That was the last exchange I had with Preston.
Which was a couple of days ago.
Since then, I’ve focused on practice, work, and going to the club with the guys. I’ve done everything in my might to remain completely in the zone.
Because I have an important game to win tomorrow, and I won’t let an insignificant fucking asshole ruin my focus.
And yet as I practice drills on my own in the Stanton Wolves’ arena late at night, an unnatural tension coils in my muscles.
I glide to a halt in the center, pulling thepuck toward me.
It’s better to stop practicing than cause an unwanted injury when we’re this far out in the championship.
Problem is, hockey is the only method I have to purge this morbid rage that’s tucked right beneath the surface.
And I refuse to think it’s there because tonight at this time, I’d normally be in Vipers Arena, where a certain blond-haired, green-eyed prince would be waiting for me with a challenge in his eyes.
I wonder if he’s in the arena right now, clad in his compression shirt, gliding along the ice with enough elegance to look like a figure skater?—
No.
I don’t give a fuck what Preston is doing.
He obviously considers me a booty call of sorts, so there’s no reason why I’d be thinking about him.
It’s been, what? Close to five weeks since I picked up that ritual before game nights. Three since we started meeting once a week, even during the winter break, but Preston refuses the very notion of meeting outside or without hockey and sex involved. Sometimes we practice first, sometimes I corner him and leave him no choice but to enjoy my fingers, mouth, and cock.
After that night in the alleyway over three weeks ago, I thought maybe he’d open up a bit. He was obviously jealous of Dahlia, and when I asked her about it, she said that Preston started to treat her differently after he found out we were together at one point.
He’d also warmed up to me two weeks ago—or as much as Preston can. He did give me his scarf and call me beautiful.
So I held out hope that he’d come around, but that was wishful thinking.
Preston runs hot and cold—more cold than hot.
Sometimes, he’ll look at me with those parted lips and expectant eyes, and I feel like I have the real Preston to myself. An older version of the seven-year-old boy I could never forget.
But then, I try to get closer, like touch his face or ask about a bruise I notice on his side and stomach, and he’ll push me away.
I started to notice he gets into a lot of fights, considering he has other marks aside from the ones I’d leave on his ass.
Which I found odd since Preston isn’t overly physical on the ice. I’d assumed he was the same off the ice, but then again, I saw him stab someone in cold blood in his family’s forest.
Whenever I tried to ask what type of fights he was getting himself into, he’d completely shut down. If I touched him, I’d get kicked or punched or both because that’s how he responds to things he can’t control.
With excessive, brutal, oftentimes impulsive violence.
It’s like he acts before he can think, as he usually wears this look that screams, “I didn’t mean to do that.” He’d even tighten his body, waiting for me to hit him back. Not that I would, but he fully expected it.
And something about that entire reaction sits wrong with me.
Satwrong with me.
Because I clearly ended this charade.
Or attempted to, anyway.
Thing is, Preston will not let that slide. One, despite his happy-go-lucky image and the humor he wears like armor, he’s a bit of a control freak. That means he won’t let me be the one who ends whatever fucked-up arrangement we have.
