Devious Obsession: A Dark Hockey Romance (Hockey Gods)

Part of me thought, Nah, Steele won’t get his hands dirty.

And yet, the gloves are coming off. Literally.

Steele and one of the Devils are skating in a circle. Both have ditched their gloves. They drift closer to where we’re sitting, and I lean forward.

I have no doubt that this is for my benefit.

They’ve been trash talking each other all night, shoving each other around. Seeking each other out—or maybe they’re just assigned to guard each other, I don’t know. Either way, the tension between them has been ratcheting up all night.

It’s the third period. The CPU Hawks are up by one. But there’s still ten minutes left, and a power play by the Devils could seriously hurt our chances of winning.

Basically, from what Violet has said—at this time, anything could happen.

The Devils player throws the first punch. Steele retaliates, hitting back with power that snaps the guy’s head to the side. They’re right in front of us, and the life in Steele’s eyes is enough to make my heart lurch.

I like it and hate it at the same time.

How’s that?

Steele’s helmet is torn off and tossed aside, and his opponent hammers his fist into Steele’s face. Steele shoves him away for a second and spits a glob of blood onto the ice. His face is red, blood coming out of his nose.

Suddenly, I don’t want him to lose.

I rise from my seat and bang on the glass. I scream, “Fuck him up!”

Steele’s brows furrow. He doesn’t look at me, but I swear he hears me. He comes back at the guy twice as hard and somehow gets him onto the ice.

The CPU crowd erupts.

We’re not on home ice—we’re outnumbered by Devils fans. But we sure do make a lot of ruckus. I’m not alone in banging on the glass as the refs separate them. Steele is pushed away, and he skates to the bench.

Someone examines his face, turning it this way and that. The Devils player climbs to his feet and skates off, expression dark.

Steele returns to the ice, skating toward us. He points at me and gives me a full-toothed smile. Even with his mouth guard, his teeth are stained pink with blood.

He steps up into the penalty box beside our section and takes a seat.

I shiver.

“Wow,” Willow murmurs. “That was hot. And I mean that in a respectful way.”

I snort and take my seat again. “Yeah, yeah.”

But on the inside, I’m smiling. Because I got what I wanted, and I can still see it. Steele’s blood left behind on the ice.

Except it backfires, because the Devils score while Steele is off the ice. The home crowd goes nuts, a horn sounding. Their music plays in celebration. It’s a little obnoxious, and my heart is in my throat.

They’re tied with eight and a half minutes remaining.

What if I cost them the game for this stupid challenge?

I keep looking over at the penalty box. It’s just a few feet away, practically taunting me. But Steele doesn’t so much as glance over. I get that, too. He needs his head in the game, and my momentary distraction could’ve cost them.

No, it did cost them.

When the power play is up, Steele is released from the penalty box. The Devils are pressing hard, on the heels of their goal. Steele, as a defenseman, charges back into the fray without hesitation. He shoves one of the Devils away from crowding Miles. The other Hawks move around the ice, and Greyson intercepts a pass.

He takes off, chased by Devils and Hawks alike.

The charge lights up the stadium.

It’s a one-on-one play, suddenly. Greyson versus their goalie.

He shoots.

Violet screams as it soars over the goalie’s shoulder and sinks into the net.

We all leap to our feet. The Hawks zoom toward Greyson, crashing into him in celebration. They slap his helmet, his arm, his back. He’s grinning widely; he skids to a halt in front of Violet. He pats his chest, then points at her, and damn it. My heart melts a little bit.

She’s feeling it, too, because her face goes totally gooey.

It’s kind of sweet and kind of gross.

I refocus on Steele. He’s on the bench now, and Greyson joins him. They drink water and exchange words, their attention fixed on the ice. My fingers itch, wanting to… I don’t know. I’ve got restless energy that doesn’t have a way out.

“They’re up by one,” Violet murmurs, patting my leg.

Five minutes left. Then four.

Greyson and Steele hop back over the wall, replacing two skaters who return to the bench, and they rush out with an unmatched fury. Steele body checks a player into the glass, and Greyson steals the puck, passing it long to a waiting Knox.

We jump to our feet again, the whole CPU crowd shouting. Knox to Greyson. To Finch, who gets slammed into the wall by a Devil. The puck soars free, and a Devil reclaims it—only to be met with Steele.

No one is playing nice anymore. There seems to be a frenzied tension amongst the teams as the clock ticks down. The whistle blows, and Willow points. Knox stands in front of Miles, Steele and Tony Rodrigues beside him. He’s squared up to one of the Devils players who looks like he might want to start shit.

But he backs down after a long moment, skating back to his bench.

The time gets closer to running out, and I stand. I’m not alone—it seems like that palpable energy is contagious. The players feed off the crowd, and vice versa. Steele comes back out again and plays the last few minutes, and I just take a second to marvel at him. Appreciating the way he moves, the way he holds the stick.

I shouldn’t do that… but I do.

The buzzer sounds with no more goals. The Crown Point University Hawks held off the Devils. The team flies out onto the ice, surrounding Miles and Knox. They all jump and cheer and celebrate, and I laugh.

“It’s going to be a good night for us,” Violet says. She elbows Willow.

Thalia giggles.

“Get yourself one of the Hawks,” Willow says to Thalia. “Even if it’s just for a night, because god damn, they’re going to fuck like animals.”

I cover my mouth to hide my wild laughter. Thalia blushes, glancing at me. But hey, I don’t have anything to add. It’s not like I have a habit of seeking out hockey players on a winning high.

Just one, I suppose.

We head out of the stadium and wait by the locker rooms. I’m getting weird looks, but I brush it off. Until a whole group of girls turn their heads to watch me as they pass.

“Do I have something in my hair or something?” I ask Thalia, glaring at the girls.

She glances from them to me, then shakes her head. “I think it’s the jersey.”

I look down at the dark-blue fabric.

Right.

Forgot about that one.

Violet glances at her phone, typing something. “Grey said to meet them at the pub on the corner of the stadium.”

“Oh, good.” Willow hooks her arm through Thalia’s.

My phone goes off.

STEELE

Stay.

I meet the girls’ curious gazes. I realize I automatically took a step back.

“Um, I’m going to meet up with you in a few minutes…”

Violet snorts. “You’ve got our numbers. Text if you need anything.”

Right.

They head away from me, and I lean against the wall. The door doesn’t open for some time—long enough that I guess there must be some other exit for the players. Or maybe I’m just completely in the wrong place.

But eventually, the door opens and Steele steps out. He has his skates slung over his shoulder, and he drops his bag to the floor. He’s got a bruise forming on his cheek, and a split lip that probably contributed to the blood he spat on the ice during the game.

Without a word, he comes in close and cups my jaw, tipping my head back. His brown eyes burn into me, and for the first time, I understand what a fucking smolder is. I squeeze my thighs together, and a blush works its way up my neck.

His thumb sweeps along my lower lip, and then he leans down. He stops a hair’s breadth from touching me, his lips hovering over mine.

“Did you enjoy that?” he whispers.

I nod. My nose brushes his, and he exhales.

“So did I.” He smirks and rises. He takes my hand. “Come with me.”

I follow him through the lower level of the stadium, to the large gates where the Zamboni recently drove through. The ice is clean, free of any skate marks. The Zamboni itself sits against the wall, and I automatically pull toward that.

“They seem fun,” I say absently, running my hand over the wrapped side. It has the Devils’ mascot on the side and some advertising about tickets to home games. “To drive, I mean.”

He raises his eyebrow. “Well. Hop on up.”

I purse my lips, waiting for him to crack a laugh. When he doesn’t… who am I to object? I set my purse down, and he sets down his bag and skates beside it. He follows me to the little step-up ladder, his hands gripping the railing on either side of my body while I climb up.

A little thrill goes through me when I sit in the driver’s chair.

“How does it look?”

“Giant,” I murmur.

“This would be an apt time for a ‘that’s what she said’ joke.” Steele climbs up after me, stopping on the top step.

I run my hands over the steering wheel, the levers beside the chair. I have no idea how to drive it, and I don’t think I’m destructive enough to want to do it. Not on my own like this anyway.

“What are you afraid of?” Steele asks.

I meet his dark gaze. He’s not as… loud, I guess, as I was expecting. Like even though they’re coming off that win, and the energy is still simmering in my chest like a live wire, he seems quiet. Contemplative.

And I’m not sure if that’s because of me or him.

Or both.

“I’m afraid of a lot,” I say lightly. I twist to face him. It’s meant to be humorous, maybe, but it falls flat even in my ears. It’s the one bit of truth I’ll allow myself. That I’m desperately scared of a lot, and trying to face it has given me split results.

Sometimes good.

Sometimes fucking triggered.

He motions for me to stand. It puts me right in front of him, my abdomen even with his face. He grips my hips and tows me forward, pressing a kiss to my stomach through the jersey.

“What are you afraid of tonight?” he clarifies.

I shiver. I don’t know how to answer that without dragging us out of this moment, and he seems to agree. Because he doesn’t ask again. Instead, he works the edges of the jersey up, and his fingers skim my bare skin.

Goosebumps rise on my arms that have nothing to do with the cold, and I put my hands on his shoulders. I don’t know what he’s going to do, but I think I trust it. Maybe. Trust is one of those fragile things that may or may not break. And he’s got it for now—somehow. Impossibly.

Now I just have to hope he doesn’t smash it—and me—to dust.

Because that, I won’t come back from.