Page 145 of Devious Obsession
See? Fucker always sneaks it into the bench.
He taps out a message, then stows it again. “There.”
“What did you do?”
“Violet’s going to find Aspen’s roommate, and we’ll get an update.”
Fat lot of good that’ll do. Still, it’s more than sitting here stewing will do. I hop up, suddenly eager to be back on the ice. To hit something, or someone.
I catch one of the defensemen’s attention, and he skates toward the bench. He goes through the door, and I hop over the wall.
My attention is on the puck. The moving players. I skate closer to Miles, who spares me a glance. I nod back at him, then Rodrigues. We’re not going to let another puck get close to our goalie. We both drift forward, finding guys to block.
The crowd cheers.
Greyson, always a fan favorite, has the puck. Rodrigues and I follow as Greyson passes to Knox. Then Finch. Back to Greyson, who shoots almost faster than my eye can follow.
It sails past the goalie just before Greyson gets knocked on his ass.
I rush forward and shove the asshole away from Greyson—but that just seems to fuel the fire. We’re swarmed by half the team—and ours doesn’t fucking hesitate to dive in either. For a moment, we’re just a mass of packed bodies trying to cause a little damage.
Someone yanks me back, sending me sliding on my skates out of the melee. Miles is systematically pulling out our starters, somehow finding Greyson and Knox next. Rodrigues is already out of the body pile, wiping his bloody nose on his sleeve. The refs are blowing their whistles and breaking up the rest of it.
It takes me a second to find my stick and register the pain in my face. I didn’t lose my helmet or my mouth guard, though. Surprisingly. My cheek stings where I must’ve caught an errant fist or elbow.
It does nothing to soothe the rushing emotions inside me.
We all leave the ice while the refs sort out who’s to blame. I sit next to Greyson and grab for my water. He does the same, furtively checking his phone.
“She found Thalia,” he informs me. “But neither of them have seen Aspen. Your dad was going to her apartment to check for her.”
I clear my throat. “Thanks.”
He claps me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. Focus on the game.”
44
ASPEN
Something hits the floor in front of me. It’s heavy, judging from the way the impact makes the floor under my feet tremble. I can’t open my eyes, though. They weigh a million pounds, like the rest of me. It’s bad enough my awareness came back first—the inability to move iskillingme.
A hand touches my face, and my eyelid is lifted. I get a blurry view of a basic, almost-empty room, and then my eyelid is lowered again.
Silence.
So much silence, it’s never-ending. I strain to hear anything outside of my shallow breathing—the breathing of another, maybe. Footsteps. A ticking clock.
Eventually, whatever held my muscles hostage ebbs away. My system burns through it slowly, my fingers first twitching back to life, then my ability to swallow. My eyelids flutter, and I force my eyes open all the way.
There is a body on the floor in front of me.
Someone in a suit, curled away from me in the fetal position.
“You’re awake.”
The voice—familiar and terrible, with a rasp that rivals mine—draws my attention to the doorway. I shudder, then immediately regret it. I shouldn’t show fear.
My father steps forward, his green eyes locked on me.
