Secret Obsession: A Dark Hockey Romance (Hockey Gods)
Secret Obsession: Chapter 24

My reprieve comes in the form of Aspen Monroe.

She finds me in the library, where I’ve been hiding out instead of going back to the hockey house. Miles and the rest of them have practice right now, so in theory, I could have the place to myself.

But then I imagine someone following me, and I haven’t been able to work up the nerve to leave campus.

Funny how a little fear can totally paralyze you.

I frown. Violet was stalked. I could go to my best friend about this feeling that keeps rattling around in my chest. Aspen knows how to deal with fear, too. We were there to help her through her trauma, and now she’s… well, maybe fine would be the wrong word.

But she’s better.

She flips her dark hair off her shoulder and braces her forearms on the table across from me. “You look sad.”

I’m not sad. I’m miffed, since my sister hasn’t been answering any of my texts. Neither has Violet. Not that I’ve sent either of them that many. Something about pushing my maybe-sadness on them has me backing off more than I should.

“We’re going to the pizza place on the corner,” Aspen says when I don’t respond. “And you’ve been weird lately.”

It’s the second week of the semester. I watched someone die. My place was broken into and ripped apart.

Of course I’ve been weird.

“When I feel weird, I go watch the hockey practice,” she confides in me. “I’d say we could do that, but their coach closed practices for the time being.”

Well, I’m not about to tell her that was my fault.

“No, thanks.” I open my laptop, switching assignments. My second week of classes, and I’m already swamped. “I’ve got some coding to do…”

“Is it about Knox? Or Miles?”

I close my laptop again. “I don’t know,” I answer truthfully. “I don’t want to give either of them a bigger ego than they already have.”

She snorts and taps the table. “So, no on the pizza?”

“Rain check,” I reply.

She nods and wanders off.

I scan my phone again, but there’s nothing from Violet or Indie.

My sister is seventeen. She’s always on her phone—and yet, she never responds to anything except that obscure app that deletes your messages and pictures after you send them. I don’t know why anyone likes that. It’s so ephemeral. I want to keep the photos she sends me. The ones of her in school with her friends, or at cheer practice, or doing whatever it is that seventeen-year-olds do.

I’ve lost touch with that in the past few years. Being away has only heightened the divide between us. So much that not even summers together could rectify it. We used to be close. Best friends and sisters. Now we’re just… blood relatives.

She looks like me, a bit. Her hair is a lighter shade of blonde. More white than gold. She pulls more of our father’s features. His height—so she’s already a couple of inches taller than me—and her eye color. Hazel. Her lankiness, although that might be attributed to the growth spurt.

I wouldn’t say I have curves. But while I at least have a hint of a figure, Indie is a string bean. She says she hates it, but she does gymnastics. It gives her an edge, and I think she tries to hone that. She does workouts that focus on lean muscles. She runs a lot.

She’s got a billion friends, while mine seem to have dwindled down to a handful.

I miss her.

My phone buzzes against my hand, and I jump. I snatch it and scan the caller ID, my hope peaking. It crashes down the instant I register that it isn’t my sister.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Ms. Reed. This is Detective Barrister.”

Oh, shoot. “Hi, Detective. If you’ll just give me a moment, I’ll move somewhere quieter…” I gather my stuff, keeping my phone pinched between my ear and shoulder. In a matter of moments, I’m heading out of the library and toward the campus quad. “Sorry about that. I was in the library, they frown on phone calls.”

“Not a problem,” she replies. Her tone is brisk. “I was hoping to see you stop by the station with that list of items.”

My steps falter. “Oh. I’m sorry, today’s been a little crazy with classes. I probably won’t get a chance until Friday. I haven’t actually been back to the apartment to look for missing things.”

She’s quiet for a moment, then says, “Willow, this is very important. We received a report of another break-in with very similar attributes.”

“What does that mean?”

“The destruction done to the bedroom, shredding things for the sake of anger. It’s aggressive. And the new break-in was to an apartment of a college-aged girl who lived alone, on an upper floor.”

Like me. A chill skitters up my back, and I grip my phone harder.

But at least this means it wasn’t targeted at me. Right? It was just a random attack by some asshole who needed to break something.

And maybe steal something.

“I’m not staying there,” I reply. “So, um, I’ll have to go this weekend.”

“How about this,” the detective says. “I’ll send an officer out tomorrow, and he’ll go with you through the apartment to catalog anything that might’ve been taken.”

Worry niggles at me, but I find myself agreeing. I tell her when I can get over there, and she says she’ll have someone meet me.

She wishes me well.

Hangs up.

I slowly stow my phone in my pocket, although truthfully? All I’m thinking about right now is the desire to chuck my phone about as far away as I can manage.

Instead, I call my mother.

“Willow!” she answers on the second ring. “I was just thinking about you, darling.”

My chest tightens. “Oh, yeah?”

“We were thinking of coming up to Crown Point the weekend before spring break, and then whisk you away for a trip somewhere. We’re due for a vacation, and our bosses informed us today that there would be a project over the summer that would require us to dedicate a solid amount of time to… In essence, springtime is better for travel plans. Although busier all around, of course.”

“Oh.” I smile. It’s easy to force it. “That sounds great.”

“Indie can stay with you, and your father and I will get a hotel nearby. She’s been talking about colleges—now’s an excellent time to show her the true life around CPU, don’t you think?”

Mom just sounds so… chipper.

Happy.

And for some reason, I can’t fathom why. Maybe because Crown Point isn’t feeling quite so safe these days. And even school has been turning into a mental game. Who hates me? Who doesn’t give a shit? Who’s still on my side?

I don’t even have a side.

“Yeah, that sounds good,” I lie. A lump forms in my throat as I think about all the things I haven’t told her. I should just blurt it out, but then she’d go into crisis management mode.

It’s cold and efficient, and how she tackled all of my teenage drama.

“Perfect! We’ll solidify the dates, since it’s coming up in just about a month. What else is going on with you?”

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I look around. It takes me a moment to realize that I’ve left campus. Just wandered right out the gates, headed toward Haven.

Well, it’s about to be my haven. I hurry along the sidewalk and tell Mom about my classes. Classes are safe to discuss with her, because they’re safe in general. They’re normal to stress over.

“Okay, honey,” Mom says after I’ve pushed in through the doors to Haven.

Clearly, she can hear the shift of background noise.

“I’ll let you go. Thanks for calling, honey.”

“Of course. Talk to you soon.” I hit the end button and slip my phone back in my pocket. My stomach growls, reminding me that I haven’t eaten anything since the breakfast sandwich Miles handed me. It was surprisingly delicious, actually. Not that I’d admit it out loud.

But now, I wave to one of the waitresses. She gestures to any of the open tables along the windows. I take one a good way down and set my bag on the chair beside me.

Never-ending homework—but now at least I’ll be able to eat while doing it.

I order a drink and burger, then crack open my laptop. I slip earbuds in and turn up the white-noise music. It’s supposed to focus your brain, and I’ve always believed in that shit. Like, yes, this random assortment of noises will keep me concentrating much better than All Time Low or Harry Styles.

Four drinks and another order of fries later, and I’m toast. Also, toasted. That’s a thing, right? It sounds like something people would say. A euphemism for drunk. Pissed. Blasted.

I slouch in my chair and zip closed my backpack. I quit homework a while ago, and now I’m just enjoying the afterburn of a certain salt-rimmed drink.

You know what I’m talking about.

“Water?” the waitress asks, setting one down in front of me.

“Thanks.” My smile feels so much less forced right now. My lips just tip up like I was born to smile. Or grin. Am I grinning? Showing too much teeth can be a detriment. It can scare people away, because sometimes it can be misconstrued as a teeth-bared expression.

Or so I’ve heard.

I touch my cheeks. They’re warm, and I’m sure my face is on fire.

The chair opposite me is dragged out. I look up, my lips parting.

Miles drops into the seat. His gaze is impassive, but I’m sure he’s pissed about something. He’s always mad, isn’t he?

Belatedly, his last rule comes drifting back to me.

The no-drinking rule.

I sit up straighter and drop my probing fingers from my cheeks, lacing them in my lap. I’m glad, at the very least, that the waitress already cleared most of my table. All that’s left is the water in front of me.

“Willow.”

I eye him.

Can I get away with pretending to be sober?

His hair is wet again. He must shower at the arena, in the locker rooms. How rough was his practice? He looks like shit. Dark circles—wait, no, those are bruises—under his eyes, his split lip scabbed over. They were there earlier. I didn’t split his lip. Or hit him in the nose again. But someone did.

Those eyes burn into me.

His nose is a little swollen, too.

“How much?” His voice is so quiet.

My gaze drops to the table. That’s a no to getting away with it, then.

“Look at me,” he growls.

I do. My eyes snap to his without a thought.

Why do I do that?

And a better question—why does it release some of the stiffness in my shoulders? They sag, without warning, as I lean forward and just watch him. As if that would be enough. As if anything I ever do will be enough.

It won’t, remember?

“How much did you drink?”

I tilt my head. “All day? Or just here?”

He blinks. “All day?”

“Four here,” I breathe. “Maybe five.”

“There’s five on your bill.”

Fuck.

“Okay, five,” I agree.

He presses his lips together for a moment, then leans back. A second later, his foot is running up the inside of my calf. “Here’s what you’re going to do, wild girl. Are you listening?”

I nod. My skin prickles. I don’t like the sensation, little bees buzzing under my skin. But I want to know what he wants. To set things right?

No, that’s not it.

“You’re going to buy a round of shots for everyone in the bar.”

My brows furrow. I cast a glance around, relieved to find that there are only a dozen people in Haven. I wave the waitress over and tell her.

“Your best whiskey,” Miles adds.

Oh, my wallet is going to hurt after this.

Her eyes widen, but she nods quickly and heads back to the bar. She passes out the drinks slowly, seeming to need to explain to everyone that I’ve bought them a shot. Their gazes swing toward me one by one, and heat licks across my face.

Finally, she brings back two shots for us.

I lick my lips.

“Go on,” he says.

I shiver and lift the shot glass. I shouldn’t mix liquors, but it goes down easy enough. I set it down and lean back, groaning at the feel of it. It adds to my floating feeling. I’m untethered, except for Miles’ foot running up and down the inside of my leg.

He slides his glass toward me.

“Be a good girl and take that,” he says. “I’m driving you home, after all.”

I lift it and stare at the amber liquid.

“Maybe after that shot, you’ll decide that you want another round for the bar,” he continues. “Or maybe you’ll get up and go to the bathroom, where you’ll pull your pants down and put your hands on the wall in the handicap stall. And you’ll wait for me there, with your head bent and your heart pounding out of your chest.”

His words hang between us.

My heart is pounding out of my chest.

I take the shot and stand suddenly. My chair scrapes back.

Miles watches me. I know he does, even when I walk away from him. He watches the sway of my hips and my light-as-air footsteps across the bar, into the darker hallway that hides the bathrooms. Women first, then men. I push into the women’s restroom and duck down, scanning the stalls.

Empty.

For now.

My breathing is uneven, and I catch a glimpse of myself in the row of mirrors. My hair is in place, but it doesn’t do much to hide my burning cheeks or the half-lidded eyes. The way my lips quirk up at myself.

I don’t try to smile, because my nerves are all tangled together with my sensibilities.

Handicap stall. I drag it shut, although I don’t latch it. I undo the button of my jeans and drag them, and the briefs I stole from Miles’ drawer this morning, down my hips. My thighs. All the way to my ankles.

I crane around and eye my bare ass. At the handprint still visible as a wicked version of a bruise. And then I face forward again, exhaling carefully. I don’t know what he’s going to do, and I can barely suppress my moan when my hands touch the cold tile.

My body bends forward automatically, and my head hangs down.

And then I wait.

And wait.

The door bangs open, and my whole body tenses. I practically hold my breath when another stall door shuts, and then the sound of another woman pulling her pants down and pissing fills the restroom.

I stay still until she flushes. There’s a quick rush of water, and the grind of the paper towel dispenser. And then she’s gone.

While I wait, I drift. My stomach cramps, and my feet ache. My one foot, in particular, is throbbing. The urgent care doctor said it would be healed soon—but soon can’t come fast enough.

The door opens again.

Then the stall door opens, and fingers trail down the side of my hip.

“Good,” he breathes. He locks the stall behind him. The latch scrapes across the metal, the noise unmistakable. “What a good little slut you are.”

His fingers are back, this time parting my ass cheeks. I bite my lip to hold back my groan.

“Oh, my slut is dripping.” His breath hits my skin. And then his finger is pushing through my wetness, straight into me.

My knees nearly give out.

“Ah, ah,” he admonishes. He continues to pump his finger in and out, pressing on my G-spot with every stroke.

Before I can come—before I can get close—he withdraws. His wet finger trails higher, over my asshole. He pushes in slightly, and I squeal.

The sound echoes around me.

SMACK!

My body lurches forward, my weight shifting to my toes. Toes that curl in my shoes as fire spreads through my body, emanating from my ass.

“Your reactions drive me insane,” Miles groans behind me.

He slips his finger into my ass. In and out, like he’s fucking it. My brain stutters to a halt. I don’t know what I’m doing, or what he’s doing. All I can focus on is the sensation he’s giving me.

SMACK!

I keep my mouth shut this time, swallowing the noise before it can escape. He struck a different spot. Lower on my ass, on the other cheek. My muscles tense, and he pulls his finger from my asshole. He grips my cheeks with both hands, massaging. Rubbing. Kneading.

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Hit, massage. Repeat.

My mouth is hanging open by the time he’s done—and the butterflies in my chest are fanning their wings. I want to fall into his arms, because if this was punishment, I’ll break every fucking one of his rules.

All I need is an orgasm and a bed.

His hands drift along the outside of my legs, coasting down to where my jeans are pooled around my ankles. My eyes crack open, and I see him through my legs. His crouched position, the way his long fingers pluck at his black briefs that sit, in plain sight, on top of my jeans.

“Clever girl,” he murmurs.

He pulls that fabric up first, securing it around my hips, then dips back down for my jeans. He rises and presses his groin into my ass, and I nearly groan again. He’s hard as a rock. Layers of clothing separate us, but I swear I can feel his piercing.

Wishful thinking.

“When will she wake up?” he asks.

My brow furrows again.

When will who wake up?

He reaches around me and does up the button of my jeans, then the fly. He pulls me upright, and it takes a minute for my brain to connect to my muscles. I wobble.

And in the next instant, I’m in his arms.

Good, a little piece of my mind whispers.

The louder part doesn’t think that’s good at all—but the alcohol has silenced that voice.

And I don’t think I miss it.

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