Forbidden Play with My Hockey Star Brother

Emma's POV

The seatbelt sign dinged off, but I stayed glued to my window seat, iPad propped on the tray table. On screen, a golden retriever puppy was face-planting into its water bowl, and I couldn't help the stupid grin spreading across my face. God, I needed this. After three hours of cramped legs and recycled air, watching dogs be idiots was exactly the kind of brain-dead content that kept me sane.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we've begun our descent into Denver International Airport."

The pilot's voice crackled through the speakers. I barely registered it. My finger was already swiping to the next video, muscle memory taking over.

The screen changed.

Oh fuck.

Two men filled my iPad. Drawn men, all sharp jawlines and impossibly defined abs, one shoving the other against a row of metal lockers. The art style was unmistakable—that specific kind of Japanese manga I definitely should not be looking at on a plane. The guy pinned to the lockers had his head thrown back, mouth open, and the other one was gripping his throat with one hand while the other hand disappeared below the frame. The speech bubble had Japanese text I didn't need translated because the image told me everything.

My brain short-circuited.

I slammed my palm down on the lock button. The iPad clattered against the tray table, the sound way too loud in the quiet cabin. My face went nuclear. I could feel heat flooding from my neck all the way to my hairline.

Shit shit shit. I must've touched my reading app instead of the video player. The one I'd been scrolling through at two in the morning because apparently jet lag and horny brain made excellent bedfellows.

"My, that's quite the interesting reading material."

The voice came from my left. I turned my head like I was moving through concrete.

The middle-aged woman in 12B wasn't looking at me. She was staring very hard at the seat in front of her, but her lips were pressed into this thin line and her cheeks had gone pink. Not as pink as mine probably were, but still.

"I—" My voice came out as a squeak. I cleared my throat. "That was an accident. I was trying to—"

She didn't respond. Didn't even twitch. Just kept staring straight ahead like I'd ceased to exist.

I wanted to die. Just straight up cease existing. Evaporate into the recycled cabin air and never materialize again.

My first impression on Colorado was going to be that girl who watches gay porn on planes. Fantastic. Perfect. Exactly how I wanted to start my new life.

I pressed my forehead against the window and watched the landscape rise up to meet us. Brown earth, patches of green, mountains in the distance that looked fake they were so massive. Nothing like Florida's flat swampland.

The wheels hit tarmac with a jolt that made my teeth click together.

The second that seatbelt sign dinged off, I was up. I grabbed my backpack from under the seat and squeezed past 12B's knees without making eye contact. I could feel her sitting there, radiating what felt like judgment, and I just walked faster.

The jetway seemed to stretch on forever. My heart was still hammering. I kept replaying that moment—the image filling my screen, her eyes catching it, the awful silence that followed.

Denver International Airport opened up in front of me, all white peaked ceilings that made it look like we'd landed inside a circus tent. I followed the crowd toward baggage claim, my face still burning.

I'd never see that woman again. This would just become one of those cringe memories that ambushed me at three a.m. when I was trying to sleep. I could live with that.

My phone buzzed in my pocket as I reached the baggage carousel. I pulled it out, expecting Dad.

Victoria's name lit up the screen. A voice message.

I pressed play and held the phone to my ear, watching suitcases circle past on the conveyor belt.

"Emma, sweetheart!" Victoria's voice had that smooth, professional warmth to it. The kind that came from years of managing difficult clients and making them think they were her favorite. "I am so, so sorry, but your father got pulled into an emergency meeting about the I-25 expansion project. Complete disaster, apparently. And I have this client dinner that I absolutely cannot reschedule—you know how it is. But don't worry! We arranged for Caleb to pick you up. He said he'd leave practice early to get you. Just text him when you get your bags, okay? Love you!"

The message ended.

I stared at my phone screen.

Caleb.

Of course it was Caleb.

My stepbrother. Technically. The guy I hadn't seen in four years, not since that nightmare trip to Aspen where I'd somehow managed to break his precious hockey stick and earn myself a permanent spot on his shit list. Dad had married Victoria five years ago, which made Caleb Claffey and me family in the legal sense. In the actual sense, we were two people who'd perfected the art of avoiding each other at mandatory holiday dinners.

And now he was supposed to pick me up from the airport.

Great. Just great.

I pulled up my messages and typed: Hey, I landed. Where are you?

The text showed delivered. Then read.

I waited, watching the baggage carousel spit out suitcase after suitcase. My two massive bags appeared—bright purple because Mom insisted I needed something I could spot easily—and I wrestled them onto the floor. They were stupidly heavy. I'd packed my entire life into them, including my complete collection of veterinary anatomy textbooks and about thirty pounds of sundresses I'd probably never wear in Colorado's dry climate.

My phone stayed silent.

No response from Caleb.

I tried calling. It rang four times and kicked to voicemail. His voice on the recording was clipped and professional: "You've reached Caleb Claffey. Leave a message."

"Hey, it's Emma. I'm at baggage claim, by carousel three. Just... let me know when you're here."

I hung up and tried texting again. Then I opened Instagram and sent him a DM, even though it made me feel pathetic.

Where are you? Victoria said you were picking me up.

Nothing. Complete radio silence.

He was doing this on purpose. He had to be. Four years later and he was still pissed at me.

I stood there in the middle of Denver International Airport, surrounded by families hugging and business travelers speed-walking past, and felt completely alone.

Baby, Pinnacle State's pre-vet program is ranked in the top ten nationally. Mom's voice echoed in my head. We'd been sitting in our tiny kitchen in Fort Lauderdale three weeks ago, and she'd been running her fingers through my hair the way she used to when I was little. Living with your dad will save you thousands in housing costs. Tens of thousands, really. And besides... She'd paused, choosing her words carefully. You should try to build a relationship with him. He's trying, Emma. He really is.

I'd promised her I would try. Promised I'd make an effort with Dad's new family, even though the thought of living with Caleb—who went to the same school I'd be attending—made my stomach hurt.

So much for that.

I pulled up Victoria's contact and typed: Caleb's not answering. I'm just going to grab an Uber to the house.

Her response came back almost immediately: Oh honey, no one's home right now—you'd be stuck outside in the heat! Caleb must have gone straight to practice and didn't check his phone. Why don't you head over to campus? The rink is right off the main entrance—easy drop-off. You can store your bags at Campus Safety (it's right next to the arena!) and grab the key from him. Plus you'll get to see the school before classes start! I'll send you the address.

I read the message three times, then looked down at my two enormous suitcases.

This was fine. Everything was fine. I was a capable adult who could handle a minor logistical inconvenience without having a breakdown in the middle of an airport.

So I opened my Uber app.