It’s sadism.
A deep sense of wanting to hurt someone.
Something.
Anything.
I recognize it because I experience that need in spades. But to see it directed at me raises goose bumps all over my fucking skin.
My throat closes and a hum of static floods my brain.
His head dips, and instinct urges me to pull back, but I can’t—not when he whispers so close to my mouth.
“You’re all mine tonight, prince.”
2
PRESTON
There’s something entirely ludicrous about this fucking game.
You know, the one I’m trying to win, but as much as I hate to fucking admit it, we’re struggling.
Being the reigning champions of the college league means no one fucks with us.
Much.
No one but the asshole Wolves who seem to have set their eyes on our throne.
But fear not, I am about to save the game. The first two periods were rough, but I’m here for the rescue.
I have Dicky by the dick—figuratively, of course. Ever since I planted the seed in his head before the game, I’ve already gained easy access. To his head, I mean.
We’re on the attack, and we have to get this one in to keep our marginal advantage, but their defense is no fucking joke this game. Someone has been working on their shortcomings since the last one.
You won’t catch me saying this out loud, but they’ve become a better version of themselves.
As we exchange the puck, I square up to Dicky and make a motion for Kane to pass it.
“Yo, Dicky. Wanna know who your girlfriend’s new dick is?” I ask him, catching the puck. “Your homie number eighty-one might have an idea. Or a video.”
Even if I don’t score this one, I’ll have this clown sent to the penalty box. With their right wing wide open, I’ll score as much as I like.
Dicky’s too stunned to react, and it’s the fraction of a second I need. With a grin, I skate past him and flick my wrist, ready to score?—
A shoulder slams into mine, as solid as steel, and the shock reverberates all the way down my spine. I shove back, my teeth bared, but I’ve already lost my footing, and I hit the ice with a thud.
“Ahhhh—” the crowd reacts collectively.
“Told you you’re mine tonight.” Osborn’s voice carries like a low-spoken threat.
His eyes sweep down over me, a slow smirk settling in as though I’m exactly where he wants me. His orange jersey blazes under the cold light, the wolf baring its teeth between us. “Don’t try to weasel your way out of facing me, Armstrong.”
Then he skates away at supersonic speed as the crowd roars. Fuck this shit, they have the puck now.
I jump up and skate back to defense, ignoring Jude’s watchful eyes.
The puck is nearly blurry as it moves between their offense, led by none other than the headache on skates.
