So I tried again with, “Your mama rode the right dick but didn’t finish the job. That’s why you’re with the rats instead of being here. So sad.”
Yes, told you I’d go there. I go every-fucking-where.
He stillsmiled.
But then he checked me so violently yet cleanly, I almost lost my fucking teeth.
I focused on another teammate, going so deep inside his head, I sent him to the box enough times to have him removed from the rink.
And we won. Of course. All thanks to my genius.
After that game, however, he stole my girlfriend. Okay, so she wasn’t my girlfriend, since I don’t do those, but she was the girl I fucked at the time, and he had no business having her wrapped all around him in her fucking stories.
Not that we were exclusive or anything, and I’ve totally forgotten the girl’s name, but it’s theaudacityfor me.
Tonight, however, Osborn is…hmm. How do I put this not so nicely? He has too much arrogance. It’s everywhere. From the way he carries himself, to how he speaks, to how he looks.
His helmet is tilted back just enough to reveal sharp angles, a mouth that looks like it’s permanently smirking, and dark-gray eyes that don’t blink like normal people’s do. They just watch. Assess. Like he’s collecting data for the best way to piss me off.
I’m so annoyed that he stopped me from wrecking his teammate’s fragile ego. No one ever steps between me and chaos. Especially not some Stantonville rat who crawled out of the gutter and decided to grow cheekbones sharp enough to commit crimes with.
The only break in all the sharp lines is a scar that slashes over the edge of his thick eyebrow.
He’s taller than I remember, built like he crushes bones and doesn’t lose sleep over it. Taller than me—the motherfucker—and I’m 6’3”. He’s like, what? 6’4”? 6’5”? Who the fuck needs that much height? Giants?
He runs a hand through his messy black hair, then pulls the helmet down on his face, his mouth tipped in that same lingering, taunting curve. “Hi, fairy prince.”
I release a sound that’s similar to a “tsk.” I have no fucking clue why he calls me that. I mean, yeah, sure, Iama prince, thank you very much. It’s what they say in the papers, too.Armstrong, the league’s princethisand Armstrong, the league’s princethat.
But this degenerate makes it sound like he’s mocking me in that annoying deep voice of his.
“We meet again.” The way he speaks drowns out the noise, demanding attention.
But you know, two can play that game.
“Who are you again…? The name’s on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t quite remember. Hmm.”
“Forgetfulness at your age is a real issue, Armstrong. May I suggest seeing a doctor?”
This motherfucker.
I truly don’t like him and the way he’s always waving and smirking and nodding at me as if we’re old friends.
“Right, Osborn!” I ease a smile into place, then start to circle him; it’s how I disorient them. “You’d better have dealt with those mommy issues of yours, because I’m going there again tonight.”
“What about your own issues, Armstrong? Ready to hold my hand and talk about it? Because I’ll also go there.”
I falter, and his hand fists my collar, hauling me to a stop as he yanks me toward him. The pull is so sudden and forceful, it knocks the breath from my lungs, leaving me stunned.
Because what the actual fuck?
My face is practically pressed to his helmet, only a breath between us, and Jesus fucking Christ—are those blue flecksin his eyes? Like shards of sky caught in storm clouds. They flicker, almost alive, almost extinguished.
That’s when I realize something.
I’ve always found Osborn’s face annoying, and now I know it’s because I can’t read his eyes. Zilch. Nada.
As someone who’s extremely good at reading others, gauging their reactions, getting a figurative—and sometimes literal—hard-on at the rage and anger in their eyes, I currently can’t findanythingto feed on.
