Brutal Obsession: A Dark Hockey Romance (Hockey Gods)

Violet, Violet, Violet.

I can smell her sweet, floral scent in my room, like she rubbed herself along my walls, my sheets. There’s no imprint. No sign of her at all except for the smell. Something I don’t think I could concoct in my imagination.

I sit on my bed and inhale again, not wanting to exhale.

My father calls me. I consider sending it to voicemail, but the last time I did that, he showed up at my game.

Him . At a game.

I haven’t seen him witness me play in years, let alone speak to me after the fact. It probably has something to do with our clashing reputations. Can a beloved senator really have a bloodthirsty hockey player for a son?

Since our next game is at home, I don’t want to risk that. Coach Roake acted like he walked on water, and I was once again reminded of the complex power my father holds. It goes far beyond his domain of New York.

I don’t know if there’s a place his influence can’t reach.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Greyson,” he greets me. Brisk and businesslike, even though it’s nine o’clock at night. “How was practice?”

“Good.” It’s a reflex to answer that way. I was distracted, so… not so good.

“Really? Because I got a call tonight, informing me that my son was almost thrown off the ice.”

Oh, that. Well, Erik should really keep his fucking trap shut when it comes to Violet. He made some passing comment about her, and I went off the deep end. I’m sure as hell not admitting that to my father, though.

“If it’s team trouble, you need to clear that up by the weekend.”

Obviously. “We got it sorted,” I lie.

Unlike Violet, I actually know how to lie. Well enough to trick my father to his face? Probably not. But the phone is a barrier that makes it easier to pull the wool over his eyes. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

“That Reece girl is leaving you alone?”

I cringe and almost drop my phone. “Um…”

“I haven’t seen the merit of hockey,” he continues. “But I have several donors who are following your game closely. We’re planning on attending the tournament finals in April—so your team better be there. Roake mentioned that some teams have been scouting you?”

I’m suffering from a case of mental whiplash. From Violet to donors to scouts.

“Yes. A few have come to speak with Coach and me after the games.”

He hums. “Good, good.”

“Why did you ask about Violet?”

He hesitates.

I stand suddenly, my stomach twisting. Violet. Donors. Scouts. “What did you do, Dad?”

“I’m not talking about this.” He harrumphs. “You focus on playing well for Crown Point University, son, because the real world will kick you in the nutsac if you’re not ready for it.”

Great imagery. “I’m ready.”

“Prove it by focusing on what’s important.” He pauses. “Hockey. Your grades. That’s it.”

He did something. I can feel it in my gut—but he’s not going to fess up to it.

“Oh, and Greyson?”

I stop myself from hanging up on him.

“You’ll be home next week. Spring break. We’re celebrating.” He sounds… pleased with himself. “I’ll send a car.”

A car to take me on a five-hour drive back to my hometown of Rose Hill. Me and a driver and nothing but awkward silence—and music, if we’re lucky. Sometimes they play shitty stuff, or my headphones get stowed in the trunk by accident.

I find myself nodding, wondering what I can do to get out of it. I don’t need to go home—it isn’t like I live in a dorm that’s closing. CPU actually doesn’t offer that much on-campus housing. I’d bet most of the students will be sticking around for the week-long break.

“Sounds great,” I agree, mainly to not suffer an argument. Another one. My gaze swings over my bookcase… and the hole in the neat row of spines. My heart stops. “I’ve got to go,” I manage. “Homework.”

“Get to it.” The line goes dead before I can hang up. If there’s one thing my father is skilled at, it’s having the last word.

But that doesn’t matter.

I stand and cross to the shelves, running my fingers over the spines. Books I personally stacked. One in the center leans across a gap, resting on its neighbor.

A missing piece.

And there’s only one thing that’s worth going missing.

Nausea snakes through me.

I smelled her . I knew she was in here. I knew and I didn’t think to inspect every inch of it. I was distracted. But now I’m not. Now I know she was here for one thing, and one thing only: to steal the last memorabilia from my mother.

Dad eradicated her from our lives when she left.

And then she died a year later, alone in a hospital room. She didn’t want to tell him about the cancer. And in turn, I never got to say goodbye.

By the time we found out—by the time her family clued us in—she had been dead a week.

We missed the tiny funeral out on Long Island. They spread her ashes into the Atlantic Ocean from a small fishing boat. Dad had already removed evidence of her from his house. He took down the pictures that hung on the wall, donated or tossed the clothes and jewelry she left behind. Without her physically being here. And then she was just… gone. Like she had never even existed at all.

So the photos in that book are the last pieces of her.

Without them, I fear I’ll forget her face. Her voice is already a distant memory. Her smile, her fake-serious expression when she caught me doing something I shouldn’t, and she was doing her best not to burst into giggles… those stick. Her laugh, too. I hope I never forget them.

I slide my feet back into my shoes and grab my keys. I blow by Knox and Miles and storm outside. I should be tired. Physically. But the photo album missing has given me a second wind, and I pull up my app to find Violet.

Last time I had her phone, I gave myself access to her location.

Good thing, too, because she’s not at home. At this hour?

Not on campus either.

I zoom in, but I’m not too familiar with where she is. I don’t really give a fuck, though. It doesn’t matter where she is—she’s going to give me that photo album back. Immediately.

It’s close enough to walk, so I do. And I find myself outside an old brick building, her little blue dot on the map showing me that she’s still here. The front door, which opens onto a long, narrow hall, is unlocked. I step inside and keep my weight evenly distributed. I move silently. The first door I come to reveals what seems to be a dance studio. It’s dark, but the light from the hallway shows the bars along the wall and one full wall of mirrors. There’s a piano in the corner, too.

I bypass it for the next.

Light and music spill out of the third and final one.

I stop just shy of it and peer into the opening. Piano music fills the room, and there she is, at the center. Only one row of fluorescent lighting is on, casting the edges of the room in shadow. She wears pointe shoes—I’m pretty sure anyway—and is balanced on one leg, pointed straight into the floor. Impossibly streamlined. Her other is bent, and she spins gracefully around.

Then she bends forward at the waist, and her bent leg comes up behind her. She’s still balancing on her toe but comes down slowly. She folds out of that pose and flows into another one. Her gaze is locked on herself in the mirror.

She wears athletic shorts and a cropped top, and it paints every muscle in sharp relief. The harsh lights and shadows help give her a dangerously fragile appearance. Like that of a bird about to take flight.

The music pauses and loops, the piece beginning again.

Violet seamlessly moves into a dance, and I don’t know if she’s making it up as she goes or if this is a piece of old choreography that she’s clinging on to… either way, I’m ensnared.

Which is the last thing I want to be.

When I blink, I see her in the car again. Broken and bleeding.

Then I blink again, and I see the arc of the crowbar coming down on Jack’s knee.

Again, and Violet is up against a tree.

Again, and she’s in my car, blood welling up on her thigh.

I shake my head to dislodge those images.

The violence I crave versus the woman dancing before me.

“I see you,” she says. Her head whips around with each spin, up on her toe. She turns breathtakingly fast, but she doesn’t lose balance.

Not until I step into the room.

Then she falters.

“Afraid?”

She narrows her eyes. “No.”

The music loops again.

“What’s playing?”

“It’s the ‘Moonlight Sonata.’ The first movement.” She tilts her head. “How did you find me?”

I tap my chin, pretending to think while I step closer. I circle to her right, away from the mirrors. She turns, keeping me in her sights. Smart girl, to think that she’s in danger right now. I want her against the mirrors, I want her on the floor. I want to rip through the thin fabric of her shorts and make her walk home half-naked.

I want her humiliation and I want her pain.

But most of all, I want to know where my photo album is.

“You took something from me,” I say.

She smiles.

Smiles .

Goddamn, she’s beautiful.

“I know.”

I narrow my eyes. “I suppose you would.”

She sinks gracefully to the floor and begins to undo the ribbons around her ankles. “Whatever you want to do to me… I may as well take these off. They’re too expensive for you to ruin.”

“But your body isn’t?” I focus in on her, my lips curling.

Yes , something in the back of my mind hisses. Ruin her for anyone else .

“My body will heal.” She meets my eyes. “Unless you’re planning on breaking me again.”

I smile, too. I can’t help it. “When I break you, it won’t be your leg. Or your ribs. Or your vocal cords. It’s your mind I’m after, Violet. Your mind and your soul, because that black heart that beats behind your ribcage? That already belongs to me .”

I thump my chest.

She starts and rises, newly barefoot. Still graceful, even afraid.

Oh, the adrenaline. Another shot, better than a drug, flows through me. I inhale. She smells the same, floral and sweet, with an undercurrent of sweat. When I catch her, I’ll lick it from between her breasts. Between her legs, too.

There’s no part of her that’s safe from me.

And she knows it, judging from the way she’s suddenly trembling.

I raise my eyebrow. “What are you waiting for, Violet? You know this game.”

Still, she waits.

For me to give the order? For me to announce which version of the game we’re playing?

The one with no safe words. No protection.

It’s about time we stripped away those barriers.

I lean against the mirrors and fold my arms over my chest. She’s breathing hard, although I’m not sure if she realizes it. Her chest rises and falls rapidly. It’s an elixir I didn’t know I needed, so I open my mouth and give the only order she’ll listen to.

“Run.”

There must be something about this time that makes her believe it’ll be different, because she doesn’t hesitate. She leaves everything behind—her precious pointe shoes, her phone and bag in the corner.

She bolts out the door, and I count to five in my head. I pull my sweatshirt off and drop it to the floor next to her shoes. I crack my neck and roll my shoulders back, taking a deep breath.

Then I chase.

The door to the street is just closing when I hit it. It slams open, loud in the quiet night. I spot her on the sidewalk, booking it away from me, but the noise makes her flinch. I break into a run after her.

I’m faster.

It won’t be long before I catch her, unless I toy with my food before I devour her…

She must step on a stone, because she suddenly stumbles. I purposefully slow, letting her feel my hand graze her back. If I had wanted to stop her, I could’ve. But she lets out a frightened yelp and puts on a burst of speed.

She knows this chase is different.

Last time, she went toward the woods. She wanted to be concealed when I fucked her. This time… this time, I’m not going to take her where I catch her. As much as I want to, I’m not going to ruin this experience for us.

We’re at the edge of the neighborhood when I run out of patience. The cat-and-mouse game can only last so long, and I’ve already suffered through Coach’s practice. My hair is still damp from my shower at the stadium.

She’s been yards ahead of me, but now it’s feet. Then inches.

I don’t want to tackle her, so I grab her hair instead. I wind the soft strands through my fingers and guide her into a slower run, easing her back toward me.

She whirls around and shoves me—more fight that I would’ve expected, sure, but I’m delighted at the turn of events. Doesn’t matter what she does, though. If she claws at me, if she goes for my face. I’ve got one focus: her pretty little throat.

I wrap both hands around it, ignoring the way she pushes and grabs at my wrists. I pull her close to me and squeeze. Not her airway but her pulse. I want to feel it slow under my fingers. I want to know the moment she loses consciousness. We’re just outside one of the streetlights. I’m in shadow to her, backlit, but her angel face is crystal clear.

Her mouth opens and closes. Maybe she’s trying to tell me that she’s done, that I’m pushing too far. There’s no stopping this. There’s no stopping me .

Her fingers slip from my wrists, and her eyes roll back. She goes limp, and I quickly capture her falling body.

She’s right: this isn’t like before. I’m not going to fuck her until she comes or any such nonsense as that. We’re going to get right to the point.

This is an interrogation.