Page 71 of Callous Shot

I loved sex. And sex with my enemy might be my favourite sex of all. But something I loved even more? This. The aftermath, when we were all cum-drunk and Lincoln lay with me, his arm securely pulling me into him while I trailed lazy kisses over whatever parts of him I could reach, and we talked. Talked like we were friends. Like we were on the same side, instead of complete opposites. I’d never admit that to Lincoln—to anyone, actually—but it made me feel all warm and tingly, and when it was happening, I forgot about all the reasons why we were a bad idea. I just wished it would never end.

“I guess my private stories came in handy, didn’t they?” I murmured, sliding my hand onto his pec over his still-racing heart.

“Huh?”

“I got tested, and I posted the results to my stories, and then I saw you did the same a couple of days later.” Was it weird that my heart had skipped a beat when he’d said he wanted me to fuck him bare? We were both sexually active, so did that mean he was certain that I hadn’t been with anyone else since the story I’d uploaded to my socials? Actually…if I admitted the full truth, there hadn’t been anyone else since that party at Ashbrook House. “I haven’t been with anyone else for a while,” I added, just to make sure he knew.

He smoothed his palm down my back, pressing a kiss to my temple. “I know. You wouldn’t have fucked me without a condom otherwise.”

“Okay. Just so you know. I know we spoke about not fucking other people while we’re messing around, but there hasn’t been anyone else since that party at Whelford.”

There was a long pause, and then he said, “There hasn’t been for me, either.”

“Good. Because I would hate to have to get into a fight for no reason.”

Huffing out a laugh, he lightly swatted my ass. “You love getting into fights for no reason.”

“Well…yeah, okay. Whatever. Anyway, I guess I would’ve had a reason. Whoever had dared to touch you when you’re mine.”

“Possessive.”

“You are.”

“Maybe I am,” he said softly. There was a question in his voice, and I wondered if his head was just as messed up as mine was. He cleared his throat. “Want to watch the hockey highlights?”

“You read my mind.” I rose onto my elbow, looking down at him. Fuck it. We were both here, and if his head was as messed up as mine was, that meant we were in this together. “But I want a kiss first.”

There was no hesitation. No second-guessing. Lincoln curled his hand around my nape, tugging me into him. “Yeah. Come here.”

32

LINCOLN

I had a problem, and it came with red hair, blue eyes fringed with gold-tipped lashes, and a cocky smile that was way more disarming than it had any right to be. That was why I was currently studying the fixture list I’d printed out, highlighted with the instances where the Cranham Kings had a home game on the same weekend as the Whelford Flames. Because we shared a rink, it happened every now and then, and tonight was one of those times. We’d played at home last night, and tonight, it was the turn of the Kings.

Staring down at the piece of paper, I sighed before shoving it back inside my desk drawer beneath a stack of university printouts. Giving in to the inevitable, I grabbed a baseball cap, pulling it down low over my eyes, and threw on a hoodie. Tugging up the hood, I grabbed my keys. Time to see my not-so-little demon in action.

At the rink, I headed to the upstairs bar, where there was a single line of stools looking down on the rink from behind the goal and a small standing area behind them. I couldn’t get away with sitting in either the home or away stands—I was too recognisable as a Flames player and, for Cranham supporters, hated on sight. But up here, where random members of the public milled around, some more interested in a cheap pint than the game, I could watch in peace.

Daniel had told me not to come to his games, and I knew that I’d get angry if anyone dared to hurt him, but I also wanted to see him in action. I wanted to watch him on the ice from the POV of a spectator without viewing him through the lens of animosity that had always been there in the past. Animosity that was still there between us but was different now.

The away team filed onto the ice to heavy cheers from the small contingent of away fans, and a combination of silence and reluctant applause from the Cranham section, and then the home team came out. Despite the fact that Cranham University was smaller than Whelford, and therefore their supporter base was even smaller than ours, the noise was deafening. If the Kings won this game, they’d move to the top of the league, ahead of the Flames. It was unlikely they’d lose—Cambridge were on a surprising losing streak, languishing at the bottom of the division, but there were no guarantees in hockey.

My gaze was drawn straight to number eighteen, and it remained there throughout the whole of the first period. Daniel Hoyton on the ice was a fucking dream. Powerful, fast, and graceful, dominating the right wing, easily outplaying and outmanoeuvring his opponents like it was nothing. He seemed to have an instinctive bond with Ryker, the two of them working together with wordless communication, completely in sync as they created chance after chance.

When the first goal went in during a power play for the Kings, Ryker’s stick slapping it into the net after a gorgeous backhand pass from Daniel, I fist-pumped the air, a shout tearing from my throat.

“Bloody brilliant goal that were!” The man standing next to me held up his hand for a high five, and caught up in the adrenaline, I automatically slapped my palm against his.

Then something registered in my brain.

Dark beard, hoodie, baseball cap pulled down low.

It was the same man I’d seen at my game. I was sure of it.

And his gaze was trained on Daniel.

I turned back to the rink, my heart pounding. Twelve seconds left on the clock until the end of the period, and they’d never passed so slowly. My mind was racing, and alarm bells were blaring.