Marcus #2
And well, I did manage to cripple their wild card left wing, Armstrong.
Not that I didn’t try during last year’s games or the ones before that, but he’s always been slippery and like a chameleon who changes personalities in a fraction of a second.
He’s also barely given me the time of day, preferring to go for defensemen instead.
Did that make me work harder on my defense? Possibly. I’m more of an offense-type center—or was. Over these past couple of years, I’ve been playing defense like nobody’s business.
I perfected it to the point that even Richardson can’t keep up, and he’s one of the best defensemen in the league.
And it was all worth it because tonight, I finally got him.
A jolt of electricity sparks through me at the memory of the contempt rolling off him in waves when he checked me into the board.
It was so violent, the board shattered and he fell on top of me, his eyes wild, his teeth bared as he panted like an injured animal.
A cornered animal.
Even though he was the one crushing me to the ground.
I reached out a hand to him then. No idea why.
Even as I think of it now, I don’t know what I wanted to do. Remove his helmet? Touch his face?
Or was it something a lot darker like three years ago?
There’s no way to know, because Kane pulled him off of me, and Jude proceeded to fight me.
A hassle, really.
I hit him harder than I usually do in these skirmishes because he interrupted something important.
Something that could’ve been important.
I sway as the guys finally let me down, but it has less to do with being on the ground and more to do with the dizzying need to shatter Armstrong’s mask.
Tonight, I started a hairline crack, but I can make it bigger and wider and so overwhelmingly deep, he’ll be broken beyond repair.
My teammates party hard, and I let them do whatever they want. They deserve this.
Everyone in the club is dancing and talking and grinding and drinking and drinking and more drinking.
I join in for a bit, letting the wave carry me, throwing my head back and getting lost in the loud bass music.
But none of the sensory abundance manages to undo the knots crowding my shoulders.
Or the numbness lurking in my chest.
It’s hard for anything to stimulate me. I know that, in theory, sex, alcohol, partying, and everything people my age indulge in should be fun.
It’s not.
Aside from hockey and my bike, I don’t find pleasure in anything.
But I sure pretend that I do.
I slide to the bar and order a drink, keeping an eye on the guys in case one of them goes a bit too hard.
We still have light training tomorrow, and while we won tonight’s game, this is only the start, not the end of the championship.
I intend to win it this year, which will give me an abundance of choices in the NHL and, more importantly, a better paycheck.
O’Connor and especially Richardson also have the chance to go pro if they get their heads in the game and stop being distracted with messy feelings and non-lasting relationships.
“Captain!” Richardson slides to the stool beside me, smelling like whiskey, and shows me his phone. “Have you seen this?”
It’s an article from a big online sports magazine. The title is: The Wolves Crush the Vipers in a Sensational Night.
“They used the word ‘crush.’ Isn’t that awesome? Their fans are crying actual tears in the comments.”
“As they should.” I take the phone from his hand and send myself the article.
“Good idea. I’ll drop it in the group chat.” He types away, not looking at me. “I have more articles, so I’ll send those as well. The media is drooling over your performance, Captain!”
“You did great, too, Richardson.”
He grins up at me in that boyish way, then focuses on his phone again, texting back and forth.
I fetch mine, open the article I sent myself, and zoom in on the featured photo.
My helmet is pressed against Armstrong’s, my hand fisted in his collar.
It’s not that visible in the picture, but I was smirking as he glared at me, threatening to kill me, chop me up into tiny little pieces, and keep my skull as a memento.
Armstrong seems to be very colorful with his macabre thoughts, and maybe that’s not healthy or safe, but I’d like to see what else he can come up with.
Just one more time.
That’s all.
Not very wise. I know.
But something about Preston Armstrong…
I zoom in on his face, and a fierce jolt surges through me, lighting every nerve.
Now, this is interesting.
It’d be hilarious if I didn’t find this morbid attention I’m giving Armstrong a touch disturbing.
He doesn’t know it yet, but tonight, he gave me the opening I need to have him exactly where I want him.
After I make sure all my team members have gone home, either alone or with their fuck for the night, I leave the club.
But I don’t head back to the house.
I can’t.
It’s one in the morning, and I’m too wound up to sleep. The drinking didn’t help, and neither did acting as the team’s unpaid manager. Nothing’s dulled my senses enough to make sleep feel possible.
And since I can’t pick a fight with random strangers—well, I can, but it’d be a hassle tonight—I ride my bike to the arena.