My eyes narrow as a wall of muscle who’s built a bit like Kane but with Jude’s height shoves Dicky out of the way. “Position. Now.”
“But—” Dicky tries to argue.
“Now, Richardson.”
The order is nonnegotiable. I don’t even catch his face when he says it, but I hear that low, rumbling voice that hits like a commandment. Whatever it is, it’s enough to makeDicky—who’s twice his size and built like a fridge—mutter a curse and skate the hell away.
Osborn. Eleven.
That’s what his jersey says.
So I lied, there actually is a male Osborn heir. It’s this clown.
Marcus Osborn.
Pathetically a nobody.
Certified bastard child.
And comes from the peasant rank.
You know, Stantonville, the shithole town that neighbors our town and I’d rather never visit, because I heard it’s full of rats? Yeah, this particular Osborn happens to live here and definitely not on Ravenswood Hill where the founding families’ mansion sprawls above Graystone Ridge.
Because he’s anobody.
He’s not recognized by his paternal family, except for the last name, which is weird—they should’ve removed that, too.
A nobody spawned by Uncle Andrew because he couldn’t keep it in his pants once upon a time. Not that I’m judging, but come on, protection.Condoms. They exist for a reason, and you can find them in a grocery store near you.
Yes, this is an unpaid ad as I’m a firm believer in those plastic balloons. Diseases? Hell no. Spawning a child? Even more of abso-fucking-lutelynot.
Anyway, because a condom didn’t prevent his existence, Osborn stopped my genius plan concerning Dicky before it started.
He turns to face me, a lazy curve settling over his mouth as if he’s been expecting me.
What a nuisance.
He blocks my view like a damn wall in motion, his orange jersey glaring under the rink lights with that stupid snarling wolf in the middle. It’s not even subtle. We get it—you’re the big, bad predator. Congratulations, want a cookie?
I’ve played Osborn before—against him, I mean—but annoyingly, my provocations didn’t get me inside his head. And it wasn’t for lack of trying.
He’s the Wolves’ wild card who’s always moving everywhere, so I had to cripple him. In the games I played against him in previous seasons, he was always slippery.
If anything, I’d say he’s the one who targets me on the ice instead of the other way around. Asshole seems to love checking me into the nearest surface.
There’s been this strange rivalry going on between us since high school. A type of intensity that’s tucked close to the surface, looming there without spilling over.
But ever since our first college game three years ago, I’ve been feeling a sort of…threatwhenever we face off. As if he intends to fucking devour me. No, just kidding. I can’t be threatened. I do the threatening myself.
During our last game in Vipers Arena, I attempted to get a rise out of him by saying, “Did the rats let you out to play, or did you bribe them?”
What? Not my best line, but it was a good one, come on.
He just smiled and skated away.
Hesmiled.
The audacity.
