Secret Obsession: A Dark Hockey Romance (Hockey Gods)
Secret Obsession: Chapter 13

Fridays are for fun, and partying, and not hockey.

I only had my Crime Fiction class today, which was fun. And now we’re getting into the partying mode. And by we, I mean me. Because Violet’s going to the game. Greyson would freak out if she didn’t. Something about being his lucky charm—gag—and also, we all know what happened the last time she missed a game.

Anyway.

I’m putting the finishing touches of my makeup on, blasting the Moulin Rouge Broadway soundtrack and sipping the cocktail I made myself, when my phone rings.

Since it never rings, and since it’s subsequently stopped my music, I hurry to answer it.

“Let us in,” Violet says. “It’s cold out here.”

I raise my eyebrow, but I’m not about to argue. I agree and slide my feet into slippers, hurrying downstairs to open the main door for them. If I lived in a fancy brownstone apartment, I’d be able to buzz them in. As it is, this door has manual locks only, and a keycode I was supposed to keep to myself. Although I guess Miles doesn’t count.

The first-floor apartment door cracks open, and my landlord sticks her head out.

“All good, Willow?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I respond, ushering Violet and Aspen past me. “Have a good night.”

Once we’re in my apartment, I look between them. They’re both fully decked out in hockey gear. In fact, both are sporting their guys’ jerseys.

At one point, I had asked Knox if I could wear his. He… well, he changed the subject. Or he kissed me, which was essentially the same thing.

How often he did that only became apparent after he broke up with me. Then, it was like all the little bits of failure between us were shaken to the top of my memory.

And man, did it make me feel like an idiot when I realized.

“Fishnets?” Aspen eyes my legs.

I smile. I already put on the fishnet stockings, then slipped baggy exercise shorts over them. Similarly, I’m wearing a front-lacing corset under my t-shirt. Always save the tight dress for the last moment. Especially when dealing with powder makeup.

“What’s up?” I ask them.

“We’re bringing you to the game.” Aspen grins.

I snort. “No, you’re not. I’m going dancing.”

“You can dance after,” Violet argues. “Come on, we’ll go dance with you—”

“You both are going to get laid after the game,” I interrupt. “And once upon a time, I would’ve, too. But that was last semester, and I’m not going to hook up with some random guy.”

I plant my hands on my hips.

“Besides,” I continue, “whose house are you partying at after the game? The hockey house where Knox lives?” And Miles, I silently add. “Or Haven, where I think both of you have been cornered in the freaking bathroom? That place is basically cursed.”

Maybe I should go to Haven. I can watch the game from afar, get blackout drunk, and be in a lovely mood by the time they arrive. If they arrive. And if they don’t, I’ll come home alone.

Violet’s face falls. “I hate that this is so hard on you—”

“I knew what I was getting into with him. It was Knox Whiteshaw, of course I was going to end up getting burned.”

I shouldn’t have hooked up with him. But that was when Violet was out on medical leave, and Greyson was the new guy on campus. There was fresh energy wrapped up in the sport, even more than previous years. And Knox is known for his charm.

Damn it if he didn’t make me a sucker with it.

“Okay,” Aspen says. “If you’re sure…”

“Text me if you guys are gonna go to Haven.” I reach out and take their hands. “And thanks for trying.”

Violet rolls her eyes, but she pulls me into a hug. “Love you.”

“I love you, too,” I mutter in her ear.

Love and I are currently fighting—but for her, of course I’d say it. And mean it.

“Now go on, before you’re late.” I shoo them out and close my apartment door behind them. I deflate a little.

But then I force myself to straighten. To smile. I go back to the bathroom and practice a few different variations of that smile in the mirror. I put the metal straw in my mouth and practice my seductive bedroom eyes, blinking slowly as I finish my drink.

I’m floating, and I’ve actually convinced myself I’ll have a decent time, when I’m ready to walk out the door. And I don’t so much walk as glide all the way to Haven. I hang my jacket in the coatroom, keeping my wristlet with me.

The bar is crowded, the lighting dark. The game is being broadcast on the screens around the room, and it seems like everywhere I look, there’s blue and silver and white.

Most people think the silver and white are interchangeable, but they’re not. Blue and silver are our school colors. But their away jerseys are white with bands of silver and blue. Maybe that’s where the confusion comes from. Or the fact that silver isn’t that easy to replace when you’re buying t-shirts, unless you buy the expensive, branded CPU stuff.

I scout the bar, which seems to have clusters of groups, then stride around it and slip onto a free stool. A bartender, an alumni, swings by and takes my order.

“Put it on my tab,” a guy says over my shoulder. “And I’ll take another.”

I glance up at the football player. Not someone I knew through Jack, Violet’s asshole ex-boyfriend. Actually, I can’t say I know this guy’s name at all. His face is familiar, though.

“Ronan Pierce,” he introduces.

“Willow.” I shake his hand, smiling a bit.

“You’re a senior at CPU, right?”

“I am.”

He inches into my space, leaning his elbow on the bar. He’s already got a bottle of beer in his hand, which he takes a long draw from, but his eyes never leave mine. He’s got a kind of roguish charm that reminds me of Greyson or Steele. Dark and twisty and alluring. More Venus fly trap than man.

“Me, too. I think you just transferred into my drawing class.”

My eyebrows hike. “A creative football player?”

“Ah, so you do know who I am.”

I flush. “No, no, I just recognized you from…”

From when we went to the football games and danced at halftime. Those words die in my throat. The bartender returns with our drinks, and I take a gulp of mine.

“What’s your drink of choice tonight?” he asks.

There’s cheering around the bar, and my gaze darts up to the television. On screen, the CPU Hawks are celebrating. Knox is holding his stick up in the air, and the on-ice players swarm him in celebration.

“Vodka.” I turn back to Ronan. “I was going to go with tequila, but that was before I decided to come here instead of Prime.”

“Tequila makes you dance?”

“And strip, on occasion.” I lean into him. “Just don’t tell anyone that.”

He laughs. “Our dirty little secret. No problem.” The stool beside me becomes vacant, and he motions to it. “May I?”

“If you tell me what sort of liquor makes you dance.”

He grins and takes the seat, setting his beer on the bar. “Well, I think I’d have to agree with you that tequila is the Devil’s mistress.”

“No, no,” I giggle. “It’s just the Devil’s juice. Whoever drinks it becomes the mistress. Or master.”

Another cheer goes up, and my stomach flips. This time, it’s Miles filling the screen. He straightens and hands the puck off to a ref, and a replay rolls. We watch the opposing team tear down the ice toward Miles, the Hawks seeming to be caught completely off-guard. Until they shoot, and Miles catches the puck almost lazily.

“Are you not a fan?”

I eye Ronan, wondering if he’s joking.

“More vodka, and maybe I’ll tell you,” I quip.

He nods and gestures to the bartender. “Another one for the lady, please.”

“Thank you, good sir.” I take my almost empty drink and clink it against his.

Time blurs. I get a text from Violet, and I have to bring the phone up to my face to read the text. It’s blurry, too. The words keep moving. But I get the gist. We won—that’s what that cheering was about—and now the team is on its way to Haven.

I swallow.

I said I’d meet them here, but I’m really in no position to want to see Knox.

Or Miles.

Maybe Miles ranks first on my Avoid list, given the fact that my ass is bruised and tender. Discovering that in the shower this morning was not on my bingo card for this week.

“Wanna get out of here?” I wiggle my eyebrows at Ronan.

He shakes his head. “Word is, the team is on its way—oh, look.” He gestures. “My cousin, Finch, plays. I told him I’d buy him a drink.”

I force a smile and gesture to the bartender. He nods at me. The hockey team is pouring in with their admirers, and soon they’ll claim his attention. Greyson has Violet tucked under his arm. Steele’s hand is locked on Aspen’s hip. Knox and Miles enter after them, and I glance away.

“Should’ve gone with tequila,” I whisper to myself.

The back of my neck prickles.

My cue to leave.

I slip off the stool, putting my hand on Ronan’s arm to steady myself. Not that he notices. Or maybe he does. The bar is getting too loud. I take my new drink—the bartender really has been keeping me topped up tonight—and toss it back. It slips down my throat like liquid fire, although the burn has long since stopped working. I think my mouth is numb, my teeth floating.

The floor shifts, but I make my way to the bathroom anyway. A quick stop to pee, and then I’ll slip out the back door. Although I had hoped to leave with the football player, because wouldn’t that be fun?

The stall is manageable.

So is the sink.

I eye my reflection.

“Fuck them,” I tell myself. “Have fun.”

Famous words to live by, right?

I practice smiling. Pull my eyes open a little wider with my fingers, although my lids go right back to half-mast when I let go. I wipe the lipstick off my teeth and touch it up, then smile again. And again. I bounce on the balls of my feet.

“Be happy,” I repeat. “I’m so happy. I’m the happiest girl around.”

I am happy.

My friends are here. CPU won. I don’t give a shit that Knox scored one of the three goals or that Miles was admirable.

He wasn’t admirable.

He’s despicable.

“I’m the life of the party,” I tell myself.

And I know that’s true. My mood brightens, until the smile doesn’t feel so forced. Even if I am still practicing.

I toss the idea of running away and make my way back to the bar. I replace Violet easily and rush toward her. I throw my arms around her shoulders and kiss her cheek, leaving a dark-red lip print on her skin.

“Hi!” I squeal. “Congrats, Greyson.”

“Thanks,” he replies. “You good, Reed?”

I haven’t released my best friend, and he’s eyeing my arm around her neck. I ignore his trepidation and focus on her. “I’m great,” I tell her.

“You’re drunk.” She laughs.

I wave my free hand. “Tomato, tomato.”

“You just repeated the same word twice,” Greyson says. “It’s tomayto, tomahto—”

“Oh, whatever.” I snort. “We should do shots.” I spin. “Where’s Aspen?”

I think they might be my only friends. Not that it matters.

It doesn’t matter.

“Aspen!” I yell.

A hand covers my mouth, and I’m dragged away from Violet. My eyes bug out, and I thrash for a second. Not that I make any contact whatsoever.

“Do you have to be so fucking destructive?” Miles says in my ear.

I scoff into his palm. Pretty sure I’m going to have to go right back to the bathroom to fix my lipstick. The asshole. But he doesn’t release me and instead pulls me tighter against him. My back to his front.

My fingers curl around his wrist.

Nothing.

No reaction.

Well, that won’t do.

I push my ass back, swaying slightly when I brush his groin. And yep, there’s the reaction I’m craving. I guess it’s not enough to have a football player buy me drinks. After all, he didn’t want to leave with me.

“You got a tab going?” Miles asks, his lips still pressed right to my ear.

A shiver trickles down my spine.

“No.” It’s muffled. He hasn’t removed his hand.

Still, he reads me loud and clear, because he goes still. “Then who’s been buying your drinks?”

I jerk my head, and he releases my mouth. I look up at him, craning back and almost losing my balance all over again. Which I would, if he wasn’t holding me upright. His arm across my stomach keeps me against him.

“Who?” he snaps.

“I don’t remember,” I lie. “Maybe it was a bunch—”

“Ricky.” Miles pulls me closer to the bar. He maneuvers me onto a suddenly free stool and steps up behind me, his arm never leaving me. We’re banded together like this. When the bartender looks his way, Miles gestures to me. “Whose tab have her drinks been going on?”

“Pierce,” he replies.

I narrow my eyes and mouth, “Traitor.”

Miles chuckles. “See, wasn’t that easy?”

“I was going to be easy. For him to take me home,” I reply sweetly, hopping off the stool. I spot Aspen and hurry toward her, feeling Hurricane Miles in my wake.

I latch on to her arm. “Dance with me?”

Her eyes go wide, and I think she’s trying to take in all of me at once. The puffy cheek, the bruises covered in concealer and foundation, the messy lipstick, and however else I might appear. Crazy? Happy? The life of the party?

Steele smirks at her. “Put on a show, sweetheart.”

Her cheeks pinken, but then she’s nodding. I drag her around Steele, using him as a blocker for Miles, who I feel behind us. We go where there’s already a group of people swaying to the overhead music. It’s not really a dancing bar, but the atmosphere after a game is always more playful. Exuberant, even.

I inhale their energy and mimic it. I swing around to face her and shimmy my hips. Aspen frowns, but I move her hands to the beat until she laughs and gives in. She dances with me for a song, then two. Violet joins us, looping my arm around her neck and helping keep me upright.

It’s not my fault the floor keeps tilting.

“Miles looks like he’s going to murder someone,” Violet says in my ear.

The memory of the murder he did commit bursts to the forefront of my mind.

Suddenly, the urge to party drains out of me, and I go still.

Violet and Aspen stop, too.

“I’m going to be sick,” I announce.

An excuse, maybe, but neither of them stop me from rushing out the side door by the bathrooms. The same one I was plotting on using to escape anyway. But now I’m dry heaving at the side of the building, my stomach churning and revolting.

It’s only when the muscle spasms subside, and nothing comes up, that I finally straighten.

Something cold pricks my skin.

It’s snowing. Of course.

My jacket is inside, but I can’t be bothered to go back for it. In fact, it’s best if I just… don’t. I make it to the corner of the building and step onto the main sidewalk.

“Here.”

Warmth in the form of a coat is draped over my shoulders.

I’m not super surprised to see Knox.

Because he may be an asshole, but he doesn’t have a bad heart.

You thought.

“Why are you being nice right now?”

He laughs. “I’m not being nice. I’m torturing my brother.”

Oh.

“Will you fall asleep if I put you in a cab?”

Maybe.

“Okay, walking, it is.”

And that’s what we do. He doesn’t touch me again, but he does stay next to me. And when I fumble with my keys, which were in the pocket of the jacket around my shoulders, he plucks them from my hand and unlocks it. Then unlocks my apartment door.

“Get in bed,” he says. “I’m going to take a picture and send it to Miles.”

I laugh. I highly doubt he’d do that—which is why I strip out of my dress on the way into my bedroom. The fishnets are under my shorts, so those will just have to stay. And the corset laces are making my eyes cross.

“Willow,” Knox calls.

I face him and flop backward on the bed. A giggle bursts out of me. Something flashes in my eyes, blinding for a second until I blink away the stars.

“Sleep it off,” he advises.

“No problemo,” I reply.