Preston #2
The following day, I went back early in the morning, like at four a.m., and deleted all the security footage so no one could prove it happened.
But the thing is, I noticed something. The mess I left in the locker room was gone. My skates, gloves, and stick were stored neatly in my locker, and I found two candies on top of my folded clothes.
The rink was also clean and tidy. It was highly unlikely that the cleaning staff came in, and sure enough, I confirmed it when I watched the footage. Marcus was the one who tidied up.
I fast-forwarded to the part where I punched him and skated away like my ass was on fire.
Marcus just stroked his chin as he watched the direction I went in. He sat down on the bench in the penalty box and just stared. Like a creep. For a long time.
Then he stood up and winked at the camera before he got on with tidying.
As if he knew I’d watch it. I mean, yeah, makes sense, neither of us wanted the others on the Vipers to know I invited the Wolves’ captain for a late-night game.
In which I had my ass spanked.
Okay, fine, maybe I made a copy of the footage and sent it to myself before deleting it from the arena’s servers.
It’s so I can study it and make sure that I didn’t make a complete fool out of myself and that it’s totally normal for a straight guy to come that hard from being touched and spanked by another man.
Happens every day in the sex club near you.
Later that day, I smashed the game against the Ravens so thoroughly that the media were singing my praises. Then Dad took me and Miley to dinner—something he does when I please him.
Lenin was nowhere to be seen.
During the dinner, as I was cracking jokes and Miley was laughing, I got a text from the public nuisance that is Marcus.
PMS (Perpetual Male Syndrome)
Did you get the candies I left you?
Me
How did you know I like mango flavor?
Lucky guess. Congrats on the win, by the way. You were phenomenal.
Says every article ever. The lack of originality is staggering.
I can do original. You outdid yourself because I gave you a good spanking and a very satisfying orgasm.
You wish.
It’s true, though. Some recognition of my effort won’t hurt.
Should I start thanking you in my post-game interviews to feed your narcissistic streak?
If you like. I already gave you credit in mine.
Did I excuse myself to the bathroom during dinner with Dad to google Marcus? Sure did.
The articles and videos popped up immediately. The Stanton Wolves crushed the Knights, and it was all thanks to “the Wolves’ beast of a captain, Osborn.”
I clicked on the video where he was being interviewed. It was straight after the game, so he had his helmet off, and his damp hair was falling haphazardly over his face.
No idea why I paused to watch that face closely.
When the interviewer asked him what the secret to his outstanding performance was, he said, “I’ve developed a new special pregame ritual that I believe is the reason I’m in top form.”
“Do you care to share the special ritual?” she asked.
He merely smirked in that familiar way as he looked at the camera. “It’s a secret.”
That asshole.
After that, I proceeded to ignore all his texts inviting me to play one-on-one again or to have a drink with him or any of the bullshit he was saying. He was acting like we were friends or something, just because he saw me come.
Correction: made you come.
Shut up, brain.
Now, I stare at his new texts.
Problem #11
Good evening.
We have games tomorrow, princeling. You know what that means?
Me
You’ll drop dead, and humanity will throw a party to celebrate?
Humor so dark, it’s endearing. But that’s not it. It means you and I have a date.
I have nothing with you, let alone a date.
It’s cute that you think you can deny this and it’ll be as if it never happened. Listen, consider it a jinx if we don’t do it. We both had phenomenal games last week, it would be a shame to lose momentum now.
I don’t need you to keep my momentum.
But I need you.
I pause, my fingers trembling slightly as that uncomfortable feeling wraps a noose around my throat.
“Who are you texting so intensely?” Jude asks, trying to peer into my phone.
My lips part. Well, shit.
I honest to fuck completely forgot that Jude and Kane were here. Didn’t even notice Kane getting up and doing the dishes, still wearing a grumpy expression.
“A girl,” I lie through my teeth.
Jude frowns. “What type of girl managed to annoy you this much?”
“A pain in the ass.”
“And you’re still talking to her? Don’t you usually drop anyone who has the tiniest potential of being a headache?”
“I’m dropping this one, too…” I trail off as my phone vibrates with a new text.
Problem #11
Let’s meet at Vipers Arena in an hour?
Me
No.
Be there while I’m asking nicely, Armstrong.
Oh no. So scared rn. Please send emotional support and a juice box.
If I don’t see you in front of the arena, I’ll come find you at Jude’s place. That’s where you basically live, no? If you decide to run to Kane’s or your dad’s house, I’ll still go find you there and tell either Jude, Kane, or your father about the face you made when you came all over my hand.
You think you can threaten me?
I know I can. See you in a few, baby.
He threatened me.
Marcus threatened me.
And sure, it shouldn’t burn this much—but it does. It burns like hell, and I’m absolutely doing something about it.
Which is why I showed up earlier than agreed. Pretty sure a car followed me on the way here—probably Lenin making sure I don’t murder someone without permission, start a war, or set myself on fire.
Any of which would end with me under his charming, brutal fists.
But he vanished the second I pulled into the arena’s parking lot.
Perfect. Because I am about to cause a mess.
I’ve been waiting for Marcus.
Oh yes, I have—tucked into the shadows, where I thrive, where my demons stretch their legs and applaud my decisions.
The parking lot is empty, lit by harsh fluorescent lights that make everything look like a crime scene in progress.
A bike growls in the distance, then rolls inside. There he is, in a leather jacket, jeans, and a helmet, with a stick handle poking out of the saddlebag.
The moment he kills the engine, I pounce.
Stick in hand, I swing and crack the side of his helmet from behind. The impact echoes in the silence of the night, and he drops hard.
I drive my boot into his stomach. Again. And again.
“Threaten me again and I’ll cut your head off.” Kick. “No one threatens me, you hear me?” Kick. “No one!”
And then—I notice I’m shaking.
My grip on the stick feels foreign, like the hand holding it belongs to someone else. I grab it with the other hand, but the trembling worsens.
The stick looks less like a weapon and more like a blade aimed at my own throat. My breathing fractures in deep, jagged noises.
Gasps fill the air, and I realize they’re mine.
Fuck.
Fuck.
“I’m not having an episode,” I whisper to no one. “I’m not.”
But you are, a voice inside me says—calm, cruel, familiar.
That switch in my head flips without warning.
The world shifts from HD to static. Colors smear. Sounds distort, and everything buzzes in an endless, loud ring. My chest closes in, my brain stutters, and my nostrils flood with the smell of cigarettes and fresh mint.
“Don’t you dare say anything, Preston.”
“It’s our little secret, Preston.”
“If you say anything, your mom will be disappointed.”
“Your dad already abandoned you, if you lose your mom, you’ll be all alone.”
“Shut up, Preston.”
“Shh, Preston. Be good.”
“Don’t move, Preston.”
“Stay still, Preston.”
“Preston…”
The static gets louder. It fills every corner of my head until I can’t tell if it’s in the air or under my skin. My fingers twitch like they’re trying to peel me out of my own body.
“Preston…”
Stop calling my name.
“Preston.”
Stop. Someone, make it stop.
“Preston!”
The low, growly voice drags me into the present. I realize I’m on the ground. The knife to my throat is the stick that’s being pulled from my fingers, one knuckle at a time.
My vision is blurry, my breaths chaotic as that ugly demon peers its head from the shadows.
But in the midst of it all, there are gray eyes. Hard. Distinctive.
Blood slides down his temple as he crouches, his hand catching my jaw—not hard, just firm enough to make the world tilt and lock.
“Look at me,” he says in a strong but not harsh command.
And I do because his breath is steady, his chest expanding in a soothing rhythm. In, out. A slow tide I didn’t know I was drowning in until it started to pull me with it.
I realize I’m matching him.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
The static fizzles, the lights stop flickering in my head, and the hum goes quiet.
My hand molds to my body again instead of feeling like a foreign object.
Marcus touches my forehead with his, his harsh yet grounding eyes still holding mine. Close. Not blinking.
Just there.
Like no one else ever has been.
As the heat bleeds through his forehead to mine, he whispers, “There you are, my prince.”
Something in my heart shifts, jostles, and breaks.
A disease. It must be heart disease.
Because I refuse the very notion that my heart skipped a beat.
Ridiculous.