Preston
PRESENT—AGE TWENTY-TWO
We’re gathered here tonight to witness me hurting someone.
Or a few someones.
Or a whole fucking team of them.
Here’s the thing. We’re playing against our biggest rival tonight. You know, the Wolves—aka the slimy sons of bitches who keep eyeing my championship.
Some would argue—some being our captain, Kane—that it’s our championship. The Vipers’, to be exact. Since I’m just one of twenty-six players on the team. But hear me out. They wouldn’t get anywhere without me, so technically speaking, it’s my championship, bitches.
Back to the topic at hand, or the actual Wolves’ shitty arena we’re playing at tonight.
Light floods the ice as our guys skate into position. That pregame buzz hits early, a hum of adrenaline sliding under my skin and making me extra fucking hyper. Can’t wait to crush some egos tonight and send them home crying.
The place is packed full of people who came to watch my highness humble some peasants.
Okay, fine, they might have come to watch Kane and Jude. Especially Jude. He gets so much attention without even trying, and it makes me salty with extra sodium at times, but hey, he gets a pass for being my best bro.
Said big man—yup, that’s Jude, the resident hulk of the Vipers—skates beside me on the rink amid the crowd’s deafening cheers.
For the Wolves, not us, since it’s an away game, but I take a dramatic bow to our side of the audience anyway.
“Smile, Callahan,” I tell Jude, wearing my charming smile, complete with the most gorgeous dimples—not my description; it belongs to one of the beautiful ladies I fuck on the regular. But since she said it about me, I have the right to plagiarize.
Jude stops beside me, running a quick gaze over me as if assessing something.
What, I don’t know.
Actually, I do, but let’s pretend I don’t. Works like a fucking charm every time.
Jude’s a few inches taller than me and much broader, almost like he’s on a mission to tower over the world. He pulls on his gloves, still doing that not-so-discreet watching he’s obsessed with. “Focus, Pres.”
“I am focused—on doing public service.”
“Don’t be too antagonistic tonight.”
I search around, then place a hand on my heart. “Antagonistic? Moi?”
“He’s right, Pres.” Kane skates to Jude’s side.
The captain of being a pain in the ass, ladies and gents.
Fine, okay. He’s not bad. Just a nagging little bitch sometimes—actually, most of the time.
Kane’s build is somewhere between Jude’s wrestler-like muscles and my lithe, perfect physique. He also has seriously creepy light-blue eyes that look especially muted now, almost reflecting the ice.
“The Wolves’ defense is aggressive,” he says, giving me a solemn look that fits a grandpa. “You goading them will only end badly for you. Play clean.”
“Nah, don’t worry. They’ll all fall into my trap.” I whistle, motioning toward their side. “Will be sending those peasants to the box one at a time.”
“Just tone it down,” he says.
“So, I won’t be doing that.”
“Pres…”
“But I’ll turn them into minced lasagna.”
Jude sighs. “It’s ‘make mincemeat out of them.’”
“I meant my version. Sounds tastier.”
Kane shakes his head at me, then skates away. Jude pats my shoulder as he follows. “I got your back.”
“That’s what I like to hear, big man.” I make a “pew pew” motion, then resume greeting the fans.
The crowd seems more distracted by Jude’s massive body and je ne sais quoi attitude, which are stealing the limelight.
Boo to Jude.
But then again, it doesn’t matter, because the crowd loves me more than him, and anyone who says otherwise is spreading false allegations and fake news.
I continue smiling, delaying strapping my helmet on so I can wink at anyone I make eye contact with.
The fangirls go wild.
Not even kidding, they’re fainting and shitting themselves upon seeing my angelic face. Figuratively, of course. Though it might lead to literally one day—who knows, am I right?
The Stanton Wolves’ arena, located near Stanton River College (or SRC), is so shitty and barely fits three thousand spectators, all packed together like sardines.
If this were Vipers Arena, which is one of the largest and best-equipped college complexes in the country, it could house at least ten thousand of our diehard fans.
Many of them go with us to Graystone University (or GU)—the elite college tucked within the affluent town of Graystone Ridge, where I was born to rule.
And be an absolute menace.
But that’s beside the point.
The point being me.
Preston Armstrong.
The most handsome devil you’ll ever meet. And no, that’s not arrogance. Ask anyone, specifically the beautiful ladies who grace my bed every night, and they’ll sing my praises.
I don’t pay them, I swear. It’s natural. I was just born to attract attention.
Not always the best kind of attention.
But I’ll just skip past that part because I’m on a mission. I’m going to bring my A game tonight so the papers and articles will call me the Vipers’ ace left wing and hockey god.
It’s one of the few reasons I play this game—one, the idol worshipping.
Two, because Jude was somehow into this shit when we were young, and I was desperate to be his friend, so I followed him.
Three, because the popularity of the Vipers in our hockey-crazed town allows me, Kane, and Jude to supervise shit.
Well, not supervise. We sort of keep an eye on campus, using our spots on the team as built-in lookout towers. Perks of being born into the founding families of Graystone Ridge—and Vencor. The secret society that runs our town and whatever shadows spill past it.
Armstrong—that’s me. Callahan—Jude. Davenport—Kane. Osborn—blank.
I mean, there was my friend Leo Osborn and his brother Lance, but they died. Leo was one of many friends who left me, even though he didn’t mean to. He always looked like he was in so much pain, poor dude, so I guess it’s good that he’s not hurting anymore.
Wasn’t that close to Lance, but he died a couple of months ago as well, so no male heirs for the Osborns. Good news for Dad and Kane’s and Jude’s dads, because this was supposed to give them more edge.
Wrong.
See, the Osborns still have a female heiress, and she’s kicking ass, literally and figuratively.
Anyway, as a representative of the Armstrongs, I’d like to say this whole secret society thing sucks. But like secretly, because Dad would have my left nut if I announced these thoughts.
My mouth holds its curve, but it feels frozen there.
Here comes the nuisance.
The Wolves swarm the rink in those amber-gold jerseys that are basically orange with commitment issues. Black and white stripes, snarling wolf logo—all of it trying way too hard to square up against the viper on ours.
Theirs is ugly, just saying.
I skate to number forty-eight, their best defenseman, and grin. “Hey, Dicky, ready to go home crying to your mama tonight?”
He fixes me with a hard, burning stare and snarls. “My name is Richardson.”
“Dickson, Dicky, who cares?” I circle him, scraping my blades on the ice every now and then just to mess with him. “Heard your girlfriend broke up with you. Must be because of the tiny Dickson allegations circling around. She found a better Dicky?”
I can always feel it.
That split second before they snap.
The way their eyes bulge like they’re about to claw their way out of their sockets, the way their whole body coils into that fight, fight, fight response.
It sends a tingle down my spine—straight to my goddamn dick—seeing them get that worked up over the stupid shit I say.
This is pure talent, you know. I did my homework before the game.
I always prep for whoever we’re up against. Learn the two or three defensemen I’ll be dealing with and dig up as much dirt on them as humanly possible.
Then I hit them where it hurts the most.
Drag out their ugliest, darkest vulnerabilities or secrets.
It’s what allows me free access to their heads. I don’t need to put my all into the game; I just have to mess with them, and they’ll make mistakes on the ice.
They all do.
Play harder, not smarter.
I’m a master provocateur and the reigning champion of pissing people off and poking them exactly where it’s paralyzing.
You’d better not have any issues and be perfect when facing me, because I’ll go there—I’ll go everywhere—while wearing a smile.
It’s impossible to be perfect, though, so I’ve always, and I mean always, gotten into my opponents’ heads and dragged them on the ice for the world to see.
Dicky is just the latest addition.
He faces me, his eyes injected with tiny red veins, his fists clenched as he raises his hand holding the stick.
Now, if he hits me hard enough and we get rid of him before we even start, the Wolves will be so cooked.
Let me give him one more push.
“Aw, you’re mad?” I tilt my head. “Hit a nerve, Dicky? You must’ve given such a lackluster performance for her to find another dick—”
He lunges at me, and I smile, closing my eyes. Referees better be watching, because I’ll be the most dramatic drama queen to have ever existed when I take the punch.
My blood roars in my veins at the prospect. The pain. The crunch of bones. The possibility of spilling blood.
It makes me feel alive.
Though this was so easy, I’m slightly offended.
I wait for the hit.
And wait.
But it doesn’t come.
I open my eyes, and fuck it all straight to hell. Someone has shoved Dicky away from me right before he could hit me.
Who the fuck—
My eyes narrow as a wall of muscle who’s built a bit like Kane but with Jude’s height shoves Dicky out of the way. “Position. Now.”
“But—” Dicky tries to argue.
“Now, Richardson.”
The order is nonnegotiable. I don’t even catch his face when he says it, but I hear that low, rumbling voice that hits like a commandment. Whatever it is, it’s enough to make Dicky—who’s twice his size and built like a fridge—mutter a curse and skate the hell away.
Osborn. Eleven.
That’s what his jersey says.
So I lied, there actually is a male Osborn heir. It’s this clown.
Marcus Osborn.
Pathetically a nobody.
Certified bastard child.
And comes from the peasant rank.