Chapter 20
Rebel Arena, Freedom
Shay
My blood is rushing in my ears. Adrenaline pumps through me. I’m high with excitement.
I don’t see the crowds through the bright lights. I don’t hear the commentator.
There’s only the ice under my skates.
The goal in front of me.
And the puck.
I’m going to bloody score.
Win.
I’m not the man from that photograph anymore.
My hands tighten around my stick.
I’m not broken and bound.
I’m a star hockey player with an entire NHL team at my back. And I’m fucking powerful on my knees.
I skate faster, spurred on with a surge of excitement.
My heart is pumping. My pulse is roaring in my ears.
My lips are still tingling with the memory of the deep kiss that Robyn gave me before we left Captain’s Hall for good luck.
“Now I’ll be with you on your lips throughout the game,” Robyn whispered, as her lips grazed mine on each word, “even if you can’t openly blow me a kiss.”
“Where’s my kiss?” D’Angelo quirked his brow. “I’d never be cliched enough to blow you a kiss in the arena but I burn to shout your name every time that I score. So, how are you going to save us from that scandal and stop me from…?”
Robyn grabbed him by his tie and yanked him into a kiss that was as deep as mine had been.
Well, that was an effective way to shut up D’Angelo.
I’ll remember that.
I lick over my tingling lips.
Robyn keeps on finding ways to worm even further into my heart. Now, she’s branded onto my lips.
I scan the arena.
My chest is rapidly rising and falling. I take a moment to draw in a deep breath.
In this second game, the Chicago Blackhawks have been tough and ruthless.
The score is still 0 — 0.
Despite everything that happened earlier with the photograph that ripped out my heart in a way that I’d allowed myself — or made myself — forget that I was capable of feeling, I’m in the zone now.
I’ve never felt this excited in my life.
D’Angelo looks like a bloody legend on the other side of the rink. He’s passing the puck to the left wing, Grayson.
He’s cool and in control. I’ve been rattled. But I can do this.
I can.
I need to.
Head in the game, Shay.
I can’t help the way that my lips curl into a smile, as Eden’s voice echoes in my mind. He may be watching from home but he can still bust my balls.
Hockey has always been my escape.
The moment that the puck dropped, I just played.
Ice instinct took over.
It was a relief.
Scoring my first goal on Tuesday was like a dream come true. I’m going to score tonight. I can feel it in my balls.
I put my head down and skate toward the goal.
I’m winning the bet. Anticipation tingles through me.
This next goal is mine.
I weave around the rival team’s defensemen like they’re not even there. They can’t keep up with my speed. No one has ever been able to.
I skate faster and faster.
My shoulders lift.
I relax, feeling freer than I have in days.
I grin.
I’m open for a shot on goal.
I glance over my shoulder at D’Angelo.
He has the puck.
Our gazes meet.
He prepares to pass to me, and I ready myself.
All of a sudden, someone barrels into me, checking me hard.
“Fuck.” All the air is knocked out of me.
My eyes widen, as I’m slammed toward the boards at high speed. In the split second that I have left, I struggle to tuck in my arms and chin to protect myself.
I can’t hit my head.
I can’t…
I twist to the side, grunting in pain, as my hip and shoulder take the worst of the impact.
Fuck, I’m going to be black and blue.
I grit my teeth.
I breathe heavily, struggling to control my rage.
I didn’t even have the puck.
The defenseman was trying to spark my rage because of my reputation as a fighter. But I promised both D’Angelo and Robyn that I’d control my temper on the ice.
I can’t spoil my image by being volatile.
I won’t be a liability for the team.
Yet I’m rattled.
I should be used to this. Hockey is physical, and I like it this way.
Why does it feel different tonight?
Maybe because the pain that’s radiating down my shoulder and across my hip is bringing back memories of Blythe.
I take a shuddering breathe.
I can’t think of her.
Not during a game.
I struggle out of the heavy grip of the defenseman, who’s still holding onto the back of my jersey, pressing me into the boards.
I swing around, trying to look cool, despite the volcanic rage bubbling inside.
Shit, it’s Maddan.
He’s a huge fucker with broad shoulders, mean eyes, and a prickly beard that looks like he’s stuck a hedgehog to his chin.
He’s known for playing dirty.
Was this attack planned? Is it part of the team’s strategy?
I should have been paying more attention.
I struggle, managing to look past him.
D’Angelo is staring across at us, concerned. He’s wheeling around to skate toward me, rather than the goal.
I can’t allow that.
He has the puck now.
Maddan’s trick won’t stop the first goal of the game.
I subtly shake my head.
Immediately, D’Angelo understands what I mean. We’ve always had an incredible chemistry on the ice, even before I realized that I was in love with the man.
It makes us play in a way that I haven’t with anyone else.
It’s flawless.
When D’Angelo heads for the goal again, I let out a relieved breath.
Then Maddan towers over me, and I think that I’ve relaxed too soon. “I’m only trying to make you match your ugly brother. Let’s get your arm in a sling.” He shoves me back against the boards. I hide my flinch. “Didn’t hit your head, right?”
He pats me on the shoulder that he’s just bruised deliberately with too much force.
Bastard.
Trash talk doesn’t normally get to me. But tonight, his chirps hit hard. Talking about Eden, whose career was ended by some dick just like Maddan, using his strength as a strategy to make me lose my temper, is too fresh and raw.
Especially when Eden is still suffering from those injuries.
No one talks about my twin like that.
I shove Maddan hard in the chest, and he lets go of my jersey.
I feel unmoored.
Fucking unhinged.
I don’t know what my expression must look like, but Maddan raises his stick in front of himself defensively, skating backwards. “Prince…”
“Fuck you, Maddan,” I growl. “Your Wikipedia entry only has two sentences: Will make a great coach one day. The worst hockey players always do.”
Maddan’s small eyes darken with rage, before he skates directly at me. “Just like your coach, huh?”
I must have struck a nerve.
“Ever heard of the exception that proves the rule?”
“I’m going to fuck you up like your loser brother.” Maddan swings for me. His fist connects with my jaw, and my head snaps into the boards. Stars explode, along with pain. “Then you’re going to stay down, bitch.”
Bitch…?
My mind’s dazed.
Scrambled.
I can’t think.
I blink, trying to focus.
He’s shaking me by the jersey now.
My head throbs.
Where am I?
Stupid little bitch.
All of a sudden, I’m back there…
No, please, no.
I’m caught in a flashback.
I’m trapped in one of my worst memories because Melanie posted that photograph for everyone to see of me stripped and suffering.
“You’re not my boyfriend.” Blythe circles me on the bed. I can hear the click of her leather boots on the wooden floor. I can’t see anything through the blindfold, which is soaked with my tears and uncomfortably scratchy. “Chocolates? Seriously? Stupid little bitch.”
My breath hitches on a sob.
I bite my lip, tasting the blood where I bit through it earlier to keep in the cries, while she disciplined me.
What’s the difference between discipline and being beaten?
I don’t know. It felt the same.
It’s close to Blythe’s exams. I know that she’s under pressure.
She said that she found hitting me stress relief.
If I can be strong and take this for her, then I will. I want to help her. I can at least get pleasure out of knowing that I’m pleasing her by serving her.
My ass hurts from the stripes of my own thick belt.
Blythe said that it’d be a good reminder if she used the belt from my jeans. I only own one belt, which she knows. So, I’ll need to wear it.
I’ll think of this beating every time that I wear my belt.
I’ll remember the rules.
How can I forget them after…this?
I’m kneeling with my face pressed into the pillows. I hate the cloying, jasmine scent of her bedding. The way that the rope burns into my wrists, which are bound underneath me.
I don’t want this.
I don’t fucking want this.
Should I tell her? But wouldn’t that disappoint her worse?
“What are you?” Blythe says, coldly.
I know what she wants.
She’s trained me in this.
Still, I can barely get out the words. Why is this hard? But I feel heavy inside.
Wrong.
None of this is fun like it should be. Hadn’t it started out that way with Blythe?
I’m not turned on by any of this. It’s not hot. It’s hell.
I am meant to feel like this? Why is Blythe even punishing me? Because I dared to think that she’d want to be my girlfriend?
“A stupid little bitch.” My voice is flat and mechanical.
“That’s right.” Blythe slaps my arse, and I wince.
I’m sore enough already.
She runs her hand down my back possessively.
I shudder.
Then she trails the end of the leather belt along the backs of my thighs, where my skin is much more sensitive. The cold leather makes me flinch.
It hurts so bloody much to be hit there.
It’s too much.
“Yellow,” I say. “Please, yellow.”
Blythe hesitates, before removing her hand and the belt with a sigh. “Pathetic. I expected better from you. You’re being disrespectful by abusing your safeword like this. You can’t only enjoy funishments and then not take real punishments when you’ve earned them. You’re not meant to like this. Safe wording out is just bratting.”
“I’m n-n-not…” I struggle to say.
That’s not right…is it?
I can’t think.
My heart is beating too fast. My breaths are labored.
My cheeks are streaked with tears, and I can’t feel my hands.
“That’s enough of a break.” Blythe’s hand is back on my arse, pinching cruelly. I whine. “You have such a cute arse. It’s what I noticed first. All the girls on campus want to fuck you. You’re such a fuck boy, aren’t you?”
I shake my head, but she ignores me.
“You’re not boyfriend material. But then, you need to learn this lesson. Men like you — subs — are toys to be played with for a couple of hours. You’ll learn your place, right?”
I don’t reply.
I can’t.
Every word feels like another lash of the belt.
“Right?” She repeats with a deadly warning in her voice that I know not to ignore. “You know that I expect a verbal answer from you. Come on, this is part of your training.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I mumble.
She claims that she’s training me.
She’s breaking me.
My chest is tight.
I’m trapped in the black, which keeps me stuck in the spiraling thoughts in my head.
Everything is more intense like this.
I can’t prepare myself for what she does next.
I’m shivering, hot and cold at the same time.
I told Eden all day excitedly about this date.
I am a stupid little bitch.
I dressed in my new crimson shirt, which I was forced to strip out of the moment that I stepped into her room.
That’s one of her new rules.
I’m to be naked from the moment that I enter her dorm room to remind me of my place.
I bought Blythe chocolates, even though I can’t afford them. Eden advised me not to, but I thought that he was worried about the expense.
He’s never liked Blythe.
He has this furrow in his brow, whenever I mention her.
He’d hate her, if he truly knew what went on between us.
My brother and I have a code of check ins and codes for when I’m staying out all night.
Fuck, how long have I been tied up? How long has this punishment gone on?
Is she going to let me go home tonight?
I haven’t sent Eden a text. He’s expecting me back in dorms. He’s going to freak out.
“Am I boring you?” Blythe snaps, sharp as a whip crack.
She’s frighteningly close to my head now.
“N-n-no.” I lick over my torn lip, which is bleeding again. “What time is it? My brother doesn’t know that I’m… May I send him a text?”
“Are you kidding?” Blythe’s voice becomes icy. “My friends all told me that I shouldn’t associate with a poor scholarship student who doesn’t even turn up to college balls, no matter how gorgeous he is…or how huge his cock. But I thought that you’d be trainable. Was I wrong to give you a chance? Are you such a bad sub that you can’t even take a deserved punishment?”
Each word tears apart my soul.
Poor…huge cock…trainable…bad sub…deserved punishment.
I want to hurl.
I’m shaking.
Stop.
Stop.
Stop.
“N-n-no,” I whisper.
The belt catches my calf, and I curl around myself in pain.
I thought that I could take this.
At the start, I liked Blythe.
She took me out to places, the movies, music gigs, and dinner. I believed that she cared about me as a man.
I hoped that I’d found someone who wanted to spend time with me like my brother did. For the first time, I’d be able to build a proper relationship.
Life’s short, I know that. I refuse to live it in fear.
Only, isn’t that how Blythe wants me to feel?
Frightened?
It’s too much.
Panic screams through me.
“Red,” I whisper.
The belt hits my hip.
Horrified, I wrench away.
She hasn’t stopped.
Why hasn’t she stopped?
My breaths are shallow. I’m frozen. I can’t move.
Am I in shock?
“Red.” I try again. “Red, red, red.”
I feel dazed. Light-headed.
I am saying it out loud, right?
Maybe she can’t hear me?
Blythe whips me across my back, and a tear chases down my cheek.
She’s meant to stop. She promised. She told me if I said red, then she’d stop.
She isn’t.
My heart’s breaking.
“Red, red, red,” I scream it now.
But she doesn’t stop.
She’s heard me.
And I’m sobbing now. I can’t stop.
Because the realization that Blythe’s heard me, but my safeword means nothing to her, hurts me worse than anything that she’s yet done to me.
She wants to hurt me.
This isn’t about training.
Did Blythe ever intend to honor my safeword? Was it all a lie?
I panic for real.
Wild with fear, I struggle against the ropes. They’re tied so tightly, however, that it only rubs against my wrists, flaying the skin.
I struggle and struggle and…
Now, rage surges through me.
All I can see is red.
White-hot rage burns through me. I can’t stop it.
I’m cold.
Why am I cold?
My nose wrinkles up at the chemical scent of ice, mingling with sweat and rubber.
It slams into me then.
I’m in Rebel Arena on the rink in the middle of one of the biggest games of my life. A crowd of thousands are watching, along with millions at home.
Yet I’m still partly lost in the past. I can feel the sharp bite of my own belt against my skin and the even sharper pain of the betrayal, as Blythe ignores my safeword.
I’m confused.
And I’m devastated.
That mix transforms, as it has throughout my life, into anger.
I lash out against the person who’s hurting me: Maddan.
Taken by surprise, he stumbles back, as I shove him in the chest.
I can hardly see him. I feel like I’m still blindfolded.
Yet I know that I’m hurling down my stick and ripping off my gloves. It’s like someone else is doing it. Someone who’s about to fuck up their entire career.
I can’t stop myself.
I’m still struggling to escape those ropes and this is how I fight back.
Unexpectedly, someone is skating up to me and tugging me away from Maddan and the boards by the front of my jersey.
“Shay.” D’Angelo sounds concerned. Then he turns to glare at Maddan. “Fuck off, asshole. Go cool down with a long, cold shower.”
“He’s crazy.” Maddan glares at D’Angelo, before turning and skating back to his fellow players. “I’ll fuck off and score.”
I blink at D’Angelo, and finally, my vision clears.
D’Angelo’s pulling me close like he’s talking about strategy, but I can tell that he’s shielding my face from the cameras.
Wasn’t he about to score?
Why did he abandon his chance to win for me?
I can’t help it. Blythe is still in my head. I can feel her.
“Make her stop,” I whisper. “Red, red, fucking red.”
“She’s not here anymore.” D’Angelo slips his hand to the back of my neck. Unlike when Blythe would do that, however, I don’t feel controlled. I feel loved. Because D’Angelo has always made me feel worthy of being loved. He speaks close enough to my ear that only I will hear, “You’re safe. She can’t touch you now. Robyn and I will always honor and respect your limits. I swear, you’re not alone in this.”
A sudden cheer goes up, and in horror, I peer past D’Angelo.
He’s stiffened but is refusing to acknowledge the celebrations on the ice behind him.
The Chicago Blackhawks have scored.
Fucking Maddan has scored.
My heart sinks, when D’Angelo pulls away from me.
We’re going to lose, and it’ll be because of me.