Brutal Obsession: A Dark Hockey Romance (Hockey Gods)

I have the briefest warning of my father’s arrival. My phone chirps with a social media alert that I set up forever ago, which pings when his location changes. Well, when his secretary checks him into specific cities.

It’s how I used to keep tabs on him without reaching out. When I was alone in a big, empty house with nothing to do, I could check and see where he was. Nebraska, California, Edinburgh, Dubai. The man traveled overseas a lot—especially for someone who is supposed to be a New York senator.

I’d like to think that it’s his fault I turned out the way I did. Because I was rotting of boredom as a teenager, I sought out my own thrills. I found parties, and if there weren’t any? I created them.

He always gave me access to a credit card that he paid monthly without blinking, as long as I didn’t surpass the high limit, and I knew the combination to the safe where he kept an array of valuables: cash and firearm included.

Anyway, it pings that his private jet just landed in Crown Point, and I scramble to make my room presentable. I hide the photo album in with my textbooks, run downstairs, and shove dishes and cups into the dishwasher. I even get through sweeping half of the lower level when my phone goes off again.

This time with a phone call.

“Hello?”

“Greyson? It’s Martha.”

Dad’s long-time, aforementioned secretary. I didn’t mention that she’s only recently crossed the line into lover. His excuse? We can’t all be saints.

I let the silence fill the call.

She clears her throat. “Your father is in town. He’s meeting with the university president and the mayor, and then he wants to see you for dinner.”

I open my mouth to answer, then close it. It’s not a request, that’s for fucking sure. He didn’t even have the nerve to call and tell me himself.

This is a publicity stunt.

Dinner with the rising hockey star—never mind that I already was a hockey star at Brickell. People tend to gloss over that when my past is littered with slander. And trust me, those articles still exist. They’re buried, and they don’t come up on regular searches. My father pulled way too many fucking strings to give the illusion that scandal didn’t rock our family.

“A car will pick you up at six,” she finally says.

“Okay.”

She makes a noise, like she fucking won something. And maybe she did by getting me to answer. I don’t know what she thinks of me, and I don’t really give a shit. Who knows what my father told her, or the opinions she formed on her own.

I’ve only met her a handful of times.

I gather my swept pile and throw it out, then head back upstairs to make myself presentable. Erik is making noise in the basement—a loud, violent video game, judging by the sounds drifting up—and the other guys aren’t home. As soon as I close my door, the noise fades.

Once I’m clean, I text Violet.

ME

I want to see you later

My phone stays silent for too long. The seconds tick past, and I stare down at the screen. I haven’t seen her in two days—too long. Sundays are our only day without practice, which means most of the hockey team does absolutely nothing. I spent the morning at the gym, then I lounged around and caught up on homework.

But I want to know what Violet is doing.

I want to know what she’s thinking and wearing and where she is.

Finally, the bubble pops up that she’s typing.

VI

I’m busy later.

That’s not acceptable.

ME

Make time.

I’ll make it worth your while.

I drop my phone on the bed and finish getting dressed. A button-down shirt that my dad expects, the silver chain he got me when I turned twenty. Black slacks and dress shoes—it’s an outfit I’d wear to go to a game. They always demand a certain way of presenting ourselves. The professional vibe.

You never know when a recruiter is watching.

VI

Fine. If you can find me, you can see me.

I perk up at the text. Immediately, blood rushes to my cock. It stiffens against my zipper. There’s a certain thrill that comes with a hunt. And that’s exactly what this feels like: she’s the prey and I’m the predator, forever trying to get her ensnared.

Eventually, she won’t be able to run from me.

The urge to track her down right now is strong. I force myself to remain in my room, to lie back and go still. It’s an exercise in patience that I usually don’t excel in. The quiet is too much of a reminder of my childhood.

As a compromise, I open my Instagram and search her name. It doesn’t take too long to find her account. There’s one photo of her standing in front of the Beacon Hill hospital, her left leg encased in a black walking boot. Her dress hangs over it, stopping at her knees. A woman who looks startlingly similar to her, with more creases around her eyes and mouth. There’s a garish smear of red across her lips, and her hair seems more expensive than Violet’s wardrobe.

For the first time, it occurs to me that she might be poor. Even though her mom tends to be made of flashy things—or maybe she does that in spite of their financial situation. Because Violet drove a shitty car, and she’s lived in the same apartment with a roommate for years, and she never seems to wear anything new or crazy.

Maybe she’s chosen this lifestyle because there were no other options. Because of a selfish mother?

Whatever it is, I want to know every little thing about her.

The thought irritates me.

I keep scrolling.

There’s a video of her and Willow at a dance team competition. I pull the screen closer, searching for her in the throng of girls. They all wear the same thing: royal-blue tank tops, black booty shorts, blue-and-white knee-high socks under white sneakers. Their hair is all in high ponytails, slicked back and tied with blue-and-white ribbons.

It doesn’t take me too long to find her—she’s front and center, after all. The girls move around her, letting her take the lead. My mouth waters. She flips and twirls, then scoots backward to let other girls take the spotlight.

I scroll to the next one. A professional photo of her in a ballet leotard, mid-leap. The sort of image that could easily be in a magazine. Her muscles all stand in perfect relief, her limbs extended so it looks like she’s floating. Her expression is peaceful.

No sign of the physical strain that must take.

Not even her eyes show it. I zoom in to make sure, studying her relaxed lips, her jawline.

My erection comes roaring back. What is it about Violet Reece that makes me so fucking hard? Paris certainly didn’t get that response from me, and her mouth was on my cock. No other girl at CPU has so much as put a dent in my fixation on Violet.

If only I’d known about her sooner.

She was in my hometown. We might’ve even crossed paths.

I keep scrolling, trying to figure out where she went. I would’ve noticed a girl like her, wouldn’t I?

I didn’t, though. That’s the thing. But now that I have, I can’t get her out of my fucking mind. The slope of her nose and curve of her cheeks, her blue eyes, her blonde hair. She has curves now, more than when she danced. Her hips are padded, her belly soft. It’s fucking attractive.

The next few are photo dumps of her and her friends over the school year. Her and Willow with their cheeks pressed together, grinning at the camera. Her and Jack, his arm looped over her shoulder. I swipe past that one angrily.

And even worse when I get to the last one in that grouping. His lips are pressed to hers.

Besides that, there are only a few other recent posts. I get so far back, I watch a video of her and Willow opening their acceptance letters to CPU at the same time. There’s hesitation when they both unfold the paper and scan it, their anticipation and nerves visible even to me. Then the realization that they both got in.

I let out a sharp exhale. I was happy to go to Brickell, sure. It was a good school, and the hockey coach had come to watch me play a few games for Emery-Rose Elite. But I didn’t have that jump-for-joy excitement that Violet has with her best friend. I thought I’d made it in terms of success, but… now I’m questioning it.

And then my success turned out to be an epic failure.

My alarm goes off, and I splash water on my face, then head downstairs. Right on time, the doorbell rings.

“Who’s that?” Erik asks, coming around the corner. He sees what I’m wearing, and his brows hike. “Now I’m more intrigued.”

I roll my eyes and smooth my shirt. “I’m being summoned.”

He grunts, and jealousy flares in his eyes. “By Coach?”

“By my miserable fuck of a father,” I reply. I yank the door open.

The driver my father’s skank sent smiles at me. “Mr. Devereux—”

I stalk past him, down the concrete steps and walkway. He scurries after me, leaving the house door open, and makes it to the car just a moment before I do. I climb into the back seat, right where he probably wants me, and give him a bland expression when he drops his arms to his sides.

Poor guy. He’s probably been catering to my father—or politicians like him—his whole career. The car is nice and clean. There are mini water bottles in a polished black cup holder in the center armrest. I take one and crack it open, bringing it to my lips. The driver finally shuts my door and returns to his seat.

I smirk to myself and tip my head back.

We go past the campus, to an upscale restaurant on the water. Crown Point got its name for the point it comes to, like the centerpiece of an actual crown. A lake spreads out below it, but it’s the cliff that’s truly impressive.

Perfect for jumping—which is exactly what the hockey team did as a sort of initiation and bonding experience at the beginning of the year.

Swimming back to a spot where we could easily climb out was a bitch, and hiking back to our clothes was even worse. But, whatever. The drop was exhilarating.

Now it’s cold. An icy wind travels off the water and up.

The car rolls to a stop outside the restaurant, and I spot my father through the glass. His secretary isn’t with him.

He probably wants to have a little chat about how things are going, and as much as he likes her, he doesn’t trust anyone except himself.

I get that from him.

The driver opens my door, and I blink. Shocked that I actually let myself get so focused on him that I forgot to get out.

“Thanks.” I slide a twenty-dollar bill into his palm, then stride inside with my game face in place.

Smile. Charm.

Everything a politician’s son needs.

The host takes me to my father’s table, and the latter rises on my approach. I hesitate, unsure what he wants. A handshake? A hug? In a split second, I understand. The latter—all for the show. I should’ve known.

His arms wrap around my shoulders, and he pats my back hard enough to leave prints on my skin. He smiles widely and gestures for me to take a seat. He’s all show, and I’m hyperaware that we’re in the center of a well-lit room. There’s an awareness here that sticks to my skin, like eyes on us for the wrong reasons.

I don’t know why he’s in town. His true motivation, I mean, beyond meeting with the president of the school and whoever else the secretary mentioned. There’s always an ulterior motive when it comes to my father.

“How has Crown Point University been treating you?” he asks.

I tilt my head. “Fine…”

I didn’t see him over winter break. He was in California, schmoozing with the governor and his wife, while I was here. A world away. Training and pretending it didn’t matter that I was celebrating Christmas alone.

“The president says you’re an excellent addition to the hockey team.” He appraises me, steepling his fingers in front of him. His elbows on the table. “I have to wonder if that’s all you do.”

I bristle. “It’s one of my main areas of focus, yes.”

“Because…?”

“I’d like to play for the NHL.” I narrow my eyes. “Why?”

He looks a bit like me. Gray hair, because polls say that people trust men more when they show their age in their hair. Smooth skin from routine Botox appointments—because polls say that people don’t actually want their politicians to look old—and manicured eyebrows. Everything is a fabrication, right down to his spray-tanned skin.

It’s like leather against his white shirt.

Still, there are hints of similarity. The color of our eyes, for example. The square jaw. Even our noses. I pulled some features from my mother, like her dark-blonde hair, her fair skin, her smile. Maybe that’s why Dad wrinkles his nose in disgust whenever I show happiness.

“You need to set more reasonable expectations,” he says. “There are a lot of eyes on us. Voters haven’t quite forgiven us for your mess-up.”

Ah. I knew he’d cut to the chase sooner or later, but I am surprised it’s this. His own stupid political campaign.

“What are you saying?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “There’s a reporter sniffing around. Picked up the story by dogging the local police for a scoop, and some rookie gave him a soundbite to run with. Pointed him in the direction of the junkyard that took the cars.” He waves his hand, then busies himself with the silverware.

I watch, dumbfounded, as he shakes out his napkin. The fabric snaps before billowing down to his lap. He straightens his wine glass, the water glass.

“I’m taking care of it,” he adds.

An afterthought.

“What does that mean?”

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from fidgeting. He’s always hated my desire to move. Still waters run deep , he used to tell me. As if to insinuate that if I move too quickly, I can’t have a single complex thought or emotion.

“The reporter won’t find anything.” Dad smiles at me. “Your grades are good?”

Another question to tick off his checklist.

I nod along. “Yep. Straight A’s last semester.”

“And this one?”

“Should maintain the four-point-zero just fine.” Probably.

I lean back and kick my legs out, taking another look around the room. I clock a journalist—probably one hired by my father to document the father-son bonding time—and Dad’s security at a separate table. Their gazes are alert, too, as they scout for signs of trouble.

“Good, good.” Dad checks his phone, then looks up.

A waiter approaches with food, quickly setting it down in front of us. Food I didn’t order. Grilled salmon, asparagus, coconut rice. I lean down and sniff it, my stomach already turning. I haven’t eaten fish since I was seven. Coconut irritates my skin, makes me break out in hives. The smell does something to me, too, because the churning in my gut doesn’t ease.

Dad has steak and mashed potatoes, broccoli covered in a glazed sauce and sesame seeds. He glances over at me and frowns. “I ordered for us. Hope you don’t mind, it seemed you were running late.”

I wasn’t, but I don’t bother arguing. Or pointing out his failure to know my food preferences.

He’d have to actually share more than five meals with me over the last year for that to happen.

I pick at the salmon and cut the asparagus carefully, avoiding the coconut rice. I divide the green stalks into small, manageable pieces, and shove them into my mouth one at a time. I watch Dad devour his steak like he’s never had anything better, while I take gulps of water between each small bite of salmon.

Finally, our meal comes to an end. My father finishes his wine and food, and I’ve messed my plate up enough to look like I put a dent in all of it. He pats his mouth with his napkin and slips the waiter his card.

Once the receipt comes back, he signs it with a flourish. He rises, and I mirror him. We walk to the door together, and he hugs me again. It’s one of those things that I wish I could duck out of, because he doesn’t deserve this publicity. Maybe he sees it on my face because he grips me harder.

Out of the corner of my eye, a camera flash pops . Capturing our engineered moment.

His mouth presses against my ear. “You fucking owe me, kid. The least you can do is look happy to see your old man once a quarter. Now smile.”

I smile on autopilot as we step back. I offer my hand, and he shakes it once. His fingers are cool and dry, not a callous on him, and he squeezes once. There’s another flash of a camera. Then, I’m free.

I take a step back and watch him get into the car. I catch a blur of pink fabric and know Martha’s already inside, waiting out of sight. The driver closes them in, encasing them in a tinted glass bubble, and I remain on the sidewalk. I slip my hands into my pockets, and I watch them pull away from the curb. I ignore the reporter who lingers in my peripheral.

No part of me wishes tonight had ended differently, because my thoughts are already turning to Violet. Where would she be?

The better question: where would she think I wouldn’t find her?

I mull that over and start walking. I unbutton the top of my shirt and crack my neck. Already, I can see Crown Point in my mind and start to piece together more of what I know about Violet. Anticipation licks at my skin. I’m eager to begin the hunt.

She doesn’t know it yet, but this is my favorite sport.