Devious Obsession: A Dark Hockey Romance (Hockey Gods)

It’s been a month since my abduction ended with the death of my father.

A month of police interviews, of legal jargon I scarcely understood, of being haunted by the fact that I could go to jail for something my lawyer—a fancy-suited man I’d never be able to afford on my own—calls self-defense.

But as of twenty minutes ago, the case is closed. There was sufficient evidence to support our story, including a testimony from Uncle about the depravity of his brother, of the crimes he committed against our family in my childhood—and the threat that was posed with him reemerging into my life. That, along with the bruises on Steele’s face and neck… it was a no-brainer. Even if it took a while for the system to process.

It’s been a month, and it feels like a year.

“Ready?” Steele asks me.

I meet his gaze in the mirror and try not to bite my lip. All traces of his fight with my father have healed over. He doesn’t even look haunted. Not like me, when I wake up in the middle of the night with my skin crawling and nightmares stuck behind my eyes. Playing an endless loop of bloodshed.

I envy him that.

But he wakes up with me. Night after night. Sometimes he’s awake before my dreams release me, and he’s already between my legs when my eyes fly open. Soothing me in a way that makes me feel not broken.

Our parents and my sisters have been staying in a rented house in Crown Point. They both agreed that my sisters needed some closure surrounding my kidnapping, and the best thing for everyone was for them to be able to see me, and for some stability. So they’ve been enrolled in the public schools here in town.

And traveling around the country to avoid a madman wasn’t really necessary anymore.

Mom didn’t claim my father’s body at the morgue. Uncle didn’t either. So there he sits, in a metal box… rotting.

It’s no less than he deserves.

Also, our parents don’t know about the engagement. No one does. Steele asked me to keep it quiet, although he hasn’t been shy about telling his friends—and random people at the bars, and hockey games—that I’m his future wife. But that he proposed, and I accepted? Still a secret. Not even Thalia knows.

There was another revelation I learned, about a week after the incident. Steele pulled out a brown paper bag from his closet, and I almost threw up. He took a little joy in dumping the sixty thousand dollars on the bed. He had Greyson sneak into the apartment ahead of the police and EMTs, after it was safe to do so, and collect the money. How he knew my dad would’ve thrown it in my face was a question I didn’t want to ask.

But when he mentioned depositing it slowly, over the course of a year or so, into my accounts, I froze up. I didn’t want anything in connection with my father. That much hadn’t changed.

So he arranged an anonymous donation to a charity that fights child pornography and abuse, and he gave me the heartfelt, handwritten thank you card a few days after it was done.

Finally, Dad’s money went to something useful.

Steele kisses my shoulder. He’s been more free about affection. Touching me whenever he can. Picking up my left hand and running his finger across my ring finger. I asked him what he was thinking, once, and he simply said he was picturing the type of ring that would sit there.

“Or tattoo,” he added, smiling at me.

I frowned at that one.

Besides the Property of Steele O’Brien tattoo, I think I’m done with needles and ink. Unless he drugs me and doesn’t give me a choice, in which case… Well, maybe I’m just waiting for him to force it. There’s something thrilling about that.

“I’m ready,” I assure him. I put on the last finishing touches of my outfit: small gold earrings and a gold chain necklace, with a little crystal pendant that presses against my sternum.

We head to his car, then ride in relative silence to the CPB building. My heart is in my throat for more than one reason.

First: my callback audition for the Crown Point Orchestra.

Steele accompanied me to the first one, sitting outside the room while I played the piece I had been working on. And then we snuck into an office and fucked on the desk… you know, just for the experience.

But they want me back. And I’ve prepared a secondary piece for them, something of my own choosing. Passion, Steele had mumbled in my ear on that desk. You need to bleed for the music, don’t you?

I had forgotten. My nerves got in the way, along with everything else.

It wasn’t enough that I could play it well—I had to feel it.

And second: after the audition, we’re going to meet his mother for the first time.

I’m not sure what has me more stressed.

Steele opens the door for me, then follows me into the theater. The full orchestra is set up with chairs and music stands onstage, although it’s empty. There’s a row of people—the board that will have to vote to hire me—sitting toward the middle of the front section of chairs in the audience.

Steele slips into a seat in the back and winks at me.

I take a deep breath and continue down, smiling at Professor Wilcox when he spots me. I stop at the top of the stage.

“Hello, Aspen,” the professor says.

“Good morning,” I greet them.

There are five of them. Three men, two women. They don’t look mean, but they do look… disinterested. So I guess it’s my job to make them interested. Right?

I had forwarded the piece I was going to play to Wilcox last week. I don’t bother to explain why I picked it. It was a personal choice after the last month. I wanted to show something that was sad and soulful and heartbreaking.

I’m playing ‘Once Upon a December’ from Anastasia. It’s easily recognized and almost felt like a cliched choice at first. But at the same time, this piece has resonated with me lately. On the same level that Clair de Lune resonates with Twilight fans. The magic is in the composition. And my goal is to pour every ounce of passion and need into this performance.

“When you’re ready,” one of the women says.

“Thank you,” I murmur.

My throat is tight, and I head for the baby grand piano. It’s in excellent condition, concert-ready, with a gleaming black top that’s lifted open for best sound quality. I adjust the bench and discreetly wipe my palms on my thighs. Now is not the best time for sweating hands. I run my fingers over the keys, positioning them to start. My foot hovers above the pedal.

And then I wait. And I sink into what this piece means, what this opportunity means.

I’m not doing it because I’m desperate for a job.

I’m not doing it because I have no other options.

I’m doing this because I love playing the piano, and I’ve had dreams of being in an orchestra ever since my uncle took me to a ballet when I was ten. I think he took me there because my parents wanted me out of the house—but it doesn’t matter. I fell in love with it, the same way you fall in love with a person. Almost without noticing it, until you go home and it’s all you can think about.

My parents got a small keyboard to practice on after a month of begging. And upgraded to an electric piano that fit in our living room six months after that. A million hours in lessons and practice, and every bad thing that ever happened to me in my room was let out through playing.

Remembering that, acknowledging that my trauma has come out a hundred times over through the piano… I take a deep breath.

And I begin.