8. Preston
PRESTON
Me
Guess where I am?
I’m glad you asked! Late-night skating in the arena all alone. I’ll grace you with my company, so come on over, bitches!
Kane
Can’t tonight.
Boo. You’re with Debby, aren’t you?
Kane
Her name is Dahlia.
Nobody cares. Bros before hoes, Kane, ever heard of that?
Kane
She’s not a hoe. Don’t make me punch you in the dick, Pres.
So scared. Not. @JudeCallahan, where are you, man? Let’s play! We’ll send pussy-whipped Kane a video of us kicking ass. Oh! Hold on, changing Kane’s name to that in my contacts while I still remember.
Jude
I’m not available, Pres. I’ll take a rain check.
Hey! The fuck is wrong with you two? Want me to revoke your friendship rights, is that it? Prepare to have the most boring life ever without me.
Kane
Stop being dramatic.
I’m the dramatic one for wanting to skate before tomorrow’s game like we ALWAYS do? Oh, I’m sorry, did I perturb your fuck-fest, Kane?
Jude
There’s no fuck-fest. Couldn’t you tell from how grumpy he was during practice these last couple of days that they’ve been fighting?
Hallelujah! Diana is not good for you, Kane. She’s the Wolves’ spy, remember?
Kane
Just because she went out with Osborn for two weeks doesn’t make her their spy.
Sure does. Isn’t that right, Jude?
Jude
Possibly reaching.
You’re supposed to say “You’re totally right, Pres. Nice catch.” I’ll forgive you for your insolence if you join me. Everyone knows I’m the entire circulatory system of the party.
Jude
It’s just life of the party.
No, I circulate vibes. Anyway, what the fuck are you even doing without me, big man?
Jude
Something.
Something I wasn’t invited to? I’m so offended right now.
Kane
He’s probably just watching Violet sleep.
Oh! Violetta? The pretty girl with copper hair and killer skin who’s sleeping at the hospital? I wanna join.
Jude
Hell no.
But why not? You always take me along when stalking.
Kane
Obviously not this time, Pres. I wonder why…
I’m gonna find out the tea for both of us, Kane. What are bros for, am I right?
Jude
Shut the fuck up, Kane. And don’t you dare come anywhere near that hospital room, Pres. I mean it.
Oooh, a threat! Now, I’m more intrigued. brB, I’m gonna get my favorite popcorn, sweet and salty.
Jude
How about you focus on your own investigation?
Whatever do you mean?
Kane
The masked intruder who appeared in your family’s forest two days ago, Pres. Remember?
That’s not important.
Jude
You were beaten half to death and lost your mind in the process. How is that not important?
Kane
Yeah, Pres. Anything from the security footage?
No.
Jude
When he got close to you, did you notice anything special? Like a mark or a tattoo?
Kane
Just give me something, and I’ll find out who the fuck dared to trespass on our property.
Either show up and keep me company or stop yapping like bored housewives.
Itoss my phone onto the bench in the Vipers’ locker room and finish taping my hands.
Yeah, yeah—I’m the world’s biggest liar for keeping the entire forest clusterfuck to myself. But seriously, what was I supposed to say?
“Hey, Kane, Jude. So the masked intruder was totally Marcus Osborn, and I let him beat the shit out of me, because, surprise, I guess I’m into that. Also, fun bonus, I’m ninety-nine percent sure I got hard. Any thoughts?”
Yeah. No.
I’d rather tie a noose around my own neck and hang from the rafters like a festive little corpse, thanks.
My method of coping is choosing to believe that the entire thing didn’t happen. See? It works.
Nothing dramatic.
Just a normal day like all days.
Kane and Jude are just being over the top with the whole “you lost your mind” thing. They’re the ones who overreacted by knocking me out, the fuckers. I was just going to block Osborn’s exit and hunt him the fuck down.
They’re the reason I couldn’t proceed with my plans, so if they want to blame anyone, they should start with themselves.
But honestly? Maybe chasing Osborn wasn’t my brightest moment after what happened under that tree.
I definitely shouldn’t want to feel like that again.
Letting myself unravel, allowing someone to handle me like I’m not a human but a problem to be solved—yeah, something has to be deeply, fundamentally wrong with me.
And surprise, it is. Ask Dr. Duret or Dr. Fenwick. They’ve probably got matching PowerPoints about me.
But the thing is…in that moment, something inside me just snapped open and came undone. With the taste of copper in my mouth, pain in my ribs, my brain buzzing like a busted neon sign—and instead of shutting down, I…loosened up. Let go.
I know, I know. It’s pretty fucked up. If there were awards for psychological disasters, I’d sweep the entire ceremony.
But the truth is idiotically simple—I only ever feel like I exist when I’m being hurt.
When the pain registers, adrenaline fires. A hit, a crash, a bruise, and suddenly, I’m back in my body again instead of floating ten feet above it like a malfunctioning ghost.
It makes me feel alive.
That’s why I love hockey. The impacts, the slamming into the boards, the speed—it puts me back together for a second.
It’s the only time I’m not trapped in my head, not lost in static, or wrestling whatever impulse decided to ruin my day.
On the ice, things make sense when focus sets in, and chaos fizzles out.
I pick a target, annoy the shit out of them, score, win.
Boom. Life formula achieved.
Except for that godforsaken Wolves game when a certain asshole turned the tables on me.
Said asshole also started texting me right after that night in the forest.
I pull out my phone and stare at the messages. They’ve trickled in throughout the last couple of days. The first was early yesterday morning.
Unexpected Problem
You brought my bike back. I assume I don’t have to apologize now?
Is this a thank-you for making you feel good, princeling?
Don’t deny it, we both know you got so fucking hard as I was hitting you. Does being hurt turn you on, sick boy?
Silence means admission.
What if I told you I was equally turned on? Just remembering the expression on your face makes my dick leak. I’m so tempted to tug on my cock as I recall your pretty bloody face.
Hmm. You’re reading my texts in real time, so how about you reply?
No? Fine. Let’s see how long you can pretend I don’t exist, baby.
I narrow my eyes on that “baby.”
Seriously, why is he using a word that’s typically reserved for couples? I hate the asshole, and I’m not his baby.
I’ll gladly be his grim reaper, though. Slice his throat open or chop his head off and watch him bleed out in seconds.
Can totally get behind that shit.
I’m glaring at the texts when a new one appears, making my spine snap upright.
Unexpected Problem
I’m bored. Come entertain me?
Me
I’m not your fucking clown.
Not a clown, no, but definitely pure entertainment. Also, hi, are you done ignoring me?
I was just checking to see if you were dead, which obviously, you’re not. What a sad day for humanity.
You’re highly amusing, did you know that?
Yeah. You’ve told me that twice now.
You’re counting?
And you’re drooling.
Guilty as charged. I could eat you whole and still be starving for more.
You can try, Hannibal. I’m indigestible.
I believe you’re highly digestible, especially after what happened in the forest. You’re obviously not as unaffected by me as you like to think.
It probably took you by surprise to be so turned on by the guy you hate and look down upon as a “peasant.” It’s why you returned the bike and ignored me, no? To prove that I mean nothing.
This motherfucking piece of shit is way too perceptive for his own good.
How do I fuck him up with his own ego until he chokes on it and dies?
I’m going to block you.
And take away my favorite new fixation? Don’t do that. In return, I’ll give you a chance to get back at me.
I’m not falling for that.
I mean it. We’ll have a one-on-one game. Just you and me.
Why?
Because you obviously still have unresolved feelings for me, and this could fix it.
I have NO feelings for you.
If you say so.
I do NOT.
I believe you. No need for caps.
You truly are entertaining.
Pay me for brightening your boring life.
I don’t have much money, but I can pay you with something else.
Who’s the whore now?
I can be that for you. Anyway, back to the one-on-one. Are we on? It’d be a nice workout before tomorrow’s games. I could use some last-minute practice.
You’re doing this for practice? Don’t you have any friends on the Wolves you can practice with? So sad.
Yeah. I’m so lonely. See you at the Wolves’ arena?
I’m not coming to that shithole.
Then I’ll come find you, baby.
This was a bad idea.
Like…Olympic-level bad.
I have no clue what I was thinking when I didn’t immediately refuse to let Osborn come here, but clearly, my brain cells were not in attendance, because now, it’s too late.
He’s here. The motherfucker.
Black compression shirt glued to him like it’s legally required to act as his second skin, stretched over broad shoulders and a wide chest. No pads except the elbow ones. And when he glides toward me, his shirt rides up just enough to flash the line of his abs.
And I’m absolutely, totally, definitely not looking at that or doing anything else equally deranged.
Nope. Not me.
“Fancy rink,” he drawls in that aggravating, provocative way he speaks, not studying his surroundings as his words suggest, and, instead, fully focused on me.
He’s sporting bruises from when I punched him in the forest. Not as dark as mine, but they’re there, little souvenirs from that whole disaster.
And he just…keeps watching me. Intently. Unblinking. Like he’s trying to snap my entire existence straight into his brain.
The longer he stares, the tighter something coils inside me, winding around my lungs until breathing becomes strained.
I’m starting to think I despise his eyes. Those dark grays that look like smoke mixed with night. Even under the bright rink lights, they remain unreadable and infuriatingly mysterious.