Preston
There’s something entirely ludicrous about this fucking game.
You know, the one I’m trying to win, but as much as I hate to fucking admit it, we’re struggling.
Being the reigning champions of the college league means no one fucks with us.
Much.
No one but the asshole Wolves who seem to have set their eyes on our throne.
But fear not, I am about to save the game. The first two periods were rough, but I’m here for the rescue.
I have Dicky by the dick—figuratively, of course. Ever since I planted the seed in his head before the game, I’ve already gained easy access. To his head, I mean.
We’re on the attack, and we have to get this one in to keep our marginal advantage, but their defense is no fucking joke this game. Someone has been working on their shortcomings since the last one.
You won’t catch me saying this out loud, but they’ve become a better version of themselves.
As we exchange the puck, I square up to Dicky and make a motion for Kane to pass it.
“Yo, Dicky. Wanna know who your girlfriend’s new dick is?” I ask him, catching the puck. “Your homie number eighty-one might have an idea. Or a video.”
Even if I don’t score this one, I’ll have this clown sent to the penalty box. With their right wing wide open, I’ll score as much as I like.
Dicky’s too stunned to react, and it’s the fraction of a second I need. With a grin, I skate past him and flick my wrist, ready to score—
A shoulder slams into mine, as solid as steel, and the shock reverberates all the way down my spine. I shove back, my teeth bared, but I’ve already lost my footing, and I hit the ice with a thud.
“Ahhhh—” the crowd reacts collectively.
“Told you you’re mine tonight.” Osborn’s voice carries like a low-spoken threat.
His eyes sweep down over me, a slow smirk settling in as though I’m exactly where he wants me. His orange jersey blazes under the cold light, the wolf baring its teeth between us. “Don’t try to weasel your way out of facing me, Armstrong.”
Then he skates away at supersonic speed as the crowd roars. Fuck this shit, they have the puck now.
I jump up and skate back to defense, ignoring Jude’s watchful eyes.
The puck is nearly blurry as it moves between their offense, led by none other than the headache on skates.
Marcus fucking Osborn.
He messed with the wrong person tonight.
As he gets the puck, I square up to him. “Good evening, bitch. Your night ends here.”
“Says who?”
“The scoreboard when I’m done with your sorry ass.”
“Bet?” He tries to skate around me, but I check him so violently, he groans but still passes the puck.
I stay on him because he’s their leading scorer.
Their ace, really. Freak plays defense and offense as if he cloned himself overnight, which is annoying—for us, not them.
Centers aren’t supposed to be good at both.
I mean, they are, but they’re usually better at one or the other.
Hell, even Kane leans toward defense, and Kane’s basically a hockey Terminator.
But this jackass? He shows up at both sides of the rink, acting like he’s trying to win Employee of the Month.
A dream two-way center, so to speak. He probably has all the hotshot NHL coaches and agents drooling to have him on board.
And I want to crush that.
Him.
I want to slice him open and see what lurks behind the facade carved by God’s worst sense of humor.
We’re dancing around each other as he tries to get past me.
Not going to happen.
I don’t even like defense, but today, I’ve decided I’ll humble this peasant so he can retreat to whatever hole he crawled out of with his tail tucked neatly between his legs.
“Tell me, Osborn.” I skate in front of him, keeping up with his fluid movements. It comes naturally to me because I’m lithe, but how the hell can he move like that with a giant’s frame?
“Anything, princeling.”
“Is your mama still in the business of riding rich guys’ dicks? Because I have a huge cock she can sit on all night. I’ll pay her for the trouble, too, so that she can buy you a new stick.”
His smile falters. Mine widens.
That’s it.
Break for me, Osborn.
Just like the rest of them.
He knocks his helmet against mine, and I hold him in place, pushing as hard as he does.
This is how it’ll go. Osborn will hit me, and we’ll have the best power play while he sits in the box like a sad kicked puppy.
His breath spills into mine, a rush of adrenaline and raw heat blending with the wild hum of the crowd around us. Their roars thrum beneath my skin like fuel.
“I have a better idea.” He gets close, so close his knee is shoved between mine, and despite the protective gear, it’s as if he’s kneeing me in the fucking balls.
His voice dips closer to a murmur, low enough to raise the hairs at the back of my neck.
“You should sit on my huge cock, Armstrong. If you’re good enough, I might pay you the rate of a low-rent whore.”
This fucking—
I lunge at him, hitting him not so cleanly, and the whistle screams like it’s personally offended. At that exact moment, Osborn checks me into the boards so hard, it rattles beneath our weight as the crowd loses its mind.
My ears start ringing, the whole arena sounding like it’s buried somewhere underground, and my vision goes fuzzy as he lifts me.
All of me.
The motherfucker actually hauls me up by my collar and shakes me like I’m a snow globe, then cracks his helmet against mine. My sight is swimming in a blurry daze, but I still shove at him with everything I’ve got.
“Is that a no to my offer?” His rough words push past the chaos, the crowd’s noise, the screams of our coaches and teammates.
“Just so you know.” I’m grinning before I even register the metallic flash on my tongue. “I’m going to kill you, Osborn. I’ll chop you into tiny pieces, feed you to the sharks, and keep your skull on my nightstand as a candleholder.”
“Will that be before or after you bounce on my cock like a good little slut?”
I growl deep in my throat as I’m about to punch him, but he’s yanked back by none other than Jude.
Fuck this shit.
Soon enough, Jude and Osborn are at each other’s throats as both teams try to separate them.
I stand up, and the ref waves me off toward the fucking box.
“Seriously? Me?” I yell, then force myself to calm the hell down, because what in the ever-loving fuck is going on right now?
If someone could explain, that would be perfect, thanks.
At the lack of a satisfying reply, I skate toward the box, remove my helmet, and try as hard as fuck to be cool.
Breathe.
Just breathe, me. No, we’re not used to the box, but I need to chill the fuck out and not let that degenerate get into my head.
Isn’t it too late, though?
Shut it, demon of reason. No one needs your useless commentary.
I remove my mouthguard and swallow the metallic taste that’s flooding my senses. No, literally, I’m seeing fucking red.
“Everything all right, Pres?”
Kane’s the one who just spoke through the glass, although his attention is divided between me and Jude, who’s still trying to fight Osborn as the crowd goes wild.
“Never been better.” I lick my split lip, running my tongue across the cut over and over again.
Every sting of pain reminds me that I need to inflict it ten times worse.
Bring that bitch down.
Make him fucking crawl.
“Don’t clash with Osborn,” Kane says. “He doesn’t fall for provocations.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“Just leave him to me.”
“No, he’s mine. Stay out of it.”
Kane’s brows pinch together, but he’s distracted. Jude is being Jude, and the other team members can’t control him, so Kane skates to the middle of the brawl.
Letting out a grumble, I flop onto the bench in the box, chugging half a bottle of water.
Finally, the teams break Jude and Osborn apart, sending each toward his respective side.
It’s a blur of commotion—blue, orange, sweat, and too much testosterone—and right in the middle of it stands Marcus Osborn. Wolves’ captain. Stantonville’s pride and joy. And the guy I’ve decided to crush until there’s nothing left.
I’ll skin him alive and eat his goddamn heart.
He doesn’t seem to be aware of my macabre cannibalistic plans, because his full attention remains on me.
In the midst of the mess, as someone at his side talks to him and he straps his helmet back on, his creepy eyes never look away from me.
He skates backward to the center of the rink, looking at me the entire time, then he does a beckoning motion with his index finger.
Water slides down my throat as I crush the bottle in my fingers.
The puck drops again, and I’m not out there, I’m here, trapped in a fucking box, my chest heaving, my blood hot enough to melt the ice.
Kane wins the face-off, and I stand up, cheering them on. “Go, go, go!”
Before Kane can manage to score, that motherfucker Osborn steals the puck and leads a flash counterattack and scores.
The goal is clean and brutal, and the buzzer echoes in the air as the orange section in the crowd goes wild.
“Motherfucker!” I slam my stick against the glass, losing my cool in epic proportions.
It’s not like me.
At all.
I’ve perfected the art of being the league’s prince. And the league’s prince doesn’t lose his cool over a nobody.
And this particular Osborn is a fucking nobody.
He’s so far below nobody, he’s not even on the goddamn map.
Osborn skates lazily to the center, pointing his stick at me as I leave the box.
The moment we have the puck, I ask Kane for a pass, and when it’s in my possession, it’s not Dicky who comes to intercept me, no.
It’s the useless slab of muscle who’s wearing that infuriating smirk that he crafted just to get under my skin. “We meet again, fairy prince.”
I say nothing, because, listen, I invented this game, and I will not be provoked into making another mistake.
With a deep breath, I speed past him, but the motherfucker blocks me again, lowering his head so we’re eye to eye.
“Aw, you’re ignoring me? I’m hurt.”
“Drop dead.”
“Not when I can see you so worked up. That look on your face is giving me a hard-on.”
I’m momentarily stunned, but I recover fast enough to pass the puck to Kane, who scores.
“Boo.” He starts to skate backward. “Stop using Davenport and Callahan as proxies and face me head-on. Unless…you’re scared of me.”
“You’re the one who should be scared of me, rat.”
“Oh no, Mommy, come pick me up. There’s this big, bad prince who wants to do unspeakable things to me.”
My spine jerks upright, and there’s a long buzzing sound in my ears as the scent of peppery musk and burnt cigarettes clogs my throat and floods my mouth.
How the fuck does he…
No. No one knows. It’s impossible.
And yet as Osborn glides across the ice, hyping up their crowd with his mere presence, my stomach heaves, bile pressing at the back of my throat.
I’m itching to run my thumb along my lip, bite down until blood pours out.
The rest of the game continues in a blur.
I don’t even register half of it, and my head is so not in it, I don’t remember what the fuck Coach Slater and Kane yap about.
I can only focus on one thing.
Osborn.
He makes me his fucking target. Whether on defense or offense—he’s there like a goddamn shadow I can’t shake off.
As they’re attacking, he says, “You sure you don’t want to give my cock a go?”
And I lose it. There are no thoughts in my head as I slam him against the boards, which break into pieces.
He laughs as I’m sent to the box for the full five minutes.
For the first time in my hockey career.
I may have done the occasional two minutes, but never five.
And during those five fucking minutes, I have to watch the prick.
There’s something I notice. Osborn moves like he’s been skating since birth. Every glide is measured, economical, like he’s figured out how to waste nothing—not breath, not energy, not attention.
And I’m wasting all three on him.
Because, you see, I wasn’t kidding. I’ll kill the bastard.
Torture him first, make his life hell, then skin him alive and drink his blood vampire style.
No one gets to know about that.
No one.
I’m practically useless for the rest of the game. When the buzzer cuts through, announcing the Wolves’ win, I slam my stick against the boards as Jude wraps an arm around my shoulders.
“You okay?”
I hate that tone. The worry, the way he’s watching me as if I’m made of glass.
Or I’ll collapse any second.
“Never been better,” I grunt.
“Don’t lie to me.”
“Don’t annoy me.” I elbow him in the side, ignoring his furrowed brow and the fuck ton of questions he’ll ask me once we’re out of here.
As Jude slips ahead of me into the dim tunnel, I throw a glance behind me.
Osborn is being patted and hugged and praised all the way to Sunday by his teammates. Treated like a fucking god. And yes, sure, it makes sense. He stopped me, and that gave the Wolves their win. It’s as easy as that—cripple the Vipers’ left wing—my highness—and it all goes to shit.
In the midst of the celebratory fuck-fest, Osborn catches my eye, and there’s that grin again—small, private, like we’re sharing a joke no one else gets.
“My offer still stands,” he mouths.
Something in my chest pulls tight. Not pain, exactly. More like the slow burn before realizing I’m bleeding.
What offer?
The…gay sex?
I could swear he’s not gay. Right?
I’ve only ever seen, well, heard of him with girls. He’s known to change girlfriends faster than his dad changes mistresses.
Not to mention that time he stole my fuck buddy.
Yes, I’m still salty about that.
He definitely made those distasteful remarks just to provoke me.
But how did he know it’d work? How could he have figured out that those exact fucking words would get so far beneath my skin, I’d need some real purging to expel them?
Because he seems to know more than he should.
But how?
Why the fuck…?
I remove my helmet, narrowing my eyes at him as my teammates slide past me.
And even though every one of the Wolves seems to be vying for the rat’s attention, Osborn’s gaze rests on me, a subtle smile unfurling as if meant only for me.
It’s not a smirk, but more of an intense appraisal and…what?
A promise? A threat?
Is that walking corpse threatening me right now?
My own lips curl in a wide grin as I make an “I’m watching you” gesture.
Oh, you’re so fucked, Mr. Nobody.
You’ll soon be cooked and served to my dogs.
Kane said that Osborn might be taken into the main family now that Lance died. He might be illegitimate, but he’s the only male heir they have left. From what Kane mentioned, this is definitely something the Osborn elders want to make happen.
Our fathers don’t—or at least Kane’s dad doesn’t, because he told him to get rid of the pest.
I’ll take care of the nuisance myself.
Consider it a selfless humanitarian effort to rid the world of the vermin.
I’m basically a saint at this point.