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Chapter One
1.5 Years Before the Plane Crash
Micah
The party at Ezra’s has already started by the time Maison and I walk in. Everyone parts ways to let us through and cheers, patting us on the back from our big win tonight. We are like kings in this school, and my family runs this entire town. Whenever we walk in somewhere, the party really starts, and everyone stares and kisses our asses like they should.
Maison and I settle in the living room with the music blaring around me. Everyone is borderline wasted already. New Ocean is the place to be tonight, and Ezra’s dad generously offered us his house, spending the entire weekend in the city, leaving us full access.
What a stupid motherfucker. Every single bed will end up getting fucked in—and I doubt anyone knows how to do laundry.
“Good win tonight, fuckers,” Maison says, pouring a shot of Jack Daniels into his mouth before handing me the bottle. Maison likes to celebrate, usually with a drink, or ten. He jabs Ezra’s side, who he’s seated next to. “Congrats on your first big goal, buddy.” He lays a lazy arm around Ezra and shoots me a glance to shut my mouth.
Leave it to Maison to play the middleman, but I’d rather choke on acid than congratulate Ezra on what should have been mine. We won the city championships for the third year in a row. New Ocean Prep never won a single tournament before I joined the team. I should be thrilled about our victory, considering I put this school on the map.
Except I’m fucking not.
Six scouts came to watch me tonight. They weren’t there to watch anyone else—just me. And all I did was royally screw it up. I had a chance for a hat trick and to score the winning goal as I usually do. Instead, I got caught up in some bullshit, and my temper got the best of me when a fucker on the Douglas Cove team messed with Maison. They fuck with him to fuck with me, and I let them get to me.
Every. Single. Damn. Time.
Instead of living my moment, I spent the last two minutes in the penalty box because I pulled his helmet off and punched the shit out of him. Ezra ended up scoring the winning goal, and he shouldn’t have been on the ice. He’s a year younger than me and a first-year on the senior team. He needs to earn his place, not try to take mine. Maison fed him the goal—of course it was Maison, and it was a short-handed goal which makes it sting even worse.
Even though it felt good to punch the other team out, it took every inch of control not to throw down on Ezra, too, and wipe that smug look off his face as he skated by me. He gloated about it for ten minutes in the dressing room after. If Maison wasn’t there to babysit him, I would have broken his fucking nose. I don’t give a shit if our parents have been friends for years.
Ezra sits across from me and next to Maison with a mocking smirk still planted on his angular face. Maison gives me a knowing look and instead of firing an insult at the kid, I say nothing. I still plan on fucking with Ezra tonight, even if Maison doesn’t want me to. His little girlfriend Naomi has pined over me for years, and tonight I plan on shoving my dick in her mouth. I don’t give a shit if we are at his house. She shamelessly flirts with me in front of him anyway, which is part of the reason we don’t like each other. I used to kick his ass as a kid, which is probably another reason.
When I’m done with her, I’ll make sure her panties are wet because it’s my dick she’s thinking about when she goes home and touches herself. And rumor has it, Ezra hasn’t even sealed the deal with her yet. She’s a token virgin.
I avoid Ezra’s annoying face and chat with Thomas instead. He’s a bigger kid—and doesn’t say much, which I like. He’s the only younger kid on the team with any sort of talent. And he’s loyal to me. He never tries to outshine me on the ice like Ezra does. He only backs me up.
A couple of cute girls walk by the couch, giggling and smiling at us. Ezra mutters some dirty words at them while I search for Naomi, who’s chatting with her friend Serena across the room, still wearing their cheer outfits, her blonde ponytail swaying around. Ezra’s such a fucker. By the way, he’s eye fucking all the chicks here. It looks like he and Naomi are off right now. It doesn’t take her long to make eye contact with me, and I know Ezra’s noticed.
Maison turns to me and grins, lifting each brow. “Time to party, bro,” he says as he flashes a smile at them. I ignore them, which is my usual MO. Although I enjoy the skimpy outfits they are wearing. Bras as shirts seem to be the new thing—and I don’t hate it. The girls in this town are boring, same old song and dance every weekend. And I really dislike talking. It’s much easier to stay quiet.
“Take it easy, Maison,” I say, “the night’s still young.”
Maison’s like a kid in a candy store when it comes to chicks. He’s always been a bigger slut than me. He falls fast and hard, then moves on like it didn’t happen. I don’t want or have time for a girlfriend right now. Hockey is my number one and will be till I get scouted.
I can’t fuck it up again.
I have to get myself under control and prove to my parents getting myself off those fucking meds was the best thing for me. That I can control the anger and sadness that overwhelms me sometimes without medicating myself to do it. The meds leave my body weak and my mind clouded. I don’t fuck the same on them; they take away every ounce of my libido. And if I don’t have sex—I can’t fucking breathe.
Sex and hockey—the only two things I think about.
My twin leans back on the couch, giving the girls a playful smile as they continue to undress us with their eyes, shifting their gaze between the two of us. It was Maison’s idea to dress identically tonight. He knows how irritated people make me, and sometimes it’s fun taking a break being me. While our personalities couldn’t be more different, we’ve mastered each other’s quirks. There is only one real physical difference. The scar on Maison’s shoulder. The cause of my lingering PTSD and the reason I’m so fucked up.
People treat us differently, especially when they have no idea who they are actually speaking to. I can weed out the fake ones easier, so we opted for a white T-shirt and jeans. The white drives the girls crazy because it brings out our natural tan on our olive skin. And the T-shirt—I’m well aware of what we look like. We train hard for these muscles and since we both sprouted two inches last year, Maison and I are the biggest guys on the team.
It doesn’t take long for the girls to flock to us. Naomi and her friend Serena walk by and smile at us. Ezra nearly lurches off his seat.
Desperate prick.
Serena seems to have it bad for Maison. She turns red as a cherry every time he smiles at her. I’m about to wave them over, but another blonde catches my attention. One I haven’t seen around here before. She walks into the party with a friend who leaves her, and she immediately huddles to the corner and picks up her phone, glancing at it. A sure sign she doesn’t know anyone here, which also makes her an easy target. Because she’s hot—like seriously fucking hot. Tall, slim, and generously proportioned. She’s obviously dying for people to look at her. Her tits are pressed up high in that low-cut shirt, and her ass is meaty in those tight jeans. She dressed to impress.
I recognize her from somewhere; I know I do.
So, who is she?
