Lily
The week passes far too quickly. Every day, I go to the ice rink early, and I witness the team getting more and more ruthless on the ice, faster, stronger, in sync with each other.
I skate until the rink closes every night, just to tire myself out enough to sleep. Most nights, it doesn’t work.
Every evening, I see Cross in the stands, and I ignore him.
“What are you doing here?” I snap Thursday night.
He shrugs. “Watching you.”
Well, I knew that, but I didn’t expect him to admit to it outright.
“You’re very talented.” His dimples flash as he sends me his sunniest smile. “And nimble.”
I roll my eyes as I skate away, heading to the changing room.
But I don’t fail to notice that he’s there when I leave the rink, along with the employee closing it up for the night. Cross doesn’t hide his presence, standing mere yards away under a streetlight.
I bristle and set off, sensing his gaze as he accompanies me, remaining several feet away.
Halfway to the dorms, I stomp my foot and turn back, marching straight up to him.
“Why are you following me?”
He doesn’t bother denying it. “Because it’s eleven at night, and you’re tiny, pretty, and alone.”
I don’t know how to begin to process that.
“Well, it’s weird,” I tell him. “You might as well walk with me. Less creepy.”
I blame temporary insanity for saying that.
Cross seems to find me amusing. “The view’s pretty great from the back, but if you insist.”
We walk the rest of the way in silence, my mind on his upcoming game, as it has been for most of the week.
By Saturday evening, I am panicking so much I can’t sit still. And in the blink of an eye, it’s Sunday afternoon.
Part of me wants to take the easy way out. Stay barricaded in my room, ignore the very existence of the game. I’ve been at Rothford U for a year, and I’ve never cared or showed up for any of the Beasts’ games. Why would I start now?
Besides, they’ve always lost. I’ve never been one to pray, but please, please, please, if there is someone listening out there, let them lose again.
Fucking hell, what madness made me accept that bet?
Yes, Cross dangled the sort of opportunity I can’t afford to pass up, but I am fairly certain anyone else in my shoes would have had the dignity to laugh and say no thank you regardless.
He wouldn’t really expect me to keep my side of the bargain, would he?
I bite my lip, knowing the answer.
Yes, yes, he will absolutely expect it. Demand it.
And to be fair, when I was so certain they’d lose, I planned to smugly demand my reward right after the game.
But Cross couldn’t make me do anything. That would be illegal. Unethical.
Except the bet wasn’t ethical from the get-go and I still agreed to it.
“Ms. Trueman.” Hearing my name pulls me out of my head.
I blink in surprise at the security guard who steps in as I follow the crowd into the arena.
“Yes?”
I’ve never seen him in my life. Bald and built like a tank, he isn’t the kind of person one would easily forget.
“Right this way, miss,” he tells me, gesturing to the stairs. “You have a reserved seat in the front row.”
I want to ask him how he knows who I am, but that much seems obvious: Cross. One way or another, this is Cross’s doing. So much for sneaking in unnoticed at the back.
My heart races as the opposing team skates into place, followed by Cross and his guys. I’ve been to my fair share of games in my time, but the stupid player parade seems to drag longer than it ever has. Get on with it already. I need this nightmare over, one way or another.
Number 11 makes a show of sliding right up to me, and hazel eyes wink as he spins back into place. “Later, darling.”
I shoot him my middle finger, and the fans around us chuckle, some of them completely misreading the situation.
“Is that his girlfriend?” some girl gasps.
“Of course it’s his girlfriend,” I hear the guy she’s with retort. “They never have anyone in the family seats other than that punk chick.”
The punk chick must be Dez.
It takes all my strength to not turn around and explain in painstaking detail how I absolutely am not anyone’s girlfriend and certainly not that dick’s.
The Dragons captain practically screams, taunting the Beasts. “Ready for, what, your twentieth loss in a row?” I hear him yell, to the delight of the visitors, who hoot from the stands. “Have you guys ever won, actually?”
“Do you ever win anything except the games we let you take?” Cross retorts, earning some cheers.
He has the home turf advantage: most of the arena wears their blue and silver.
And finally, the referee gets them to shut up long enough for the game to start.
Palms clammy, hands shaking, I lean in, my eyes following the puck with more attention than any of the high school games played by my ex-boyfriend by home, any pro game he paid a lot of money to watch.
Our Beasts immediately dominate, passing the puck towards the goals, and the moment the Dragons manage to take it, number seven rams into their defense with enough force that sends the poor guy packing. Blood splatters across the smooth ice as the beast of a man thrown by seven skids and falls.
I watch in speechless horror.
“Come on, that’s bullshit!” I scream, along with everyone else in the arena.
Except, they’re cheering.
“That’s an infraction!” I yell, but the only reason the game’s paused is to make sure the idiot didn’t get a concussion.
“That was completely normal body checking,” the guy behind me, who pronounced me Cross’s girlfriend, counters. “What team are you with, anyway?”
“Anyone but the bloody Beasts,” I grumble.
The puck crosses the goal line less than fifteen seconds after the game restarts and the crowd goes wild.
No one expected it. Frankly, it’s a miracle the arena’s more than half full, given that every spectator here is used to seeing the guys lose.
I suppose they are into the glittering elites of Thorn Falls, regardless of their actual skills on the ice.
But today, something has changed. They don’t have a clue what.
Unfortunately, I do.
The Dragons, confused, start to insult each other, our Beasts, and the crowd, but it doesn’t change the fact that they barely get half a second with the puck.
There’s only one guy on defense: number seven.
He’s enough. He’s more of an enforcer than anything else, happy to play his part of a one-man army, a loose cannon inflicting injuries to whoever so much as thinks they’ll actually play.
Everyone else is center and wing, driving the puck into the away team’s goal again and again.
I have to feel sorry for them after a while.
And for me.
I grow silent as everyone else screams louder.
By the halftime, the away team hasn’t scored once, and we’re at forty-three goals.
Number seven removes his helmet, slowly skating around the rink with his hands up in smug victory. Markus Goltz. Of course.
For the first time, I spot Dez, on the other side of the rink, closer to the changing rooms. If I’d known she’d show up, I might have sat with her. Then again, she might have questioned what I was doing here—and why I’m so mad our team is pulverizing the guests.
I decide the only reasonable solution is day drinking, and make my way to the snack stands. I’ve only taken a few steps when the security guard who indicated my seat is back in my face. “Ms. Trueman, the crowd can get rowdy.”
“Duh.” I roll my eyes. “It’s a hockey game.”
And the family, friends, and fans who came to see the Dragons kick some ass are likely seriously pissed.
He clears his throat. “It’s best if you remain in your seat, miss. I’d be glad to pick up anything you might want.”
While he phrases the offer pleasantly enough, there is no question: he’s ordering me to stay put.
“And if I need the little girls’ room?”
“I’d be delighted to escort you.”
He’s got to be joking. “Fine. I’d love a beer or two. And a hot dog.”
I wait for him to question whether I should be having beer, or demand to see my ID, but he dips his head and heads towards the stands before I can hand him the money.
Part of me wonders if I can sneak out, but seconds later, another brute takes his place, his eyes on me.
I will have to strangle Cross for this later. Why the hell would he give me a protection detail? It’s not like I’m anyone important.
The second half of the game is worse. The only good thing is that I watch it with two beers and snacks. At least I had some hope at the start, but dread claws my insides with every passing moment.
Markus spends a total of five minutes in the penalty box, so the Dragons manage to score some goals, but there’s no catching up with the Beasts’ margin.
Besides, soon enough, Goltz is back to his nonsense.
Dejected, I stop watching the scoreboard as time pass.
Fine. They’re winning. I’m losing.
That doesn’t mean I have to actually blow them all. That would be preposterous. Clearly, I meant it as a joke. They have to know that. He has to know that.
I bet Cross will just hold it over my head for ages without doing anything about it, like he did for the many blowjobs I owe him.
Right?