16. Marcus
MARCUS
Aweek later, I drop by Vipers Arena to watch a hockey game.
Okay, that’s a lie.
I’m here to watch Preston.
Got myself a front-row seat as well—or more like asked Serena for it.
There’s a hum in the crowd, a thrilled tension that wraps around my bones as he leads a flash counterattack. Preston’s form is nothing short of perfection as he swerves between the lines of defense as if they’re invisible, then scores.
People on either side of me jump up and scream in excitement as the score changes.
The Vipers’ team members crowd Preston, patting him on the helmet and shoulders, clashing their sticks with his as he does a small dance and points at the crowd. He bows theatrically, smiling widely, and I can see the dimples hollowing his cheeks.
Wow.
This smile is a replica of the one he wore when I first met him in Dad’s garden.
The carefree, innocent smile.
My thumb taps against my middle finger as I soak it in, staying completely motionless, worried that if I blink, I’ll miss it.
It’s the same smile. The same ethereal, beautiful energy from back then. No anger or violence or need to always stay in control.
There’s just…joy.
And I’m enamored.
Completely caught in its web and refusing to be freed.
I want that.
No. I need that.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Now I understand why I keep pulling on his strings. It’s not only because I want to touch him, though I do crave him in ways that feel overwhelming at times, but it’s because of this.
The scene right here. The way he smiles so freely, moves so fluidly, and is just…himself.
It’s like seven-year-old Preston in that garden. The one I was quietly drawn to at first sight. The one I yearned to trap in the palm of my hand.
All this time, I thought that version of him was indefinitely gone, but he’s not. He just doesn’t show up in front of me anymore, but he does peek through in his comfort zone.
On the ice.
I guess that’s why I’ve gravitated toward him all these years when we’ve played against each other. He’ll have this smooth, hyper energy, and I’ll see my prince from fifteen years ago and want to fucking devour him.
Like that game three years ago. The first in the college season since I joined the Wolves and he joined the Vipers.
“You all right, Osborn?” A heavy arm drops on my shoulders as our captain, Stevenson, stands beside me. “The Vipers’ arena is huge, and their crowd won’t shut up, but consider them background noise and play the best you can.”
I nod once. “Their numbers don’t matter. We’ll win.”
He laughs, then stares behind us. “Coach, this one is ambitious!”
Why aren’t you?
I want to ask, but don’t, because Stevenson says, “Will be a rough game, freshman, but you got the right spirit.”
He releases me and goes to do the rounds with the other new starters.
This will be the first time some of us are playing together officially, so it’s bound to be clunky and lack some group coordination.
I, for one, have only played alongside Richardson since high school.
The others come from different schools, but oh well, it should be the same for the Vipers.
The crowd erupts in cheers as their players glide onto the ice, their white jerseys with blue stripes nearly blending in with it.
One of them, number thirteen, skates to the center.
Preston Armstrong.
He bows theatrically to the audience, his helmet tucked against his chest, his right arm stretched out with its fingers turned up elegantly, ankles crossed like a figure skater.
He looks up with a grin, dimples hollowing his cheeks, then cups a hand to his ear. The crowd erupts, bursting at the seams to scream for him.
My fingers tighten around my stick as that unfamiliar feeling surges to the surface, threatening to spill over.
There’s this intense need inside me to do something, but I’m not sure what or why.
This feeling has been the same since I first played against Armstrong in high school and has remained there during every single face-off since.
The tension.
The discomfort.
The anger.
I suppose I dislike that he doesn’t remember me from when we met in Dad’s garden. He said we’d be friends, but he never kept his promise.
The next time we met around three years ago, during a game in high school, my heart squeezed with a sort of excitement that almost made it stop.
I’m finally seeing him again, I remember thinking. He’s actually here.
But then, Armstrong squared up to me and narrowed his eyes at me. “You’re their top scorer? Prepare to die, bitch!”
Ever since then, I’ve made it my mission to fucking humble him, poke him around at any available chance, block him, check him.
Target him.
How dare he forget about me?
Just how fucking dare he completely erase me from his memories when mine overflow with him?
I think that’s the reason for these coiled emotions I have whenever I’m facing him. Doesn’t matter that I’m nineteen now and it’s been over twelve years since I first met him. I still bubble with these deplorable sensations.
If anything, time has only made them worse.
After he finishes greeting the crowd, Armstrong skates toward us, followed closely by Callahan and Davenport.
“Yo, rats!” he shouts in a cheerful tone.
“You know, because Stantonville is a shithole and you guys crawled out of there? Hilarious, right?” He laughs at his own joke, his eyes gleaming with a provocative tinge.
“Anyway, don’t go crying to your mamas after I crush you.
Or actually, on second thought, please do, and don’t forget to send pictures!
” He winks at Richardson. “Nice to see you again, Dicky. Will make you crawl tonight per usual.”
Richardson skates forward, about to let his temper loose, but I slide in front of him ever so smoothly and let my lips curl into a smile. “What about me? Is it not nice to see me?”
Armstrong’s smile falls, but only momentarily before he forces it wider. “Nah, it’s never nice to see rats. Shoo, Osborn, get better at defense before coming close to my highness.”
“I’m good enough to check you against all available boards. Like the last game during senior year, remember?”
“Your delusions are critical.”
“And your denial is pathological.” I shift closer to him. “You better be ready tonight. I plan to check you into fucking oblivion.”
“Dream on.”
“I don’t dream. I take action, fairy prince.”
His brow furrows, like every time I call him that, but before he can say anything, Callahan pulls him back.
When the game starts, our chaotic lines are penetrated easily by the Vipers. The next time they pass the puck to Armstrong, I’m on him in a second, checking him so violently, I flatten him to the boards that rattle with the impact.
“One,” I whisper near his face as he struggles to breathe, and the rest of our teammates speed off with the puck.
“Get the fuck off me,” he snarls, pushing me away.
I glide back in sort of a jerk, because as he spoke, the air tingled across my lips and went somewhere it shouldn’t.
No. This isn’t happening right now.
On the next attack, Armstrong is on me. He tries to check me, but I’m the one who does it, making him fly before he hits the ice with a thud. It’s not clean—we lose possession of the puck, and I’m sent to the penalty box.
But at least I drag Callahan to the box with me, because he started to fight me.
“Two,” I mouth to Armstrong from inside the box, waving provocatively, even if that tension in my body is coiling tighter.
He tilts his head to the side and flashes me a grin as he flips me off discreetly.
The moment I’m back, I check him again.
Then again.
And fucking again.
It’s the only way I can purge this tension spreading inside me. The rage and loathing and fucking…what?
What on earth is going on in my body right now?
In the third period, the Vipers are ahead and we’re scrambling to catch up.
Or the team is.
I’m more focused on Armstrong, following his every movement, matching him like a shadow.
When he has the puck, I’m in front of him.
“Careful, Osborn,” he mutters. “I’m starting to think you’re obsessed with me.”
“Obsessed with putting you in your place.”
“Try harder.”
He feints left, as sharp as a blade, then swerves right. I read it instantly and slam my shoulder into his. Hard.
He stumbles back—but not before hooking an arm and dragging me down with him.
A collective “Ahhh” roars through the arena as we hit the ice.
His helmet cracks against it with a hollow thud and a muffled “Fuck!” His expression is murderous, his face contorted with pain, probably because I’m crushing him.
That’s not what I’m focused on, though.
Despite the protective gear, I can feel my body lying flush atop of his, and that jolt sparks down my spine again.
Only, this time, it’s stronger and blurs my vision.
Armstrong swallows, and I’m staring at his Adam’s apple as it bobs up and down, his eyes widening upon focusing on me.
No idea what he sees on my face, whether it’s the manifestation of that tension or if it’s something murderous or entirely different, but his lips part in slow motion, and I can’t rip my gaze away.
From his lips, I mean.
No clue what the fuck I’m doing as I reach a hand to his face—his helmet, to be more accurate. I need it gone so I can…touch.
His lips. His eyes. His skin. Doesn’t matter where.
All I know is that I need to touch him.
Just once.
Once is enough.
“Osborn, stop looking at me like that—” His choked words are interrupted when I’m hauled away from him by none other than Callahan.
We break into a brutal fight. I punch him harder than I usually do in these skirmishes, because the useless piece of shit interrupted something.
What, I don’t know, but there was something.
It takes a lot of effort for our older teammates to break us apart, and we’re both sent into the box. Soon after, the game is finished.
But the tension I feel about Armstrong isn’t.
If anything, it’s wilder and deeper than any time before.
Next game.
I’ll get him in the next game.
I never actually got him. Except for recently, that is.
But after that specific game three years ago, something different happened—I started fucking men.