No. No one knows. It’s impossible.
And yet as Osborn glides across the ice, hyping up their crowd with his mere presence, my stomach heaves, bile pressing at the back of my throat.
I’m itching to run my thumb along my lip, bite down until blood pours out.
The rest of the game continues in a blur.
I don’t even register half of it, and my head is so not in it, I don’t remember what the fuck Coach Slater and Kane yap about.
I can only focus on one thing.
Osborn.
He makes me his fucking target. Whether on defense or offense—he’s there like a goddamn shadow I can’t shake off.
As they’re attacking, he says, “You sure you don’t want to give my cock a go?”
And I lose it. There are no thoughts in my head as I slam him against the boards, which break into pieces.
He laughs as I’m sent to the box for the full five minutes.
For the first time in my hockey career.
I may have done the occasional two minutes, but never five.
And during those five fucking minutes, I have to watch the prick.
There’s something I notice. Osborn moves like he’s been skating since birth. Every glide is measured, economical, like he’s figured out how to waste nothing—not breath, not energy, not attention.
And I’m wasting all three on him.
Because, you see, I wasn’t kidding. I’ll kill the bastard.
Torture him first, make his life hell, then skin him alive and drink his blood vampire style.
No one gets to know aboutthat.
No one.
I’m practically useless for the rest of the game. When the buzzer cuts through, announcing the Wolves’ win, I slam my stick against the boards as Jude wraps an arm around my shoulders.
“You okay?”
I hate that tone. The worry, the way he’s watching me as if I’m made of glass.
Or I’ll collapse any second.
“Never been better,” I grunt.
“Don’t lie to me.”
“Don’t annoy me.” I elbow him in the side, ignoring his furrowed brow and the fuck ton of questions he’ll ask me once we’re out of here.
As Jude slips ahead of me into the dim tunnel, I throw a glance behind me.
Osborn is being patted and hugged and praised all the way to Sunday by his teammates. Treated like a fucking god. And yes, sure, it makes sense. He stopped me, and that gave the Wolves their win. It’s as easy as that—cripple the Vipers’ left wing—my highness—and it all goes to shit.
In the midst of the celebratory fuck-fest, Osborn catches my eye, and there’s that grin again—small, private, like we’re sharing a joke no one else gets.
