Page 9 of Tempting Venom
“That’s what I like to hear, big man.” I make a “pew pew” motion, then resume greeting the fans.
The crowd seems more distracted by Jude’s massive body andje ne sais quoiattitude, which are stealing the limelight.
Boo to Jude.
But then again, it doesn’t matter, because the crowd loves me more than him, and anyone who says otherwise is spreading false allegations and fake news.
I continue smiling, delaying strapping my helmet on so I can wink at anyone I make eye contact with.
The fangirls gowild.
Not even kidding, they’re fainting and shitting themselves upon seeing my angelic face. Figuratively, of course. Though it might lead to literally one day—who knows, am I right?
The Stanton Wolves’ arena, located near Stanton River College (or SRC), is so shitty and barely fits three thousand spectators, all packed together like sardines.
If this were Vipers Arena, which is one of the largest and best-equipped college complexes in the country, it could house at least ten thousand of our diehard fans. Many of them go with us to Graystone University (or GU)—the elite college tucked within the affluent town of Graystone Ridge, where I was born to rule.
And be an absolute menace.
But that’s beside the point.
The point being me.
Preston Armstrong.
The most handsome devil you’ll ever meet. And no, that’s not arrogance. Ask anyone, specifically the beautiful ladies who grace my bed every night, and they’ll sing my praises.
I don’t pay them, I swear. It’s natural. I was just born to attract attention.
Not always thebestkind of attention.
But I’ll just skip past that part because I’m on a mission. I’m going to bring my A game tonight so the papers and articles will call me the Vipers’ ace left wing and hockey god.
It’s one of the few reasons I play this game—one, the idol worshipping. Two, because Jude was somehow into this shit when we were young, and I was desperate to be his friend, so I followed him. Three, because the popularity of the Vipers in our hockey-crazed town allows me, Kane, and Jude to supervise shit.
Well, not supervise. We sort of keep an eye on campus, using our spots on the team as built-in lookout towers. Perks of being born into the founding families of GraystoneRidge—and Vencor. The secret society that runs our town and whatever shadows spill past it.
Armstrong—that’s me. Callahan—Jude. Davenport—Kane. Osborn—blank.
I mean, there was my friend Leo Osborn and his brother Lance, but they died. Leo was one of many friends who left me, even though he didn’t mean to. He always looked like he was in so much pain, poor dude, so I guess it’s good that he’s not hurting anymore.
Wasn’t that close to Lance, but he died a couple of months ago as well, so no male heirs for the Osborns. Good news for Dad and Kane’s and Jude’s dads, because this was supposed to give them more edge.
Wrong.
See, the Osborns still have a female heiress, and she’s kicking ass, literally and figuratively.
Anyway, as a representative of the Armstrongs, I’d like to say this whole secret society thing sucks. But likesecretly, because Dad would have my left nut if I announced these thoughts.
My mouth holds its curve, but it feels frozen there.
Here comes the nuisance.
The Wolves swarm the rink in those amber-gold jerseys that are basically orange with commitment issues. Black and white stripes, snarling wolf logo—all of it trying way too hard to square up against the viper on ours.
Theirs is ugly, just saying.
I skate to number forty-eight, their best defenseman, and grin. “Hey, Dicky, ready to go home crying to your mama tonight?”
