8. Preston #2
Actually, no—I’ve decided. I hate them. They’re officially on my shit list, right under his smug little smirks and that rough, deep voice that sounds like gravel having an orgasm.
Oh, and his physique. Loathe it. Absolutely, violently loathe it.
He’s all muscle and precision—annoyingly efficient. Even when he pretends he doesn’t care, he’s coiled and controlled.
Even his breathing looks disciplined.
What kind of psychopath breathes on purpose like that?
Someone like Julian and Marcus fucking Osborn, apparently.
“The press would have a field day if they could snap a picture of this moment.” He’s circling me, stick and helmet in hand. “Osborn versus Armstrong. The league’s beast and prince come face to face.”
“Beast.” I scoff. “Ridiculous.”
“You wearing a Vipers jersey for our one-on-one is what’s ridiculous.” He stops in front of me, his voice turning cold. “Lose it.”
“Why? Afraid it’ll blind you with all its glory?”
“I just don’t want the reminder that you’re supposed to be my enemy.”
“Oh no, we can’t have that. Wouldn’t want to ruin your warm, fuzzy feelings for me.”
“Warm, no. Fuzzy, maybe.”
I slam my stick against his chest, chomping down on that uncomfortable, painful feeling rising in my chest. “Stop flirting.”
“Was I?”
“Yes, you were, and I’m telling you it won’t work.”
“Don’t go breaking my heart.”
“You’d need to have one in the first place.”
“Ouch.” He smiles, amusement rolling off him in waves. No clue why he finds these exchanges entertaining when all I get is a migraine and the urge to bash his head in.
“Will you remove it?” He reaches out. “Or do you need my help?”
I glide back before he touches me.
He remains still but narrows his eyes the slightest bit, as if he’s cracking me open and attempting to see inside me.
Good luck coming out of that clusterfuck alive.
“I’m not removing my jersey.” I pull my helmet down over my head and check my gloves one final time. “You ready to go down?”
“Rules?”
“No violent hits as neither of us is wearing pads, and I’m sure you don’t want to end up with an injury in the heat of the season.”
“Deal. What format should we do?”
“Let’s play who can score three goals first.”
“I prefer it to be more than that, but I can manage.”
What the hell is that supposed to mean?
He skates closer to me, killing the distance I created inch by inch. “We also need a wager.”
“A wager?”
“Yeah, to make things more interesting. What do you want from me if you win?”
“You on your knees saying, ‘I’m sorry for being a dick to you, and you’re a much better player than I’ll ever be.’”
His smirk widens, unfurling into a full grin. “You really want me on my knees, huh?”
“Is that a no?”
“It’s a yes. In return, if I win, you’ll let me touch you.”
My smile falls. “No.”
He pauses, squinting as he glides over the ice, circling me again. “Give me a reason.”
“Because I’m not gay or attracted to men.”
“The beautiful boner you had for me a couple of days ago negates that statement.”
My lips lift in a snarl, but I force a smile so fake, it nearly splits my face open. “No idea what you’re talking about.”
“Hmm. The denial is adorable.”
“I’m not adorable.”
“You are. Sometimes.” He shoves his helmet on his head. “So what’s it going to be? If I can’t touch you, I won’t get on my knees. You can always win and not let me touch you, unless…you don’t have the confidence?”
“Bitch, please.” I lower myself into position. “You’re going down, Osborn.”
“That’s what I like to hear—” Before he can finish the sentence, I steal the puck and skate past him at supersonic speed.
He doesn’t get a chance.
Not even the slightest.
Osborn is still heavier than me and doesn’t have the advantage of speed like I do.
So when I shoot, the puck tangles in the net from the impact.
“Woo-hoo!” I glide backward, doing a little dance as I waggle my eyebrows. “One to nil, motherfucker.”
Osborn is watching me, his expression easy, but his eyes are hard. “That was cheating.”
“Aw, being a sore loser already? Don’t worry, you won’t be on your knees for long.”
“This isn’t over, baby.”
For the second round, he steals the puck, but I’m onto him instantly, blocking him, my helmet crashing against his.
“Let me touch you.” His whisper drops low, curling around my throat until it constricts. “Just once. If you hate it, I won’t touch you again. You can have a safe word. How about friends? Because we’ll never be that. Friends, I mean.”
There’s a hardness to his expression, a slight tilt in his tone, almost as if he’s, what? Mad at me?
“If you say that word, I won’t touch you anymore.”
“You won’t touch me regardless.”
“Even when you’re begging to be touched?” His hot breaths run smooth and heavy between us. “Your mouth can deflect all it wants, but your eyes…your eyes don’t lie.”
“Stop fucking talking.”
He shoves into me at that moment, slipping past me and scoring.
Then the asshole rotates to face me and grins, winking.
“You distracted me on purpose!” I yell, the huge arena echoing my voice.
“My oh my, you find me distracting? I’m honored.”
I lunge for the puck, but his stupidly massive frame blocks me, our sticks locked in a full-on power struggle.
He shoves—I shove back—but he uses the brute force of his body to bulldoze past me and score.
I slam my stick against the ice, the familiar static flooding up my spine, clawing into my senses until nausea rolls through me.
It’s that feeling again.
Losing control and having no…way out.
“Hey.” A stick hits mine on the ice as dark eyes bore into me, his head lowering slightly to reach my level. “Focus. Breathe. Eyes on me. Don’t let anything but me get your attention, got it?”
“Fuck off, prick. You’ll never get my attention.”
“Good. You’re back.” Marcus skates in front of me, still watching me, observing me closely.
Fuck that.
Before he can get into position, I steal the puck, skate by his left, and aim for a long-range shot.
“And he scores!” I grin, circling him. “Want to call it off now, loser?”
“It’s not over until it’s over.” He goes for the puck, but I’m ready.
The moment he tries to speed past me, I block him and slam my shoulder into his. Not too hard, because of the no-pads thing, but enough that it bites.
“Not happening.” I try to force him off me, but he doesn’t budge.
“Are you that scared of my touch?” he murmurs in a gruff, deep voice.
“I’m not scared of anything. And stop talking.”
I angle for the puck, but his stick tangles with mine, our shoulders locked so tight, it’s impossible to separate from him and do any of my usual quick maneuvers. Everyone knows I’m not built for these sustained collisions. That’s Jude’s job and why he fights for me.
But today, I’m not moving—will be dying on this hill.
Due to the absence of the pads, I feel every coil of his muscles, the heat of his skin, and the absolute power of the brute.
Marcus leans in harder, almost taking me off my skates. His strength hits like a battering ram, stealing air from my lungs as I try to hold my position. I brace, and he bears down again, pressing in until my ribs throb.
“Give up,” he breathes out, his helmet knocking into mine, heat curling off his words. “You’ll never beat me in strength. Not when you’re used to playing so cleanly.”
“Fuck…you…”
“I’d love that.” He grins, his mouthguard gleaming. “You have no idea how much I’d love that.”
Then he throws his full weight into me, and my legs scream in protest, barely keeping me upright as he drives me back.
“Can you feel it? How much I really.” Push. “Really.” Push. “Want to touch you, baby?”
Something strange happens then.
Not strange—blasphemous—and it hits me so hard, my grip falters.
Marcus slips past me and scores.
I hear it happen, but I don’t look.
I can’t look.
I’ve already turned away, refusing to face him.
Because in that moment, when he was bracing me with every ounce of that unholy brute strength, telling me how much he wants—you know—my dick fucking twitched.
And now, it’s getting uncomfortably hard in my shorts.
Fuck.
No.
Absolutely not.
I’m going to need Dr. Duret and Dr. Fenwick to brew a whole new potion to fix this real quick. Because this cannot be fucking happening right now.
A taut arm wraps around my waist, a large, gloved hand settling on my hip.
I’m supposed to flinch.
Jump.
Punch him.
My head is supposed to explode with static, stealing my breath and short-circuiting my brain.
But it…doesn’t.
Instead, sounds dull to a low hum as the feel of his warm hand goes straight to my dick.
My whore of a dick, who lacks the ability to read the fucking room.
Or how much I hate that prick Marcus.
Wait. Since when did I start calling him Marcus in my head?
“Now.” His rough words spill into my ear, his hot breath grazing my skin. “Where do I begin with you?”