Page 140 of Secret Obsession
It’s funny—I always thought that would come in handy with sex. But I guess I’m just not doing nearly enough creative shit.
Greyson skates over and kneels beside me. “They’re hungry.”
I shrug. “Hungry for a dick up the ass, according to my brother.”
He snorts. “Yeah.”
We both glance up at the clock counting down our remaining minutes. BJ has moved out of the net, and there’s a flurry of movement as our team arcs in two circles, shooting continuously at the goal.
Most make it. Some fly high or wide, crashing into the glass beyond.
When there’s less than a minute remaining, I follow Steele and Finch back to our locker room. The rest of the guys are close behind. They’ll clean the ice with the Zamboni, then play some hype music for the home team, and then we’ll come out with little to no fanfare.
Which is fine.
I don’t talk to anyone while we wait, stretching in the corner to keep myself warm. I put in my brother’s earbuds and crank the music on his phone, tuning out the sounds of laughter and chatter behind me. If I had my phone, I’d have my own playlist. As it is, his is similar enough.
“Where’s my phone?” Knox calls. “I want to play my pump-it-up playlist. Anyone see it?”
“I’ve got a playlist,” Rodrigues calls. He hits a button, and hip-hop blasts out of his phone. Loud enough that even I can hear it.
Ugh.
I move my brother’s phone so he can’t quite see it on the other side of my leg.
“Miles.”
I pull an earbud out and jump to my feet at Greyson’s tone. He raises his phone, flashing a text from Violet.
Vi
At Willow’s house. She’s ok. We’re staying here tonight, will be back tomorrow for Jacob’s game. Don’t worry. X
Okay.
Okay, I can work with that, I think.
The game starts, and everything is normal. And it stays normal, until the third period. Some jackass comes tearing in with the puck, and his own teammate gets in the way. He fumbles, and suddenly he’s barreling intome.
He’s a huge motherfucker, and I don’t stand a chance. We collide, and something heavy hits my helmet. It sounds like a percussion inside my skull, and I’m flattened to the ice. I slide into the net, and I barely manage to lift my arms up to protect my head, operating on instinct. There’s a ringing in my ears that drowns out everything for a split second, and it feels like I went five rounds with a Mac truck.
I force myself up. I toss my gloves off and crawl out of the net.
How embarrassing.
But my attention is drawn to the mass of players to my left. Knox has the big guy’s helmet off and is punching him repeatedly in the face, while the guy tries to shove him away. The refs are actively trying to separate them.
Greyson’s got another one, and so does Steele. Everyone’s in a fucking dog pile, their mouths moving, tempers high. I can’t even fucking hear them.
I kneel in the crease and try to catch my breath.
Jesus Christ.
One of the refs skates closer and asks if I’m okay. I look up, and the players have separated. One of the linemen has the big guy by the back of the jersey, steering him toward the penalty box.
“You okay, baby bro?” Knox asks, spitting blood on the ice. When he grins at me, his mouth guard is stained pink.
“Peachy.” I open my mouth and try to pop my ears, orsomething, but the ringing is persistent. Although better than it was two minutes ago.
