Don’t You Dare

Never—not in my entire damn life—did I think I’d grow up to be an alarm clock.

Plenty of things were on the list over the years of my adolescence. When I was a young kid, they were the fun ones and nothing out of the norm: Astronaut. Firefighter. President of the United States, on the days I was feeling particularly ambitious. Sometimes, I could see myself jamming out on stage as a rock star, despite not having a musical bone in my body. All the dreams of a kid with nothing but my imagination holding me back.

When I grew older and a little wiser, discovering my true talents along the way, things became a bit more clear. I thought maybe I’d be a professional athlete. Part of me still thinks I could be. Spending my days playing the game I love. Traveling around the country with a team. Being part of the one percent of the population that was able to truly hone my skill and craft enough to make it to the big leagues.

All in all, from start to finish, none of those are anything atypical for a regular, run-of-the-mill guy.

But last I checked, being the annoying, awful thing to wake a person up in the morning wasn’t on that list.

Yet here I am, slamming my fist into Aspen’s door to wake his sorry ass up. Irony that’s not lost on me, considering he’s usually awake at five in the morning to run and is normally the one to make sure I’m awake in time to make it to early morning lifting or PT sessions.

Not this morning, though. At least, if his running shoes by our door and AirPods on the coffee table—or the noises coming through his wall until late last night—are anything to go off of.

A good ninety-eight percent of the time, those are the only mornings the asswipe never manages to get up on time. When he’s been busy entertaining whatever girl he’s decided to bring back to our dorm room. Thankfully, they’ve been few and far between over the last three semesters we’ve been roommates here at Foltyn.

He seems to be starting this term with a bang, though. Pun absolutely intended.

“Wake up, Pen! We have to get going!” I shout, still pounding my fist into the wood.

And I’m gonna be late too, because you’re my damn ride.

I glance down at my watch to find I have exactly thirty minutes to get to the field. I prefer to be early, even if it’s only weights this morning. And seeing as both the team’s facility and the field are on the other side of campus from our dorm, walking is out of the question. My only option is the car.

And the owner of said car is fast a-fucking-sleep.

A low rumble of irritation slips from my throat as I slap against the door again.

“For fuck’s sake, Pen. Get up! You’re gonna make me late!”

It takes a few seconds, but I finally hear stirring behind the wood and let out a breath of relief. Leave it to a threat to my well-being to get him going. I can say what I want about my best friend, but at the end of the day and for all intents and purposes, he’s a brother to me. Cares about me on a level not many other people do. Only my mother and sister can compare.

No more than a minute later, the door is yanked open by…not Aspen.

Nope.

I’m met face-to-face with Bristol, dressed only in one of Aspen’s ratty t-shirts.

I sigh as I take in the girl he’s been seeing for the past year or so. If you can call it that, considering I don’t think they’ve actually gone out on a single date. Fuck buddies would be more accurate to describe their relationship. And again, from the sounds they were making last night and the sated smile currently on her lips, she’s definitely okay with it.

Her blue eyes roam my face as she combs her fingers through her long, dark hair.

“Hi, Keene. He’ll be out in a few.”

I plaster a fake smile on my face. “Didn’t realize you were his secretary now too.”

She isn’t taken aback by my slightly insulting comment or tone. Instead, she just smiles and crosses her arms before leaning against the door frame.

“Someone’s feisty this morning,” she quips. Deep maroon nails tap against her tanned skin as she studies my face. “If you need to get laid, baby, all you have to do is ask to join.”

My stomach swirls at the offer, but I snort and shake my head. The annoyance is still there, but I can’t help being amused by her quick wit.

Honestly, I like Bristol. Not in that way, but as much as I possibly can like the girl my best friend is screwing regularly. On any other given day, I’d chat with her while waiting for Aspen to literally get his shit together so we can get out of here. Make the small talk that isn’t all that awkward anymore, since we’ve gotten to know each other a bit.

But today isn’t a normal day, and the first regular season practice always has me on edge.

Something Aspen knows all too well, so why he pulled this crap with me this morning is…

Just cool it. He’ll be out in a few. It’s fine.

“I’ll keep it in mind,” I tell her, instead focusing my attention on flipping my snapback backward on my head to give me something to do other than lose my shit on Aspen.

She shrugs at my dismissal of her offer, slipping past me to head to our kitchenette to make herself some coffee. Which only serves as a signal that I won’t be leaving anytime soon.

Goddamnit. I should just take the car and go.

Just as I’m entering his room to suggest it, I collide with a hard, bare chest. On instinct, I reach out to steady myself by putting a hand on his shoulder, and while his skin should just be warm beneath my palm, it sizzles uncomfortably.

Clearing my throat, I release him quickly and glance at his face. His sapphire eyes are wide and alert—almost in a state of panic—and the long midnight strands of hair on the top of his head, a disheveled mess.

“You look like you had fun last night,” I say dryly, taking in his sex hair. My eyes move down his body of their own accord to find he’s half-dressed in jeans and socks. Three-quarters, if the shirt in his hand that he’s clearly about to toss on counts at all. “Sounded like it too.”

He glances over my shoulder, presumably to where Bristol is, and shrugs.

I will not commit murder this morning. He is the only way I’m making it to practice on time.

“Ready in less than five,” he tells me as he tosses the shirt over his head. “Just wanna brush my teeth.”

I grind my molars and nod, though he’s already slipped past me, out of his room, and into our shared bathroom connected to the little communal living area we have.

Turning, I find Bristol leaning against the counter next to the coffee maker, sipping a steaming cup. I cringe absently at the smell. Neither of us particularly cares for the stuff, but when Pen has to pull all-nighters for his studio classes each semester, he caves for any form of caffeine. Even that nasty stuff.

“Early day for you, isn’t it?” she asks over the rim. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you up before ten.”

True, she hasn’t.

Spring semester of last year, Aspen was usually the one doing the walk of shame from her dorm, so she’s never been around when the season starts. I’d like to think it was a respect thing for me, that he kept the location of their hooking-up elsewhere, but I’d probably give most of the credit for that to his low-key issues with intimacy.

His space is his own, and he’s not really one to share it with just anyone. Which is why it’s slightly surprising that she’s been sleeping over the past few times they’ve hooked up.

“First day of regular season practice,” I say, my smile forced.

At least she has some form of social cues, not bothering to try to make any other conversation with me after that.

Just like he promised, Pen’s by the door with keys in hand the second he’s done brushing his teeth. He doesn’t look at me, clearly aware of my irritation with him this morning. Instead, he looks at Bristol while she continues to drink her coffee, watching us with the utmost curiosity.

“Let yourself out, and I’ll meet up with you later,” he tells her as he slips into his Vans. Only then does he look up at me. I can see the silent apology in his eyes as he slides into the worn leather jacket he favors this time of year, and it’s enough to melt my icy mood into a puddle. “Ready?”

“Have been,” I tell him matter-of-factly before clearing my throat. My irritation is completely gone now, but that doesn’t mean I won’t still give him shit. “For the last fifteen minutes.”

He just licks his lips and smirks, seeing right through me. “Well, why didn’t you just say so?”

My eyes roll and I shove him out the door, smiling to myself as he stumbles for a second before calling a goodbye to Bristol over his shoulder.

Less than a minute later, we’re sliding onto the bench seat of his ‘67 Impala and making our way to the team’s practice facility.

“You could’ve just let me take the car,” I tell him, flipping through the radio until I land on a station playing The Weeknd. The bass thumps through the speakers, settling my pulse into a steady rhythm with the beat.

Aspen being who he is, though, glares at the radio like it’s offended him. The only reason he allows anything in the Top 40 countdown to play in his car is because it’s what I like. And he’s probably letting it slide because he’s the reason I’m cutting it close for practice.

His brows raise as he glances over at me, and he barks out a laugh. “You’re kidding, right? No one drives my baby.”

Cue an eye roll. “Okay, Dean,” I say, my tone laced with sarcasm.

Truth be told, I’ve never watched a damn episode of Supernatural, but I’m pretty sure everyone knows how Dean Winchester feels about anyone besides him driving his Impala. I actually think the obsession Braden Kohl—Aspen’s father—had with the show is the reason he bought the exact same car and restored it.

I remember, clear as day, when he hauled the junker to Aspen’s house across the street when we were younger. And I also remember the coronary Aspen’s mom had when she saw it sitting in the driveway.

The damn thing didn’t even run, but Braden changed that with six months of hard work. By the time it was all fixed up, it was his prized possession.

And anything his dad loved, Pen loved too. Maybe that’s why I found it a little poetic when the Impala became Pen’s once we were old enough to drive. Now, it’s all he has left of him. That, and the old leather jacket he’s wearing.

“It’s not like you don’t let me drive it sometimes,” I point out. “When we go home. Or to the beach. Or on our annual road trip.”

He nods thoughtfully. “True. But I’m in the car with you. Able to take over at any time.”

I snort. “You act like I haven’t driven more than a day in my life.”

“If the shoe fits…” He trails off, the smirk that pops the dimple below the left corner of his mouth crossing his face.

“Oh, fuck you.”

“Not my fault you’ve barely driven since you got your license.”

“Not my fault you got yours a month and a half before I did, so I didn’t really need it at all.”

He just grins, seeing the truth in my words.

It’s not obvious from looking at him with the leather, shaggy hair, and general fuck off vibe he radiates, but Pen’s one uptight motherfucker. Always the one in charge. While driving us around wherever we wanna go might be included in that, it’s pretty much true in any and all aspects of our friendship.

Don’t get me wrong; I have my own thoughts and opinions, and I’ll voice them with a blowhorn if needed, but being the more laidback one makes it a lot easier to just be along for the ride.

Hell, the only time I ever feel the need to control things is in relation to a baseball diamond, but that comes naturally with the position I’ve played for three-quarters of my life. Probably because catchers are the most important position on the damn field, bar none. But besides then? Basically never.

But that’s our dynamic—complete opposites—and has been for as long as I can remember.

Ever since our dads died in a car accident right before we turned eight.

Before then, Pen used to be a lot more carefree. But after that night, he shut down and shut out everyone in his life. Besides his mom, the only person he let in was me. Even to this day, not many people get to see what he has beneath the surface. Picking and choosing a select few who’ve earned a glimpse inside.

Control is his suit of armor. Reclusiveness, his shield. Both of which I’m more than happy to lend him; whatever he needs to protect himself. He’s never needed them with me, anyway.

Moments later, he rolls to a stop outside the training center and throws the car in park. “Do you need me to pick you up too, Your Highness?”

“You think this is a chariot?”

He glares. “Never mind. You can walk. Last I checked, it’s supposed to start raining right when you’re done lifting.”

Ah, Oregon. Always raining.

I smirk as I get out, slinging my bag over my shoulder and calling through the open door. “Thanks for the ride, Mom. Meet you here after practice.”

The words “fucking asshole” are just loud enough for me to hear before the door slams shut and I turn to walk away.