Devious Obsession: A Dark Hockey Romance (Hockey Gods)

My uncle is waiting outside Steele’s house. I climb in without comment, securing the seat belt around me and folding my arms over my chest. I feel… raw. I walked out without shoes, without my clothes. Steele’s sweatpants are baggy around my legs, even my waist. He really is bigger all the way around, and that should make me feel good about myself.

But instead, I just feel sick.

“You want to talk about it?” Uncle asks.

“No.”

“Because it looks like things are spiraling.” He glances at me, then taps the lid of the coffee cup in the holder. “This is for you.”

I lift it and wrap both hands around it, savoring the warmth.

The sun is setting, the sky a wash of cotton-candy colors. The clock on the dash says it’s almost six o’clock. My stomach growls, and Uncle’s jaw tics.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t go back and kill that boy.”

I hesitate, although the thought makes me nauseous. “Because he’s…”

If I say he’s an O’Brien, he’ll look into him. Find the rumors around campus, sure, but also that we’re stepsiblings. And wouldn’t that be a fun explanation to my mother about how Dad found her location?

If I say he’s just some boy, that’s not really an excuse at all to stop Uncle from doing exactly what he wants.

“He’s important to me,” I end lamely.

He sighs. “Because his father is married to your mother?”

I glance sharply at him. “Who said that?”

“The marriage license I dug up in Vegas.”

“Because my father—”

“No, Aspen, because I wanted to make sure your mother wasn’t being an idiot. Again.” He shakes his head and turns into a diner. “At least she never married your father,” he adds under his breath.

I can’t help but agree.

Once parked, he reaches behind my seat and grabs a pair of flip-flops. He sets them on my lap, and I stare at the cheap, dark-blue plastic. A few sizes too big for me, but whatever. I slip them on and follow him inside.

My footsteps thwack against the pavement, up the steps, and down the linoleum-tiled floors to a booth at the end of a long row. He takes the seat to see the rest of the diner, and I slide in across from him.

A waitress comes by with menus and takes our drink order—coffee for him, hot chocolate for me—and leaves again.

“Your daddy and I aren’t speaking at the moment,” Uncle says. “He’s made some moves in Chicago that no one is happy with. It’s why he gave me the cash… and an explanation. Said he’d only be able to make things right if he had his family back together.”

Another chill goes through me. “That doesn’t make sense. Who did he piss off? And how can family help?”

Uncle pins me with a hard stare. “The mob, darlin’. Only people in this world you should fear are the ones with no fear, themselves. And your father lacks any inhibition at all. As proven with what he’d done to you.”

I reach for the silverware in the rolled napkin. Just so I can have something to do with my hands. “He’s on the run?”

“Something like that.”

I meet his eyes. “Is he coming here?”

“Here or to your mother…”

“That’s why you haven’t left yet.” I frown. “You said I was safe from him.”

Uncle was going to Boston. Then New York City. But instead, he’s still here in Crown Point. Which at this rate, I’m not not thrilled about. Having someone watch my back feels a little better than being completely alone, or relying on my roommate…

He inclines his chin.

“How did you know where I was?”

Uncle shrugs. “You’ve got a boy who won’t quit tormenting you. It was common sense.”

Yeah, I guess so.

The waitress returns with our mugs, and Uncle orders enough food for four people. All breakfast food.

Wait.

“It’s six o’clock at night, right?”

He raises an eyebrow. “What makes you say that?”

“B-because otherwise…”

“You lost a whole day.” He glances out the window. “Sunrise is such a peaceful time.”

Sure enough, the damn sky is getting lighter.

Fuck.

“Stress can do that to a person,” he adds. “Too much sleep, I mean. If that’s what you were doing.”

He gestures to my wrists again, and I lift them for both of us to see the red marks. I bore those marks a lot when I was a kid, but Mom always insisted that I just wore those hair ties too much. She made a lot of excuses for my father out of fear.

“I slept some,” I admit. “After.”

Uncle’s expression darkens. “You going to tell me what he did to you?”

Because when Uncle found out what my father was doing, he damn near put my mother through a wall. I still remember their hushed, angry conversation. About how she could be so blind, so ignorant. It wasn’t until he pointed out that he could do it to my sisters that she freaked out. And we were gone a few weeks later.

“No.” I pull my leg up, hooking my arm around it. “But his dad withdrew funding for my education. I owe for next semester if I want to continue at Crown Point. I’ve got to figure that out… but I want to give you that cash back. I can’t accept it.”

Uncle sighs.

“That’s why you’re here,” I say, repeating my conclusion from earlier. “Because he stole that money from the mob. Right?”

Sometimes, monsters are about people.

Sometimes, monsters try to do what’s best for their blood.

“Yes,” he confirms. “Because I can’t save your mother, and she’d want me to look out for you.”

I shiver. Deep down, I know that my uncle cares more about my mother than he’d ever admit to himself—or her. It’s more than a brotherly love. It’s soul deep. And it makes my chest ache, because I’ll be damned if I ever find myself in that position. Forced to watch the man I love endure a marathon of abuse and trauma and still not choose me. Or maybe… maybe Mom just can’t choose him because of who he is.

Does she look at Uncle and see my dad?

“Don’t go pouting, darlin’.” Uncle sighs. “It’s just a fact of life.”

The waitress delivers our food, and we don’t bother divvying up the plates. We have our forks and we attack everything. My hunger comes back with a roar, and I can see the relief in my uncle’s eyes that I’m not so scarred as to have lost my appetite.

What Steele did to me was… terrible. Hard. Hurtful. But he wouldn’t know about my past, about my limits, because we never talked about it. And foolishly, I made it seem like I was all sunshine and rainbows. There’s some desperate part of me that wants him to know these things, and for him to understand that just because I couldn’t handle that, doesn’t mean I won’t handle him.

Fuck.

When did I start wanting to handle him at all?

Because he can make me come with his tongue and doesn’t seem put off by my curves—in fact, he might argue that they’re a plus—and he’s so fucking possessive, it actually makes me smile.

“Aspen?”

I crane around and find Thalia coming down the aisle. She slips into the booth with me and throws her arms around my shoulders.

A lump forms in my throat.

“I’m okay,” I assure her. I hug her back. “How’d you know—”

“Cillian texted.” Her cheeks pinken. “He suggested that I come join you.”

I raise my eyebrow at my uncle. It’s unlike him—to put it nicely—to invite an outsider to join us. Not that I don’t trust Thalia, because I do. I just haven’t told her my dad’s side of the family history, including what my uncle does for work. Plus, she’s calling him by his first name? Not many people get that honor. Everyone has always called him Monroe.

“Well, I’m glad you’re here,” I tell her.

The waitress comes by to clear some plates. There’s enough food left for Thalia, and she picks at some of the pancakes smothered in syrup. The waitress brings more coffee for Uncle, plus another mug for Thalia.

I sit back, angling in the corner to see both of them.

“I’m sorry for worrying you,” I say to Thalia. And really, to both of them.

Her brows furrow. “You’re sorry? For Steele literally kidnapping you out of our apartment and holding you hostage? That’s not your fault, Asp. Like—that’s bordering on criminal—”

“One could say it is criminal,” Uncle interjects with a frown. “Were you free to leave?”

I bite my lip and shake my head.

His jaw tics again. “Give me one reason, Aspen.”

One reason not to go back and murder him? I reach across the table and grab his hand. I pull it toward me so I can put both my hands on his. His fingers curl, our palms pressing together. His hands are calloused, rough from work. The opposite of mine.

I’ve hardly done anything with my life, except play the freaking piano.

“Because I’m not…” I shake my head. “It’s just our thing.”

“Your thing,” Thalia repeats.

“We push at each other.” I eye my uncle, careful to word this in a way that won’t send him flying off the handle. “We like to hurt. But usually with limits.”

His eyes light with understanding, and I withdraw again. Message received. Whatever notions he has about my life, and what it should be, we can agree that my past has fucked up my future.

And sometimes that means doing extreme things in pursuit of happiness.

“How’s the piano?” Uncle asks.

I smile. “I’m going to apply to orchestras. If I can’t afford the tuition for next year, then I need to get a jump on my career—”

“Use the money.” Uncle frowns. “I’ll deal with the fallout.”

My smile fades. “I won’t do that.”

He exhales but thankfully drops the subject.

When we’re done, he pays and motions for both of us to follow him. Thalia must’ve caught a ride or walked—we’re not far from campus—because she doesn’t hesitate to climb in the backseat of Uncle’s car.

“Where are your clothes?” she whispers to me before Uncle gets in.

I stifle my sigh. “No idea.”

“Oh my god,” she groans and leans back. “I don’t know how you’re not wanting to kill him.”

Uncle, now in his seat and slamming his door, glances back at her. “Your friend has the right idea, Aspen.”

I shake my head. “I think I just want to go home. Please.”

That scraped-out feeling returns. Food helped. The company helped. But now, as we lapse back into silence, the darkness creeps back in.

Still. I ignore it as Uncle parks on the curb and follows us inside, making himself at home on the couch. I go right into the bathroom and lock the door. I turn the water on as hot as it’ll go. Some therapist in high school once said burning-hot showers were a way of self-harm, but… in this case, I feel like it’s warranted.

Anyway.

I shower until I feel somewhat human again. My room is just as I left it. Well, except I left when Violet was sleeping in it—and luckily, she’s not still in it. That would be weird.

It appears that she changed my sheets and made the bed. My phone is on the charger, and I open it to a slew of messages from yesterday morning. When they realized I was gone, but before they found my phone?

A new message comes through as I’m holding it.

STEELE

Our parents are going to my New York game. You’re coming, too.

Bossy.

Are they done traveling Europe? I hadn’t heard anything…

ME

Is that a question, or…?

STEELE

No.

ME

Your tone is a little off-putting. I’ll pass.

STEELE

Either get on the fan bus with some friends, or I’ll hogtie you and leave you to ride in cargo with our bags.

Your choice.

I gape at my phone, then toss it down.

He’s infuriating.

I get dressed quickly and find my binder of music. I’m skipping classes today—but I think I’m in need of some music therapy.

My uncle rises from the couch when I enter the living room.

“You should consider moving,” he says. “At the very least.”

I shake my head. ‘There’s no place that’s going to rent for a semester.”

He watches me.

“It’s fine.”

“I’m changing your locks,” he adds.

Well… that’s not a bad idea. Better than continuing to give Steele unfettered access to my apartment, to me.

I face him. “I should just… keep being a college student. Don’t you think?”

His lips twist, then he nods.

“So, with that in mind, I’m going to sign up for the fan bus for an away game this weekend. I’m going to pretend that everything is fine, and that I don’t have a crazy family, and that my stepbrother doesn’t secretly want to kill me.” Or fuck me while he terrorizes me. “And I’ll pretend that everything is just going… swimmingly.”

He rubs his eyes. He looks tired for a thirty-five-year-old. I guess that’s what happens when a thirty-five-year-old has taken to sleeping on a college student’s couch. Which he’s done sporadically for the past week, minus the girls’ night gone wrong, in some misguided effort to keep us safe.

“I don’t suppose I could talk you out of that,” he responds.

“No.”

He lifts one shoulder. “Okay.”

Not that I expected his permission—and certainly not that I need it—but that was surprisingly easy.

I leave him standing there and head to campus. I’m not prepared for the amount of fear that settles on my shoulders. Like every car I pass is going to open up and someone is going to drag me in. Or every window is filled with a hidden face staring at me, judging.

All I want to do is lose myself in the piano.

Except when I get to campus, every practice room is filled.

I find one of the theater professors and ask if there’s anywhere else I could play. He shrugs, then points me toward the stage.

My jaw drops, but I don’t argue.

Hell. I’ll play on the gorgeous baby grand piano in the auditorium. I’ve wanted to do so for a while, and who am I to miss out on that?

Of course, I didn’t think I’d be doing it in the dark, with just a lamp clipped to the music stand, lending my pages and the keys enough light to see by. For some reason or another, they’ve moved the piano from the orchestra section up onto the stage. I sit at it and take a second to run my hands over the keys.

“This isn’t anything insane,” I murmur to myself. “Just pretend you’re at the practice room piano.”

I count to eight in my head, then begin.

It’s a piece I know intimately well. I play it almost without looking at the sheet music, because it mostly lives in my head. I run through it once, then play it again with a variation. The last few notes fade into sweet silence, and I flip the pages to the next piece.

Again.

I’m playing the good stuff first, the ones that I don’t mess up. The ones that are so ingrained in my muscle memory, I could play with my eyes closed.

In fact, my eyes do close at one point.

When that piece ends, the clapping starts.

I spin around and find the professor I sought out earlier coming onto the stage.

“Beautiful,” he says. “Do you mind giving this a try?”

He stops beside me and sets the new music in front of me. I’m a good sight reader. It hinders me when I’m trying to bullshit myself out of practicing, because I know that for the most part, I can get away with it. And yet, that skill is going to come in handy now.

I adjust my hand position and skim the music. It’s in E flat minor, one of my preferred keys. I nod at him once, and he takes a step back. My attention stays riveted to the music. My fingers know where to go, how to find the correct keys. That’s part of the training—it’s like typing. Once you’re proficient, you don’t have to look at where the letters are.

The piece is sad and somewhat familiar, and it ends with a drifting, lasting note.

The professor waits until it’s faded away to step back up and collect the pages.

“We need a pianist for the spring musical,” he says. “Normally the orchestra is hired outside of the school, but we also haven’t had much luck sourcing a committed pianist. Would you be interested in working with Crown Point Orchestra on this?” He holds up his hands. “Before you say yes, because I see that smile, you’d have to audition with them, as well. But my recommendations are taken seriously, and your playing is beautiful.”

My eyes burn, and I nod wordlessly at him. Because I don’t know what the fuck else to say. Yeah, I’ll take a recommendation on top of an audition to Crown Point Orchestra. That’s… that’s insane. And a dream come true? And—

“Here,” he says, offering me his business card. “Email me your information, and I’ll set it up. Your name?”

“Aspen Monroe.” I rise and extend my hand.

He shakes it, smiling widely. “Nice to meet you, Aspen.”

His business card says, William Wilcox, Professor of Theater and Music Theory.

As in… the perfect guy to know.

I nod to him, and I stay standing until he disappears back offstage. The door to the hallway beyond closes behind him.

Holy shit.