Brutal Obsession: A Dark Hockey Romance (Hockey Gods)

I wake up to my phone buzzing next to my face. I lift my head off the pillow and make out my mother’s name on the screen. My shock wakes me up a bit, and I swipe to answer it.

“Ah, so you are alive.” My voice is hoarse and rasping. About time she decided to check up about Mia Germain—it’s unlike her to curb her curiosity.

Well, I suppose it’s more like her nowadays, and I just hadn’t caught up to the new her. But she’s calling now, and that’s the important part. Right?

“You signed an NDA,” my mother hisses. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

I rear back from my phone. Not quite the response I was expecting.

“Um…” I scramble to catch up. Did Greyson release the video? I thought it was blackmail… I thought I did what he wanted. Panic stabs through me, ice-cold, and I throw the covers off my legs. The scar on my shin stands out in sharp relief against my pale skin. “Can you fill me in?”

“The Times . Look at the fucking Times .” She moans. “Oh, our lives are over. How could you do this to us?”

I don’t answer, putting her on speaker while I grab my laptop and type in the newspaper’s website. It’s a local Crown Point paper that runs print and digital. I think my mom gets their emails just in case I ever did anything impressive enough to warrant a screenshot—or, worse, for her to find a printed copy and carefully cut out the article or photo that mentioned me.

That was a lifetime ago, though.

Now, it’s Greyson’s picture that’s spread across the front page.

I scroll down, my heart in my throat. The headline says: Crown Point University’s rising hockey star has a torrid past.

I can’t breathe. Mom is still talking about how I’ve ruined us, how they’re going to come after both me and her. I tune her out and scan the article. It lays out an accusation without real evidence: that Greyson was involved in an accident, driving drunk, and it was swept under the rug.

“I didn’t do this,” I say weakly.

“Of course not,” Mom snaps. “That’s exactly what we’re going to say.”

The story goes on to talk about what happened to me. They found a photo of me outside the hospital in a walking boot. One I posted to my Instagram, if I’m not mistaken.

A chill goes through me. Did they do their research on me? Did they just look at my social media, or did they actually try to get in contact with me? It doesn’t seem like anyone wanted a quote. No missed calls or emails…

Farther down, there’s another photo of Greyson on the ice in his CPU jersey, skating along the wall. His expression is serious. The writer goes on to say how all is well in Crown Point, with his past transgressions seemingly swept under the rug.

It mentions us. Me and him. There’s a photo of us together, with Steele blurred out in the background. In his apartment? Who would have taken a picture of that?

I stare at the words on my screen, which go blurry after a minute. Violet and Greyson seem to have no problem moving on. Perhaps they agree that mutual destruction is the way to go. Either way, Crown Point citizens should know who they’re rooting for when Greyson Devereux steps on the ice every weekend.

“Are you still there?”

I flinch. “Yeah.”

“Well?”

“Um, sorry, I didn’t…” I clear my throat. “I’m not quoted. There’s no proof that I said anything at all—because I didn’t.”

Mom scoffs. “Of course not. I said, don’t talk to anyone. This is libel, and I’ll be contacting the newspaper immediately. This is absolutely ridiculous. To think, this piece had to be approved to go to print.”

My stomach drops. “It’s in print?”

“Front-page news,” she says, her tone conveying her continued disgust.

Oh god.

He’s going to kill me. He’s going to release the video that already proves I broke the NDA, and wrap it up with this article, and deliver both to his father. And then I’ll be well and truly fucked.

“Let me know.” I hit the end button, not bothering to say goodbye.

She’ll either make headway or she won’t. Simple as that. And until then, I’m not going to be seen in public. No chance of that. I can afford to miss my Monday classes exactly twice before I fall behind.

I can already picture how pissed Greyson is going to be and what he’ll do to retaliate. This was already a game to him, but it’s getting worse. The stakes are inching higher and higher, and I’m afraid I’m not going to like where he takes this.

The ball’s in his court… Or is it?

What if I act first, for once? What if I set the record straight with him and make him understand that I had nothing to do with this?

Before I can lose my nerve, I text him.

ME

This wasn’t me. I promise.

He texts back a second later.

GREYSON

I know.

I narrow my eyes. He knows?

Willow bursts into my room, her phone in her hand. “Violet—”

I motion to my computer, open on my lap, and make a face. “I got a call from mother dearest, accusing me of breaking the NDA.”

She gasps and comes to sit beside me. “You didn’t.”

“I know.” I narrow my eyes. “But someone obviously found out about it.”

She reels back. “You think I had something to do with it?”

Oh god. I grab her hand to keep her from getting too far. “Oh, hell no. Girl, my trust in you is absolute. But I’m wondering if Greyson mentioned anything to… someone else.”

Relief flows across her expression, quickly chased by confusion. “I doubt it. The whole point was to pretend it didn’t happen, right?”

“No chance of that,” I mutter.

Willow checks her phone again. “Wait.”

“What?”

“Screenshot the page,” she orders. “I think they just pulled it.”

I do, making sure to get the headline and all the images, too. I refresh the page, and the headline has been replaced by something else. An abandoned mall being converted into an indoor dog park later this year. I type in Greyson’s name into the search bar and get an error.

I meet Willow’s gaze. “How many people do you think saw that?”

She winces. “I found it because the headline and first image were in my inbox.”

Shit. Fuck.

No doubt that’s going to raise questions, whether or not they’re able to read the full article. Actually… at least that puts me in the clear. I’m not mentioned until the second half. But Greyson?

“His dad was in town last night,” she says.

I pause. “What?”

“His dad. The senator. They were photographed getting dinner together, hugging, the whole thing. The senator’s social media was making a big deal about visiting Crown Point to see the mayor and the president of CPU.”

“Protecting his investment. Isn’t he coming back for some charity thing next month, too?”

Willow grunts her affirmation. Paris had mentioned it—bragged about how her parents are coming in specifically for it.

I pace beside my bed. “Okay, so this article might’ve been planned for a while, or it could’ve been a spur-of-the-moment thing. All we know is that I didn’t say anything, and I can’t imagine Greyson would’ve either. Obviously.”

“Suspicious timing, for sure.”

I suck my lower lip between my teeth and think about everything that’s happened this semester. It just feels like everything is unraveling. Not just school but my life.

“Do you think it has to do with the break-in?”

Her face brightens, then falls. “What if it does? That’s fucking creepy.”

I grimace, then grab my phone again. I took a picture of my photo wall as evidence, and now I pull it up. The word whore is still harsh to read, but I block it out and zoom in on the prints.

“What are you looking for?” Willow rises on her knees and peers over my shoulder. “That’s awful, by the way. Still.”

“Yeah. I’m checking to see if there was a picture of my mom and I outside the hospital. It’s kind of like the one I posted on Instagram, but we’re both frowning in the one the paper used.” I shrug. “It’s just a hunch.”

“Did you have the frown printed out?”

I sag. “No idea.”

She chuckles and shakes her head. “Okay, Detective Reece. Let’s just… I mean, if it’s taken down, that’s not a bad thing. It’s actually probably good, they’ll just see the headline and the first paragraph in the email and think it’s… I don’t know, propaganda from a rival team or some shit. You know how everyone gets competitive when it gets close to the end of the regular season.”

Right. It’s barely seven o’clock in the morning—there’s a chance no one saw it.

Against my better judgment, I get ready for school with Willow. My muscles ache, and I find more than one bruise when I get dressed. I don’t particularly mind it. In fact, I think I like the reminder. I experiment by pressing on one of the bruises like Greyson probably would.

Never mind the bite marks he left on my neck and breast that have only just begun to fade.

The man is possessive with a capital P .

Anyway, we go to school, and all is fine for the first half of the day. Two people ask me about it, but I feign confusion and they leave it alone.

At lunch, Paris marches up to me with a scowl marring her face. She looks like hell—her makeup is full throttle, per usual, but it’s smudged. She needs another coat of gloss on her lips, and her hair has been hastily put up in a high ponytail.

Not bad, just not her style.

Clue number one that she’s pissed.

Willow makes a noise in the back of her throat.

Clue number two? She has what appears to be the photo they used of Greyson farther down in the article, of him on the ice, on her screen.

“How’d she get that?” I ask Willow out of the corner of my mouth.

We’ve been sitting at our table with Jess, Amanda, and a few other dance team girls for twenty minutes.

Paris gets closer, and her eyes laser into mine.

Belatedly, I realize she has a blue drink in her hand.

I’ve never seen her drink anything other than water or vodka—she’s on the clear liquid diet, she says—and I gulp.

“You bitch,” Paris snarls, stopping at the head of the table.

Then, in a fashion very similar to Greyson, she turns the cup over on my head.

The blue liquid crashes down over my hair, immediately soaking into my white graphic t-shirt. It’s ice-cold—actually, she did put ice in it. The cubes slide down my hair and under the collar of my shirt, catching in my bra and lap.

It’s so fucking cold, I can’t move for a moment.

The dining hall goes from loud to silent in an instant.

I stand slowly, brushing the ice chips and loose liquid off me. The faint plinks of the ice hitting the floor are the only noises.

“Obviously you have a problem with me,” I snap.

She sneers. “I wish I had half the balls you do, to be so bold and desperate as to try and hook up with my boyfriend—”

I whip my hand out before my reasoning can take over. My palm cracks against her cheek, and her head snaps to the side. My palm fucking stings, but I mask it. I can’t believe I just slapped her, but I’m so annoyed, I don’t have time to regret it.

“I’m so sick of your shit,” I tell her. “Now get the fuck out of my way.”

Paris turns back slowly, her eyes narrowing. I can see the thoughts that run through her head. She’s thinking of retaliation. She’s thinking through what the worst possible thing she can do to me is. Without another word, she pivots and stalks back the way she came.

She makes a beeline for the far corner of the room, where the hockey table sits.

My stomach knots.

“I didn’t see them,” Willow says, suddenly at my shoulder.

There’s a rustle of movement throughout the dining hall as people shift to watch where Paris is headed. Sure enough, she zeroes in on Greyson the same way she did to me. Minus the blue drink. Instead, she grabs the front of his shirt and slams her lips to his.

From our table, I have the perfect view.

It sears into my mind how he doesn’t push her away—he pulls her onto his lap. He kisses her like he should’ve kissed me last night. Their mouths open, and he dominates her. It’s clear in the way he holds her ass and her arm, in the way she gives in to him, even though she’s above him.

I’m going to be sick.

“Violet—”

“Don’t,” I whisper.

I have two options. I could run away, or I could walk out with my head held tall. Always with the dignity, I take my time grabbing my jacket and shrugging it on over my wet shirt. I flip my hair over my collar, ignoring the way the liquid still drips down my back.

I start to take my tray, but Amanda reaches out and covers my wrist.

“We got it,” she says.

My gaze lifts again. That’s the worst part. I actually look up and over at Greyson and Paris, who are still locked in an embrace.

But his eyes aren’t closed, and they’re not on her. He’s watching me out of the corner of his eye. We don’t have a conversation. It’s not like the movies where I can know what the fuck he’s thinking from his eyes, across the room, while he makes out with another girl.

Fuck no.

All I can hope is that I translate my anger.

This isn’t over. I thought I was doing the right thing by telling him I didn’t have a part in it. I’ve been continually pushed into the dirt by him, over and over and over.

No more.

This is the straw that breaks my back.

I won’t be that person who caves to pressure. No fucking way. Under the right circumstances, pressure can turn coal into a diamond—and that’s exactly what I’ll become.

Tougher than he could ever imagine. Stronger, too.

I take one last look at Willow and mouth an apology. My phone is safe in my jacket pocket, and I take a deep breath. No one makes a noise as I stride toward the exit.

I don’t know if they can feel my energy. How I’ve accepted that this is happening, and while it’s so far from okay it isn’t funny… I can handle it.

But then someone claps. I wonder if it’s Willow, spitting mad at Greyson and cheering me on the way she can. It’s contagious, though. The whole dining hall just saw a spectacle they weren’t expecting, and now they’re picking me over him.

They nod at me.

I nod back.

More clapping. It follows me out the door. Not everyone, of course. Not the people who think, for some crazy reason, that I’m the one coming between Greyson and Paris, or Greyson and hockey. It takes me by surprise that people support me at all. He’s the hotshot, he’s the one who’s going to bring the school a hockey championship.

But I’m the one who’s been here longer.

Maybe that matters to some of them.

I make it all the way outside before I let my expression drop.