Him

**TRISTAN**

My phone buzzed. One new message.

*"You're sick… Use that money to get your head checked."* And right below it: *"This person is not contactable."*

I pinched the bridge of my nose, holding back a chuckle as the coach stood in front of me.

There was something about the brown-haired rascal that amused me—something I hadn’t quite figured out yet. Maybe it was the way he overflowed with emotion.

*"You hate emotions."*

Maybe. But they suited him—better than those coffee-brown eyes or the slight athletic physique hidden beneath oversized hoodies.

*"He hates you."*

Why should I care? At first, all I felt was guilt. The morning after, when I placed a hand on his shoulder and he flinched, I realized—his first time. And I hadn't even noticed.

It was no coincidence he was the first I laid my eyes on when I walked into the school that evening. The brunette surrounded by friends and staring at the wall.

Habits died hard, so once again, like the life I kept a secret from everyone one else, I was stalking.

What the hell had I been thinking? Nothing, really. Just the urge to let off steam. Seeing him there... Damn, I barely remembered anything.

Except his moans. My grunts. The feel of him and that scent, that scent that could knock one faster than an overdosed cocaine.

To ease the guilt, I shoved cash into his bag, feeling his eyes on my back as I walked out of that hotel room, hoping I’d never see him again.

But that was history.

"Tristan," Coach Daniel called.

I nodded and slid into the rink, gripping the stick. My mind should’ve been on the ice, but I kept scanning the crowd, hoping to spot him.

No sign of him. Just his friends, calling him again and again, groaning when he didn’t pick up.

I stifled a laugh. He’ll come around. They always do. The real question was—how long?

"Focus!" the coach yelled as I sent George crashing onto the ice. "You’re the captain, Henderson!"

George muttered something as he brushed past me, flipping off the crowd. Their cheers filled the rink as I knocked the puck into the goalpost, but even that wasn’t enough to snap me out of it.

I circled the rink, the ice smooth beneath me, cold air sharpening my focus, but my mind kept drifting back to him.

By the end of practice, as the crowd thinned out, I spotted Eros waving my phone from the stands. I glided over, feeling George’s glare burn into my back.

“You’ve got a new message,” Eros said as I snatched the phone. “It’s your uncle.”

Disappointment hit me harder than I expected. For a moment, I’d thought it would be him.

I pocketed the phone. What the hell is wrong with me?

Eros' brows furrowed, his hazel pupils flicking from my pocket back to my face.

“That’s the first time you haven’t been excited about a message from your uncle.” Realization dawned. “It’s about that boy, isn’t it?”

Eros, my closest person next to my uncle, always knew too much.

“You know,” I cut in, glancing around. “You’re getting too nosy.”

“I should be,” he snapped. “Or have you forgotten why we got kicked out of Aspen Grove High?”

“Hey.” I laughed, ruffling his ginger hair. “I’ve got this under control.”

“When you say that, it makes me want to shit my pants.”

“This time, I really do.”

“Bastard, you’re not helping.” He huffed. “Oh, and in case you never read the message, your uncle wants you to stop by this weekend. Your mother shouldn’t know.”

She never did. My phone buzzed again. As Eros walked off, I fished it out, grimacing when it was just a random message.

How long was this kid going to take? No one ever took this long. Something told me I should’ve be ready to get my money back by Monday, but I pushed the thought away. That never happened.

At the edge of the rink, I noticed that curly-haired emo girl, the one always with Myles, yelling into her phone.

“Call me back, you son of a bitch! I’m worried about you!”

Leo, struggling with two heavy bags, looked just as worried.

No answer.

I left the rink.

By the next day—Saturday—while I lazily hit a puck against a tree, I was still blocked.

I loved a challenge, especially one I knew I’d win. Too bad he caught my interest.

By evening, my phone buzzed again. Thirty minutes later, as I scrolled through the endless messages, his finally popped up.

A smirk crept across my lips as I opened it.

*"Uhh, hey, I was wondering... Is your offer still up?"*

Ah. I sighed, dropping the phone face down, and staring up at the ceiling.

What are the odds of always being right?

So much for wasting my time.