Page 42 of Devious Obsession
He’s throwing things in the locker room, taking it out on anyone and everyone. And as he rounds on me, I put up a blank-faced mask. Because I know what he’s going to say. I let Josh Maverick get under my fucking skin, and he skated circles around me.
I stare at my skates as Coach rips into me, his face red. Spit flies out of his mouth. We all take it, though, because we know we’re playing like asswipes.
All I want to do is punch the smug expression off Maverick’s face. It’s the least he deserves.
And that guy who touched Aspen.
How fuckingdarehe?
If she was wearing my jersey, no one would touch her.
But then Coach has run out of steam—for now—and it’s time to go play the last period. I take one last gulp of water and run my hands through my hair, then grab my stick and helmet. I march after Knox, keeping my head raised.
We may be playing like garbage, but we’re not so far behind that we can’t pull this off.
Knox and the Knights’ center face-off. Josh leers at me, his expression so fucking cocky, my grip on my stick tightens. He’s fucking dead.
I glance over at Aspen, who’s sitting squashed between Violet and her roommate in that fucker’s jersey, and it pisses me off even more.
The ref drops the puck, and Knox edges out the Knight. He flicks it toward me. I take control for a second, the feel of the puck gliding along my blade pulling my focus straight back to the game. I drive it forward and slip around one of our opponents, then shoot it up toward Finch. He takes possession and sprints toward the goal. We’re right there with him. I should be hanging back a little, but the urge to stuff Josh’s face overtakes me again.
I block him from interfering. He’s at my back, trying to get around me, but I skate in his way again. His arm is on my back, trying to shove me away.
Finch passes to Devereux, who sends it back to the right defense, Tony Rodrigues. He shoots it to Knox, who goes for the goal. He fakes the goalie out at the last second by feigning left. The goalie falls for it, reaching, and Knox sends it smoothly through his open legs.
Okay, great.
But Josh Maverick is still pushing at my back, and I’m fucking tired of him.
So I do the rational thing—I fist the front of his jersey to keep him at the right distance and punch him in the mouth.
He reels back, anger contorting his expression.
Yes, fucking fight me.
I almost say it out loud.
He lunges for me, coming for my face, and I struggle with him. We hit the glass, vying for control. I rip his helmet off and punch him again. His knuckles collide with my jaw, and pain explodes across my face. I lose my helmet, too.
No one is interfering. The whole stadium is quiet outside the buzzing in my ears.
I hit him again, and he wobbles. Without hesitation, I grab his jersey with both hands, my fingers wrapping under the padding at the edges of his armpits, and throw him to the ice. I land on top of him, drawing my fist back and punching him once, twice.
When I climb off him, I register the noise of the crowd.
Everyone is screaming, cheering. My gaze goes right to the siren in this fucker’s jersey.
She’s on her feet, too, and her green eyes burn into me from a distance.
I can’t tell if she’s happy or upset that I put him in his place—but it doesn’t fucking matter.
“Penalty box,” Coach snaps when I return to the bench. The refs are beside him. “And get your fucking stick, O’Brien, for god’s sake.”
I salute him and collect my fallen items. Devereux slaps me on the back, then Miles Whiteshaw. Then his brother. Rodrigues and Finch both pump their fists in the air. I smirk and skate to the box across from the benches. An official holds it open for me, and I step up into it. I sit down carefully, my muscles aching.
My nose is wet with blood.
The official hands me a towel, his expression stoic.
