Slash Me Savagely (The Blackwater Reaper Hockey #1)
1. Gemma
Chapter 1
Gemma
I took a breath, the damp air thick with the scent of pine and something else, something sour. Reaper’s Hollow loomed ahead, its dark exterior swallowing the fading light. The arena stood like a monument to madness, and I could almost feel the chill crawling up my spine.
Rob turned off the engine and shot me a sideways glance. “You just keep quiet and look pretty, right? I know you don’t know anything about hockey.”
I rolled my eyes. “You could have taken Bruce?—”
“He couldn’t go.” His tone hardened, slicing through the dimness of the car. “Trust me. If you didn’t have to be here, you wouldn’t.”
Ignoring his jab felt easier than answering it. We had been snipping at each other for weeks, every little comment sparking like kindling in a fire. My stomach churned at the thought of another argument echoing in this place that already felt suffocating.
The headlights illuminated the entrance to Reaper’s Hollow, casting eerie shadows that danced along the cracked pavement. A group of fans congregated outside, their excited chatter mixing with shouts and laughter that barely masked an undercurrent of tension.
“Let’s get this over with,” I muttered, gripping the door handle.
Rob’s laughter held no warmth as he stepped out first. “You’re such a trooper.”
I pushed open my door and followed him into the fray. The moment my foot hit the ground, a rush of noise enveloped me—a cacophony of cheering fans mingled with deep-throated growls from players warming up inside.
The air buzzed with anticipation, but I felt nothing like it. Instead, a heavy weight settled on my chest as we made our way toward the entrance. Inside, low lighting cast deep shadows across faces filled with fierce loyalty to The Blackwater Reapers.
As we approached our seats, I caught sight of Rob’s friends—grinning guys clad in jerseys who greeted him like he was some kind of rock star. Their laughter bounced around us like bullets ricocheting off walls.
“Gemma!” one shouted over the din, his enthusiasm forcing a tight smile onto my face.
I forced myself to nod back but felt out of place among their raucous energy. Each cheer that erupted from them only reminded me how much I wanted to be anywhere but here.
The arena swallowed me whole. A thick haze of excitement mingled with the scent of popcorn and sweat, wrapping around me like a heavy cloak. The dim lights flickered overhead, casting shadows across the bleachers filled with fans who painted their faces in black and red, the Reapers’ colors. I stepped further inside, my eyes scanning the vast space where cheers would soon erupt.
The glass that separated us from the ice gleamed under the lights, reflecting the vibrant chaos around me. I could hear the players’ skates carving into the ice as they warmed up, a sharp sound that sent a shiver through my bones. The sound was almost hypnotic, a steady rhythm punctuating the rising tide of adrenaline in the air.
“I’m gonna grab a beer,” Rob announced, his voice barely cutting through the noise. “I’ll get you a water. You driving home, right?”
Before I could even nod or shake my head, he disappeared into the crowd, leaving me standing there alone. I rolled my eyes at his back, irritation simmering beneath my skin. I didn’t need him to take care of me like some fragile thing. At least our seats were good—right behind the player benches—where I could see every scowl and fierce determination etched on their faces as they prepared for battle.
I settled into my seat and let my gaze drift to the ice. The players glided effortlessly across its surface during warm-ups, their bodies fluid and powerful. One guy sent a puck sailing toward an open net; it ricocheted off the post with a resounding clang that resonated deep in my chest.
The energy buzzed around me like electricity. A couple of players exchanged sharp words, their intensity radiating even from this distance. I couldn’t help but lean forward, fascinated by their precision and focus as they went through their drills.
A group of fans nearby erupted in laughter as one player tripped over his own skates during a drill. It was absurdly humanizing amidst all that raw athleticism—the kind of moment that turned pro athletes into real people rather than untouchable icons.
I sighed and shifted in my seat, trying to shake off the feeling of being out of place in this raucous environment. But there was something about watching them move—like they belonged to this place more than anyone else ever could—and for just a second, I felt a flicker of envy deep inside me.
I leaned back in my seat, the buzz of the crowd surrounding me, when an unsettling sensation prickled at the nape of my neck. Someone watched me. My pulse quickened as I turned, scanning the rink until my gaze landed on him.
A Reaper stretched on the ice, looking directly at me. I glanced over my shoulder, thinking he was looking at a girlfriend or a sister behind me… but no. No one else was there. The low arena lights caught the sharp angles of his face, his platinum hair spilling over like liquid silver. He had an inexplicable intensity about him—feral and fierce, yet dangerously captivating.
His gaze locked onto mine, dark eyes holding a vigor that made my breath hitch. Something in his expression shifted; it felt like he could see right through me, stripping away layers until I was bare and exposed. The way he studied me made my skin prickle with awareness, turning my stomach into a tight knot.
I squeezed my thighs together instinctively, feeling a deep pulsation there—a strange mix of numbness and undeniable awareness that sent shockwaves through me. My heart thudded louder with every passing second.
But I broke our connection first, tearing my gaze away as Rob emerged from the crowd, beer sloshing in his hand.
“Hey!” I yelped as he stumbled into the row beside me, splattering foam across my lap. He didn’t even glance at me as he shrugged off the spill like it was nothing.
“Oops.” He chuckled before settling in beside me, a satisfied grin plastered across his face. “You’re gonna love this game.”
He handed me a water bottle without even acknowledging what just happened. I took it mechanically but couldn’t shake the feeling that the player’s eyes remained on me. Even with Rob sitting right next to me, laughter echoing all around us, that gaze lingered—a silent challenge hanging between us like charged air before a storm.
Rob rambled on about stats and lineups while I forced myself to focus on him instead of what had just happened. But every time I glanced back toward the ice, I felt it—his stare bore down on me with an intensity that made it impossible to ignore. What did it mean?