Page 115 of Tempting Venom
“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 hitsthe 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 amuffled “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.
