Page 14 of Falling for the Felid
He lifts his gaze. “I mean… I don’t want you to feel like I’m invading your privacy. I can just leave a message for you at the DEA, right?”
That would only make Dáithí wonder why I didn’t give him my direct contact details, which would probably lead to me having another uncomfortable conversation with Eoin about professional behavior. Besides, it’s not like Felix is going to use my phone number for evil.
“That would be inefficient,” I reply, and yep… there’s that stick up my ass again.
I hold in a sigh. This day needs to end soon.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Felix
“I’m so fucking stupid”is the first thing I say when Jared opens his front door to let me in. It’s the phrase that’s been playing on repeat in my head all afternoon, ever since I (stupidly) told Ari we’d all go to a hockey game together. Maybe even from before that.
“So you said earlier,” my calm, self-contained friend replies with his gentle smile. “Why don’t you come in and tell us all about it? Dáithí’s already declared that he’ll die if he doesn’t get an update soon.”
I hesitate midstep. “That’s not an actual thing for elves, is it? He’s not really going to die or anything?”
Jared shrugs and closes the door. “We all die sometime. It’s part of a grand cycle. But no, I don’t think elves actually die if they’re deprived of gossip.” We enter his kitchen just in time for Dáithí, who’s sitting at the table petting Jared’s cat, to hear that last part.
“It depends,” he volunteers. “For example, if you don’t immediately tell me what’s so important you insisted we meet tonight, I might go on a homicidal rampage that would probably end in my execution. So… death by gossip deprivation.”
Jared snorts. “That’s reaching.” He waves me to the table and goes to the fridge. “Soda? Or is this going to need something stronger?”
I consider that carefully. “How about soda with a shot of human liquor?” I’ll metabolize that so fast, it almost won’t have any effect on me, but it might act like a placebo for my brain.
Jared’s brows rise, but he doesn’t say anything, just gathers what’s needed. Dáithí, on the other hand, props his elbow on the table and his chin on his palm and stares at me intently.
Irritation rises. “Stop that.”
“I’m not doing anything. Tell your hormones to fuck off for a second, or we’ll never be able to help.”
I glare at him, because if it was that easy to keep my hormones under control, I wouldn’t be in this situation. Situations.
“Here.” Jared hands me a tall glass filled to the top, and I take a healthy slug as he sits across from me. “Now tell us everything. Today was the first day back after training camp, right?”
I nod, suddenly not knowing where to start. “Yeah.”
They exchange a glance I’m probably not supposed to see. “How was the new coach? Still playing things close to his chest?” Dáithí prompts.
“He fired two of the assistant coaches.”
“Okay,” Jared says slowly. “That’s not unusual, though. And I didn’t think you liked any of the coaching staff anyway.”
“I don’t. Didn’t. But I guess I figured he would have done it before now, and I wasn’t expecting it. Then he kept me and some others back.” I fill them in on that conversation, and how I’m determined to pass Coach’s test. “I don’t know what exactly he wants me to prove, but I’ll prove it. I can be a team player; I can be a spokesperson for the team; I can control my temper.”
They both look dubious about the last one.
“I can!”
“It’s not that we think you don’t want to,” Dáithí soothes. “But the problem is your hormones. Does he know about that? That you’re still in puberty?”
I shrug awkwardly. Back when my reproductive puberty began, I mentioned it to one of the trainers, who suggested I should tell Coach. He blew me off with the comment that “Maybe you’ll finally do some fucking damage on the ice.” So I’m not all that confident about the idea of talking to my new coach, who I barely know, about it. He’s not even a shifter, so he might not be familiar with how reproductive puberty works.
“You’re the one who has to make these decisions,” Jared adds, “but if your new coach thinks you’re just a ragey asshole, that’s going to impact how he treats you.”
“He might not care whether there’s a reason or not.” The words are dragged from me.
“Maybe. Which would make him the asshole. But you won’t know unless you tell him. Remember, sometimes worrying about scary things is scarier than the scary things are.”
