He fixes me with a hard, burning stare and snarls. “My name is Richardson.”
“Dickson, Dicky, who cares?” I circle him, scraping my blades on the ice every now and then just to mess with him. “Heard your girlfriend broke up with you. Must be because of the tiny Dickson allegations circling around. She found a better Dicky?”
I can always feel it.
That split second before they snap.
The way their eyes bulge like they’re about to claw their way out of their sockets, the way their whole body coils into thatfight, fight, fightresponse.
It sends a tingle down my spine—straight to my goddamn dick—seeing them get that worked up over the stupid shit I say.
This is pure talent, you know. I did my homework before the game.
I always prep for whoever we’re up against. Learn the two or three defensemen I’ll be dealing with and dig up as much dirt on them as humanly possible.
Then I hit them where it hurts the most.
Drag out their ugliest, darkest vulnerabilities or secrets.
It’s what allows me free access to their heads. I don’t need to put my all into the game; I just have to mess with them, and they’ll make mistakes on the ice.
Theyalldo.
Play harder, not smarter.
I’m a master provocateur and the reigning champion of pissing people off and poking them exactly where it’s paralyzing.
You’d better not have any issues and be perfect when facing me, because I’ll go there—I’ll goeverywhere—while wearing a smile.
It’s impossible to be perfect, though, so I’ve always, and Imeanalways, gotten into my opponents’ heads and dragged them on the ice for the world to see.
Dicky is just the latest addition.
He faces me, his eyes injected with tiny red veins, his fists clenched as he raises his hand holding the stick.
Now, if he hits me hard enough and we get rid of him before we even start, the Wolves will be so cooked.
Let me give him one more push.
“Aw, you’re mad?” I tilt my head. “Hit a nerve, Dicky? You must’ve given such a lackluster performance for her to find another dick?—”
He lunges at me, and I smile, closing my eyes. Referees better be watching, because I’ll be the most dramatic drama queen to have ever existed when I take the punch.
My blood roars in my veins at the prospect. The pain. The crunch of bones. The possibility of spilling blood.
It makes me feel alive.
Though this was so easy, I’m slightly offended.
I wait for the hit.
And wait.
But it doesn’t come.
I open my eyes, and fuck it all straight to hell. Someone has shoved Dicky away from me right before he could hit me.
Who the fuck?—
