Page 6 of Butterfly
I’m not sure which reaction I want more.
The hoodie I’m wearing nearly hits the top of my knees. I knew Donovan was big, but wearing his clothes is something else. If he wrapped me in his arms, he’d swallow me up the same way the fabric is, only he’d probably smell even better. I don’t try to hide it when I lift soft blue and green to my nose and inhale as I make my way toward the practice arena.
I had to ask four different people to figure out where it was, and then take a stop-off at the local hardware store to make a copy of his keys. As long as I get his set back to him before he reports that they’re missing, maybe he won’t try to change his locks. Then I’ll have all the access I need.
The thought shouldn’t excite me as much as it does. That doesn’t stop me from seeing it in my mind’s eye—sneaking into his room while he’s sleeping at night, crawling up to straddle him with a knife.
He’d bleed so pretty… and fuck, that blood on canvas would look so good.
Or…
I could sketch his features in the moonlight and tempt him awake with quiet little scratches of pencil on paper. Then I couldsee the way his eyes widened when he realized I was there—I could see how he’d react.
I’m not sure what I want yet.
The only thing I do know is that I want to see himnow.
It takes me a while to figure out which gear-clad man on the ice he is. They all look basically the same out there, all tall and broad shouldered. I only realize who he is when one of the players does some fancy maneuver, and the man at the end of the ice raises one arm with a loudwhoop.
He turns his back to the rest of the players to face the net in front of him, but there’s no mistaking that crimson hair. It’s him for sure, wearing bulky pads that make his body look bigger than it did in the alley, bigger than I know he is. His head tilts back and he squirts water from a bottle into his mouth. His other hand holds a stick that’s way bigger than what everyone else has.
I wonder why?
Donovan finishes drinking and grabs a full face mask off the top of the goal, slipping it onto his head as he slides a glove onto one hand and turns to face the rest of the team. I can’t stop myself from leaning forward, my eyes fixated on his body as he moves, fascinated with the way he’s still lithe in all the padding that should weigh him down. He crouches low, his feet moving side to side like he’s scuffing up the ice beneath his skates. Finally, he stops moving and stays there.
Still.
Like a statue.
One of the men wearing a white jersey takes off from the middle of the ice, another following behind. It takes me a moment to realize they have a small puck they’re passing between them, stick to stick, but it’s there. They’re fucking fast with their hands, but when I look at Donovan, he’s swaying side to side in a perfect mirror of the movement. It’s mesmerizing, like a snake carefully tracking its prey.
Fascinating.
I have no idea what’s happening when the men zooming toward him move, their sticks slapping against the puck and sending it shooting in Donovan’s direction. I have images in my head of the way something moving that fast could split skin, break teeth… but Donovan doesn’t seem worried about it. His swaying stops, and he slides to the left, raising one gloved hand and snatching the puck out of the air like it wasn’t moving like a bullet.
He’s… fast.
Faster than I thought.
Fast enough that he probably could have stopped me if I’d managed to sneak up on him with my knife.
Good to know.
“It’s a rebound drill, Donny,” the man who shot the puck comments with a laugh as he skates past Donovan, the other man trailing behind him.
“Then shoot a fucking rebound,” Donovan calls back, tossing the puck up into the air and letting it fall onto the ice at his feet.
I have no idea what they’re talking about. It’s like a fucking foreign language to me… but the next time they move toward Donovan, the puck bounces off his stomach and another player scoops it up to shoot it at him again.
None of it makes sense, even though they do it a few more times… though I have to admit that I’m too fascinated by the way Donovan holds himself, the sway of his body, the tension in his shoulders, to really try to figure it out.
Finally a whistle blows, making my entire body jump. I was too caught up in watching to realize that practice was already ending, but apparently it is because they all head off the ice, shoving each other and laughing as they yank off their helmets and shake out their sweaty hair.
My eyes are all for the crimson locks that stick to pale skin. Donovan stands out like fire amongst a sea of blond and brown and black.
Red hair on white ice.
Of course.
