Page 93 of Pucking Them
I want to call Wilder’s bluff. But I won’t endanger my lovers to do it.
I must protect my subs.
Satisfied, Wilder shrugs off his jacket, tossing it behind him. “What’s happening right now is because you’re to blame for my suspension. You broke the unspoken rule not to talk about what happens between teams. If you do that again, then I’ll go after that little star player of yours, both off and on the ice. My team will make sure to break his head, just like his twin’s was. Prince will never play hockey again.”
Rage roars through me.
I howl, struggling to break free. My muscles bulge, and my feet slip on the wet floor.
Startled, Wilder cringes back. “Hold him.”
I wrench from side to side, but one of the players cruelly sink their fingers into my damp hair and twists my head to slam it into the wall again.
“You were always dramatic.” Wilder rolls up his sleeves. I try not to tense; being beaten hurts more that way. “This is just locker room shit. And what happens in the locker room…”
“Stays in the locker room,” the other players chorus.
Wilder pulls back his arm, and no matter how I try to relax my abdominals, it doesn’t stop the burning pain, as he punches me in the stomach.
The air is driven from me, and my legs collapse.
As I hang from the players’ arms, Wilder methodically punches me.
Again, again, and again.
One, two, three.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Tide Cottage, Freedom
Eden
“Good physio session,”Cody praises. “Even better news? That delicious smell means that our cake is ready too. Why hasn’t anyone else thought of combining baking and physiotherapy? I could make it my new business.”
I follow Cody through the lounge of Tide Cottage.
It’s comfortable, warm, and peaceful like it always is.
Despite my joggers and t-shirt being damp with sweat and my muscles aching from the intense exercise, I feel more relaxed than I have in days.
I always do when I am here with Cody and his husband, Michael.
I fit somehow.
I wrinkle my nose, breathing in deeply the rich, sweet, and familiar scent of the baking chocolate cake, which has filled thecottage. It’s the recipe that Mum used because it was Shay’s favorite for our birthdays.
Shay deserves something special after the shit we have both been through this week.
After the Webbs.
The cozy, caramelized scent wraps around me, reminding me of being a teenager, when I would help Mum bake the star shaped cake each year.
We only received one cake between us both.
I was the shadow, after all.
Plus, my adoptive parents didn’t have enough money to make more. They already saved all year to afford a cake, party, and a present for us.
