Preston #2
You know, Stantonville, the shithole town that neighbors our town and I’d rather never visit, because I heard it’s full of rats? Yeah, this particular Osborn happens to live here and definitely not on Ravenswood Hill where the founding families’ mansion sprawls above Graystone Ridge.
Because he’s a nobody.
He’s not recognized by his paternal family, except for the last name, which is weird—they should’ve removed that, too.
A nobody spawned by Uncle Andrew because he couldn’t keep it in his pants once upon a time. Not that I’m judging, but come on, protection. Condoms. They exist for a reason, and you can find them in a grocery store near you.
Yes, this is an unpaid ad as I’m a firm believer in those plastic balloons. Diseases? Hell no. Spawning a child? Even more of abso-fucking-lutely not.
Anyway, because a condom didn’t prevent his existence, Osborn stopped my genius plan concerning Dicky before it started.
He turns to face me, a lazy curve settling over his mouth as if he’s been expecting me.
What a nuisance.
He blocks my view like a damn wall in motion, his orange jersey glaring under the rink lights with that stupid snarling wolf in the middle. It’s not even subtle. We get it—you’re the big, bad predator. Congratulations, want a cookie?
I’ve played Osborn before—against him, I mean—but annoyingly, my provocations didn’t get me inside his head. And it wasn’t for lack of trying.
He’s the Wolves’ wild card who’s always moving everywhere, so I had to cripple him. In the games I played against him in previous seasons, he was always slippery.
If anything, I’d say he’s the one who targets me on the ice instead of the other way around. Asshole seems to love checking me into the nearest surface.
There’s been this strange rivalry going on between us since high school. A type of intensity that’s tucked close to the surface, looming there without spilling over.
But ever since our first college game three years ago, I’ve been feeling a sort of…threat whenever we face off. As if he intends to fucking devour me. No, just kidding. I can’t be threatened. I do the threatening myself.
During our last game in Vipers Arena, I attempted to get a rise out of him by saying, “Did the rats let you out to play, or did you bribe them?”
What? Not my best line, but it was a good one, come on.
He just smiled and skated away.
He smiled.
The audacity.
So I tried again with, “Your mama rode the right dick but didn’t finish the job. That’s why you’re with the rats instead of being here. So sad.”
Yes, told you I’d go there. I go every-fucking-where.
He still smiled.
But then he checked me so violently yet cleanly, I almost lost my fucking teeth.
I focused on another teammate, going so deep inside his head, I sent him to the box enough times to have him removed from the rink.
And we won. Of course. All thanks to my genius.
After that game, however, he stole my girlfriend. Okay, so she wasn’t my girlfriend, since I don’t do those, but she was the girl I fucked at the time, and he had no business having her wrapped all around him in her fucking stories.
Not that we were exclusive or anything, and I’ve totally forgotten the girl’s name, but it’s the audacity for me.
Tonight, however, Osborn is…hmm. How do I put this not so nicely? He has too much arrogance. It’s everywhere. From the way he carries himself, to how he speaks, to how he looks.
His helmet is tilted back just enough to reveal sharp angles, a mouth that looks like it’s permanently smirking, and dark-gray eyes that don’t blink like normal people’s do. They just watch. Assess. Like he’s collecting data for the best way to piss me off.
I’m so annoyed that he stopped me from wrecking his teammate’s fragile ego. No one ever steps between me and chaos. Especially not some Stantonville rat who crawled out of the gutter and decided to grow cheekbones sharp enough to commit crimes with.
The only break in all the sharp lines is a scar that slashes over the edge of his thick eyebrow.
He’s taller than I remember, built like he crushes bones and doesn’t lose sleep over it. Taller than me—the motherfucker—and I’m 6’3”. He’s like, what? 6’4”? 6’5”? Who the fuck needs that much height? Giants?
He runs a hand through his messy black hair, then pulls the helmet down on his face, his mouth tipped in that same lingering, taunting curve. “Hi, fairy prince.”
I release a sound that’s similar to a “tsk.” I have no fucking clue why he calls me that. I mean, yeah, sure, I am a prince, thank you very much. It’s what they say in the papers, too. Armstrong, the league’s prince this and Armstrong, the league’s prince that.
But this degenerate makes it sound like he’s mocking me in that annoying deep voice of his.
“We meet again.” The way he speaks drowns out the noise, demanding attention.
But you know, two can play that game.
“Who are you again…? The name’s on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t quite remember. Hmm.”
“Forgetfulness at your age is a real issue, Armstrong. May I suggest seeing a doctor?”
This motherfucker.
I truly don’t like him and the way he’s always waving and smirking and nodding at me as if we’re old friends.
“Right, Osborn!” I ease a smile into place, then start to circle him; it’s how I disorient them. “You’d better have dealt with those mommy issues of yours, because I’m going there again tonight.”
“What about your own issues, Armstrong? Ready to hold my hand and talk about it? Because I’ll also go there.”
I falter, and his hand fists my collar, hauling me to a stop as he yanks me toward him. The pull is so sudden and forceful, it knocks the breath from my lungs, leaving me stunned.
Because what the actual fuck?
My face is practically pressed to his helmet, only a breath between us, and Jesus fucking Christ—are those blue flecks in his eyes? Like shards of sky caught in storm clouds. They flicker, almost alive, almost extinguished.
That’s when I realize something.
I’ve always found Osborn’s face annoying, and now I know it’s because I can’t read his eyes. Zilch. Nada.
As someone who’s extremely good at reading others, gauging their reactions, getting a figurative—and sometimes literal—hard-on at the rage and anger in their eyes, I currently can’t find anything to feed on.
Just a sea of gray asphyxiating the blue with no spark.
No life.
No story to tell.
It’s destabilizing.
“Leave my players alone, Armstrong. This is my first and final warning.”
I tilt my head, a small, satisfied curl forming at my mouth as I whisper, “Or what?”
He pauses, staring at me, and for a heartbeat, something shifts—flickers—before he murmurs, “Or you’ll regret it.”
“Are you threatening me with a good time, rat?”
“Careful, princeling.” His voice comes out rough-edged, the kind of rasp that could strip skin if I listened too long. “Don’t want to chip your manicure.”
“Aw, thanks for the concern, but don’t worry. I keep them sharp for cutting throats.”
He laughs, the sound low and throaty, but it carries condescension instead of anything resembling amusement.
“Will you be coming after my throat?”
I don’t like his tone. There’s something dark and strange there I can’t quite pinpoint.
“If you get in the way, maybe.” I lift a shoulder, subtly disengaging from him.
Because fuck this shit, being near him is intense.
Not “I’m gonna get beat up to feel pain” intense or “I’m gonna fuck until I pass out” intense, but something more uncomfortable.
It’s because I don’t like people touching me out of the blue, or at all, really. That’s why I always tie the girls up during sex. If they don’t like that, we’re not compatible. Get home safe, beautiful.
But here’s the thing that’s slightly—or majorly, depending on how you look at it—disturbing. I seemed to have momentarily forgotten about that tiny, pesky inconvenience just now.
If anything, I didn’t notice he was touching me for a while.
Fuck me sideways.
“What should we do?” He feigns concern, his voice grating on my last damn nerve. Or maybe it’s the way he speaks, so nonchalant and blasé and entirely fucking irritating.
I’m the only one who gets to speak that way.
“I plan to get in the way,” he says, circling me once, before he stops in front of me again, standing so close, I have to look up.
Okay, being circled is actually a no-no—almost there with waking up and finding myself in a place I don’t remember sleeping in.
It’s so grating, I want to bash his head on the ice and watch his blood paint the white red. It would be an impressive painting to collect, in my humble opinion.
“Good luck with that.” I start to bypass him, because he’s so not fucking fun. I prefer Dicky and his friends, who get red at the merest shit I say.
Osborn is an anomaly I’d rather not deal with.
He subtly shifts in front of me, blocking my path, and just when I’m about to shove him away, he lifts my chin with his gloved index finger, tilting my head back so I’m staring up at him.
For the first time, the look in his eyes changes, light slipping through.
No, it’s not light.
It’s sadism.
A deep sense of wanting to hurt someone.
Something.
Anything.
I recognize it because I experience that need in spades. But to see it directed at me raises goose bumps all over my fucking skin.
My throat closes and a hum of static floods my brain.
His head dips, and instinct urges me to pull back, but I can’t—not when he whispers so close to my mouth.
“You’re all mine tonight, prince.”