Devious Obsession: A Dark Hockey Romance (Hockey Gods)

I finish my stretches on the ice and return to the locker room. I drop my helmet on the bench beside me and grab my phone from my bag, checking my messages for the hundredth time.

Nothing.

I glance across the room at Greyson, trying not to go to Worst-Case Scenario. Maybe Aspen didn’t link up with her roommate yet. Or Thalia forgot. Or maybe she doesn’t have my number, and—

“You okay?” Miles sits beside me, kicking his legs out wide. His gaze is on his brother, who’s fooling around with Finch in the middle of the room.

“Aspen hasn’t checked in. She lost her phone.”

Miles whistles. “First her sheet music, then her phone. Hope she didn’t blame the latter one on you, too?”

I scowl. “No.”

“Did you check the stands?”

“I didn’t see her.”

My phone goes off in my hand, and I scramble to unlock it.

DAD

We’re coming to the game. Suite 12. See you after.

I stare at it for a moment, confused. They were doing some sort of tour of Europe last I knew—which wasn’t that fucking long ago. He said they’d be gone for the month—including Thanksgiving. Which was fine by me.

DAD

Where is Aspen?

A chill goes down my spine. I rise, striding down the hall to the rink. I stand at the edge and look out at the crowd, then up at the row of glass-walled suites. They’re reserved for the rich and important. Sometimes scouts get them. Greyson’s dad usually has one permanently held for him and his entourage.

Suite 12 is lit up, but it seems empty. I only know what number it is because a few upperclassmen locked us in there when we were freshmen. Like a hazing thing, or whatever. We stayed there all night—it was either that or break the door down and face damages.

That’s how Knox and I bonded. And later, Miles. Then Greyson, when he came along, slid seamlessly into our friend group.

Anyway, suite 12 is all the way at the end of the row across from the benches, over section 112. I stare at its darkened windows, then down at my phone.

ME

Are you already here? Aspen should be on her way soon.

I pull up the tracking app and check her location, but she’s still at her apartment. I shake my head and blow out an irritated breath.

ME

She’s at her apartment.

Why is she still there?

She knows how important it is that she be here, and the game is going to start any minute. There’s a new tightness in my chest, and the doubt creeps in.

What if this was all too much for her? She could be packing to leave right now. Disappear with her mom, my dad, and just… leave Crown Point.

What if she regrets everything?

“O’Brien!” Coach claps my shoulder.

I almost jump out of my skin, wheeling around to face him. He raises his eyebrows at me.

“Sorry, Coach,” I say quickly, moving past him. Back to the locker room.

The lights around the rink dim as I get to the door, and the music begins to hype up the crowd.

Maybe Aspen fell asleep. Maybe she’s changing her clothes.

Or maybe her stalker got her.

No. If that was the case, they wouldn’t still be in her apartment. No sick fucker holds a girl hostage when her roommate could come home at any time.

“Okay, guys.” Coach claps to get our attention.

I sit beside Miles and focus on him. Well, I try anyway.

“We’re facing our toughest competition yet,” Coach warns. He takes a second to meet all of our gazes. “But you’ve prepared for this. You’re ready for this. So go out there and play your damn hearts out and make Crown Point proud.”

We all jump to our feet, jostling each other. I pull my helmet on and slip my mouth guard in, elbowing Miles. I leave my phone in my bag, hoping that Aspen is just running behind. But also knowing that she might not be.

We take the ice. My stick feels foreign in my hand, and I look down at it. The tape is all wrong, the stick too short.

Whose stick did I grab?

I hurry to the bench. We’ve got an equipment manager on hand who stays at the back, and I hop up to pass him the foreign stick.

“What the hell are you doing, O’Brien?” Coach barks at me.

The equipment manager hands me my backup stick, and I wave Coach off. My mood sours further when the game starts. I can’t seem to concentrate on what’s happening—and as a result, our opponents are skating circles around me.

Someone checks me into the wall. My face rebounds off the glass, my teeth cutting into my cheek. Blood fills my mouth, and I shove off it to chase after them. I spit the blood out as I charge. Another of their teammates has the puck, so I change my angle and slam into them.

It’s a move similar to the one Jacob performed on me at practice, and it works great… until I realize that he passed the puck before I fucking touched him.

The more distracted I get, the angrier I get.

How could she do this?

I scan the seats again, where I know she sits. My gaze lifts to suite 12, but all I see is a woman in a dress. Aspen’s mother, maybe.

There’s a roar from the crowd, and then the shocked quiet that follows a goal from our opposition. I whip my head around, only to find Miles climbing back to his feet. He scowls at me, and I understand that this was my fault.

A horn blows.

I skate for the bench and jump the boards, taking a seat before anyone can say anything. I squirt water into my mouth, flushing out the taste of blood.

Fuck.

Coach stops behind me. “What is your problem, O’Brien? I haven’t seen you play with your head so far up your ass since you were a freshmen.”

I stiffen. “I just need a minute, Coach.”

“See that’s all that it is,” he snaps.

He retreats to his spot, clipboard under his arm. He watches them restart, but my gaze goes to the stadium. Specifically, to the fan section. I go row by row, double-checking that Aspen isn’t there. Then the suite again.

Without my phone, I don’t know if she left her apartment—but I do know that this is unacceptable. Part of me wants to storm back to the locker room just to check. If I were Greyson, he would’ve snuck his phone out here and put it with his water bottle or some shit. I grit my teeth and remain still.

Greyson drops into the seat next to me.

“Spill,” he demands.

“Aspen’s not here.”

“And you’re worried?” Greyson looks across at where Violet and Willow sit.

“Of course I’m fucking worried.” I shoot a glare filled with loathing at him. It’s misguided, obviously. He didn’t do anything wrong. But I’m boiling already. I told her what would happen if she didn’t show up. “And pissed. And lost.”

He sighs and pulls out his phone.

See? Fucker always sneaks it into the bench.

He taps out a message, then stows it again. “There.”

“What did you do?”

“Violet’s going to find Aspen’s roommate, and we’ll get an update.”

Fat lot of good that’ll do. Still, it’s more than sitting here stewing will do. I hop up, suddenly eager to be back on the ice. To hit something, or someone.

I catch one of the defensemen’s attention, and he skates toward the bench. He goes through the door, and I hop over the wall.

My attention is on the puck. The moving players. I skate closer to Miles, who spares me a glance. I nod back at him, then Rodrigues. We’re not going to let another puck get close to our goalie. We both drift forward, finding guys to block.

The crowd cheers.

Greyson, always a fan favorite, has the puck. Rodrigues and I follow as Greyson passes to Knox. Then Finch. Back to Greyson, who shoots almost faster than my eye can follow.

It sails past the goalie just before Greyson gets knocked on his ass.

I rush forward and shove the asshole away from Greyson—but that just seems to fuel the fire. We’re swarmed by half the team—and ours doesn’t fucking hesitate to dive in either. For a moment, we’re just a mass of packed bodies trying to cause a little damage.

Someone yanks me back, sending me sliding on my skates out of the melee. Miles is systematically pulling out our starters, somehow finding Greyson and Knox next. Rodrigues is already out of the body pile, wiping his bloody nose on his sleeve. The refs are blowing their whistles and breaking up the rest of it.

It takes me a second to find my stick and register the pain in my face. I didn’t lose my helmet or my mouth guard, though. Surprisingly. My cheek stings where I must’ve caught an errant fist or elbow.

It does nothing to soothe the rushing emotions inside me.

We all leave the ice while the refs sort out who’s to blame. I sit next to Greyson and grab for my water. He does the same, furtively checking his phone.

“She found Thalia,” he informs me. “But neither of them have seen Aspen. Your dad was going to her apartment to check for her.”

I clear my throat. “Thanks.”

He claps me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. Focus on the game.”