren’t overly frequent, but they were there and they were debilitating. The only thing that really helped was playing hockey. Being on the ice, playing with my team, unleashing a little aggression on my opponents—it all allowed me to take my mind off the constant buzz of dark dread and the shitty feeling of disappointing my father.

I’d also learned to mask most of my anxious feelings throughout the years. No one on the team, or my pack, really knew I suffered with this. The only person I told was my best friend, Chris. And that was because we were sharing a hotel room one night when I’d gotten hit with a particularly bad wave of anxiety. I spent the night quietly pacing from the bed to the bathroom, where I’d sink to the cold floor and try not to cry or shout. I thought I hadn’t woken him, but on one of my trips back to the bed I saw Chris sitting up in his, looking worried as fuck.

That’s when I told him everything. It was a relief, getting it off my chest, even though I wasn’t entirely sure what it was that I needed to talk about. I just rambled, got choked up, paced around some more until Chris stood up, grabbed my shoulders, told me I was going to be okay, and then wrapped me in a tight hug that only reinforced his words.

“Fuck,” I sighed, pushing off the kitchen counter. I pulled out my phone and considered calling him. Before I could tap on his name I got hit with a sweet scent drifting in from the open window above my sink.