Marcus
“You were absolutely incredible tonight!”
I smile at the sound of Mom’s voice on the phone. I’ve been hearing those words a lot tonight.
You’re the best.
Legend!
A fucking beast.
But none of them mean anything. They’re just empty words from people who’ll turn their back on me the moment I stop performing or lag behind.
They’re fame chasers, people with lives so empty, they only get satisfaction from other people’s accomplishments.
This voice, however, is different.
It’s the voice of the woman who made me who I am.
The only person I’m grateful for.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it, sweetie.”
I can hear her walking through the chaos that is Stantonville’s emergency room.
Now that she’s become head nurse, her responsibilities have doubled rather than decreased.
“Don’t worry about it, Mom. I’m the one who should be sorry. Tonight’s game will probably make the ER busier.”
“Don’t be silly. It’s not your fault.” She pauses. “How does it feel beating your biggest rival?”
“Awesome.”
“That’s my boy.”
“You know it.”
“I’m so proud of you, Marcus. Have I told you that lately?”
“Maybe twice today.”
“Not enough.” She laughs, but it slowly fizzles out. “So tell me. Were they there tonight?”
I don’t have to ask who “they” are.
They are the others.
The people whose existence alone threatens the life Mom and I have.
“No,” I say, leaning against my bike, my eyes on the dark sky.
The night air is sharp, numbing my face and pushing through my leather jacket until it settles in my bones.
“Are you lying to me?” There’s suspicion threaded through Mom’s chastising tone, and honestly, she has every reason to feel it.
“Of course not. I think you scared them away the other day.”
“Good,” she says assertively, and I smile to myself.
Let’s just say our nosy neighbors got a front-row seat to Mom chasing away Andrew, the sperm donor of yours truly, and his buff goons with a sizzling-hot iron.
As entertaining as that scene was, she won’t get out of it unscathed a second time.
Dad might tolerate her threats once or twice, but he’s not a patient man.
“If they bother you at school or at your games, you’ll let me know, right?”
“Of course.” Not.
I love my mother, but her methods of starting a fight with my father don’t work.
If anything, he might finally decide that she’s more trouble than convenience and get rid of her.
A scenario that won’t happen on my watch.
“I’ll leave you to it,” I say when I hear someone talking to her at the other end.
“Don’t party too hard.”
“Aye, captain.”
She laughs, but she reminds me to eat properly and to be safe before hanging up.
It’s the same mantra she’s recited for years.
Being a single mother is tough in general, but it’s particularly hard in our part of town. I’ve tried my best to stay out of trouble, but as I was growing up, people kept…testing me.
So I punched them, made them bleed and beg for mercy that would never come.
And Mom had to be called out to talk some sense into me. After the first few times, though, I started to learn how to indulge in my destructive habits without her finding out.
In alleys. In hidden nooks. Places only delinquents like me frequented.
Though, for me, it was never really about the anger issues most of those delinquents suffered from. I don’t have those, and I’m in full control of my emotions.
But I love the sound of crunching bones, the feel of flesh against flesh, the sight of blood.
The sensation of taking someone down and watching them flounder at my nonexistent mercy.
It’s power and control that I crave, not violence for violence’s sake.
Mom thinks the fighting, the hitting, and the urge to hurt were just a phase that straightened itself out once I picked up hockey.
Fine. Let’s say it did.
The last thing I want is to worry her or add weight to her shoulders. She’s given me everything since the day I was born, and I refuse to be an ungrateful piece of shit.
Not to her.
I took part-time jobs as soon as I was old enough, just so I could help cover the cost of my favorite purge method—hockey.
I wanted to quit in middle school after seeing how buying all the expensive gear was putting a toll on Mom’s finances, but she flat-out refused to let me do that.
“This is the first thing you’ve actually asked of me, and I’ll never allow you to quit because of stupid money. You do what you love and let your mom take care of it, okay?”
Okay.
In return, I’ll be an NHL star and give her all the money I earn.
That’s what I thought. What I still think.
In spite of the eyesores blocking my way in the downtown club’s parking lot.
Wolverine—yes, it’s after the Wolves—is half motorcycle club, half bar, and we mostly meet here to celebrate our wins and pick our puck bunnies for a celebratory fuck.
But the whole ordeal seems like a hassle lately.
Sex.
It’s just so…boring.
Yes, fucking others, pinning them beneath me and seeing them squirm gave me momentary pleasure, but it’s all so fleeting.
The thing is, even though I could orgasm, it stopped at the flesh level and never really touched me mentally.
And I’ve tried every hole available. Gender doesn’t matter.
A hole is a hole, no matter who it’s attached to.
But that shallow pleasure was just not interesting to me anymore.
So I stopped it altogether, for a while now.
Watching, however? That’s slightly more interesting. There’s something categorically intriguing about observing while others lose themselves in sex, letting their true colors show, even for that moment in time.
Something I don’t believe I’m intrinsically capable of.
Perhaps that handicap—my inability to feel anything more than people’s bodies—is the reason sex is a terrible ordeal now.
Nonetheless, I’d like to participate in the fun inside to wind down and relieve the tension that’s still bunching in my shoulders. Maybe forget about a certain league’s prince whose skin I’m itching to worm myself beneath.
Toy with his insides a little.
Provoke him a little.
But I can’t do that—neither go inside nor forget about the prince. Again, thanks to people who shouldn’t be here.
Five of them, to be exact. Sharp suits, polished shoes, grim expressions as if they’re posing for a eulogy. My vote’s on Dad’s.
With their starched collars and funeral posture, they just don’t belong here. They’re too clean, too pressed, too Osborn for a place that reeks of spilled whiskey and exhaust fumes.
The club’s parking lot looks like it’s been through a few wars and lost every one.
Cracked pavement, gum fossils, and beer bottles kicked into puddles that smell like something died underneath.
The light above the door flickers like it’s on life support, washing everything in a depressing buzzing yellow that makes their suits look cheap.
In their midst stands a brown woman who’s wearing the sharpest suit, a tight ponytail, and stiletto heels.
“I didn’t have the chance to introduce myself the last time. My name is Lyra, and I’m the Osborn family’s legal representative.”
“Does a legal representative need so many bodyguards?” I push off my bike, then stalk toward her. She remains still, but her lips purse a little when I stop a few breaths away from her. “Or are you perhaps scared of little old me?”
“These gentlemen were sent by your father to ensure your safety, Mr. Osborn.”
I laugh, and it’s far from humorous. In fact, it’s so mocking, a sheen of discomfort befalls the group.
“Hilarious,” I say in a deadpan voice. “Don’t you think this entire situation is categorically hilarious, Lyra?”
“I’m afraid I don’t see the correlation.”
“No? Funny, because the man who fathered me couldn’t have cared less about my existence my whole life. Now that he’s lost his male heirs, I’m some sort of a messiah? I find that extremely entertaining. Don’t you?”
She clears her throat. “Please consider this very carefully, Mr. Osborn. The family is providing you with generous incentives. Your mother will have her own villa in Graystone Ridge, and you’ll have a penthouse, as well as a substantial number of shares in Osborn Corporation and its subsidiaries.
Naturally, your student debts will be paid off, and all of your mother’s debts will also be taken care of. ”
“I’m afraid that’s not enough for me to sell my soul to the devil.” I push past the men. “Send Dad my condolences for the pending death of his legacy.”
“You can’t run away from who you are forever, Mr. Osborn.” Her voice echoes behind me.
“Watch me,” I say without looking over my shoulder.
“I regret to inform you that we might have to resort to drastic measures in the future.”
I don’t reply. They don’t deserve my words.
They can’t hurt me now that I’m their only option for survival. They can’t hurt my mom either, because that’ll be a sure as hell way to make me go completely berserk on their miserable lives.
Dad lacks any form of a fatherly bone in his body, but he’s not an idiot. Besides, he’s a businessman. He’ll keep trying to find the best solution to recruit me to his side. Whether it takes a year or ten or twenty, he’ll keep trying.
And I’ll keep crushing his hopes every time. Just like he crushed mine every time I waited for him and he never showed up.
It’ll be my sweet revenge against the man who has only ever been a problem in mine and Mom’s lives.
The moment I step into the club, it erupts—cheers tangled with alcohol and slurred words. Eager hands hit my back, sweaty bodies press in, everyone trying to get a piece of me.
I pull on my public smile like a second skin, raising my glass, returning praise with the usual lines: “It was a team effort,” or “Give it up for my guys, Richardson and O’Connor.”
My attempts at modesty don’t really work. The guys carry me and toss me in the air, making the whole club chant, “Captain! Captain! Captain!”
It’s…inconvenient, to say the least.
But I put up with it. They killed themselves for this game, and winning against the Vipers is a championship in and of itself. We have dust compared to their funding, equipment, and fancy coaches.
The only reason we won was due to pure determination.