Secret Obsession: A Dark Hockey Romance (Hockey Gods)

I lean closer to the mirror, touching up my dark-red lipstick with the tip of my fingernail. My eye makeup is slightly smudged. It creates a rather Gothic appearance, all black eyeliner and smoked-out shadows, but it gives me a break from the sweetheart vibe.

You know, when you walk down the street and guys catcall you with: Looking good, sweetheart, you wanna come sit on Daddy’s lap?

Okay, so maybe that hasn’t happened in a hot minute. Not in Crown Point anyway. Here, the only devils to watch out for are on the hockey team. And I’ve been on the do-not-flirt-with list for a while.

My best friend, Violet, is with her boyfriend. Aspen and Thalia are at the hockey house. And I…

I’m alone.

Which is preferable nowadays.

“I’m not heartbroken,” I tell my reflection.

I shimmy my glittery black crop top into a better position. Music thumps through the bathroom walls, reminding me that even if I am heartbroken, I’m still about to go dance my shoes off.

Seems like I’ve been spending more nights here than not.

My new mission has been to see how many drinks guys will buy me before they realize I’m not going to fuck them. Not unless they know how to dance.

I have high standards.

My eyes burn, and I swallow sharply. It’s been a month since Knox completely humiliated me at his party. I went home and saw my family. I cried for the first… well, the first week after. But then I really got laughing again. I wasn’t hung up on what some jerk was or wasn’t doing to hurt my feelings. It’s kind of funny how little I’ve cried since we broke up, compared to any single month in our relationship.

Then, of course, the other stuff became apparent. That because he really didn’t give a fuck about me, he flirted with other girls. I don’t think he went so far as cheating on me, but I let that happen. Saw it, cried about it, and still fell in love with him. Or, I thought I did.

I wanted to be sure, you know? I hadn’t fallen in love with anyone before, I don’t know what it’s supposed to feel like. I just knew I felt something, and I thought that something was love. Maybe I was wrong?

And then there’s his brother.

For some reason, I thought Miles and I were friends. But the look on his face at the party said: You should’ve known better. And all I wanted to do was scream back: Why didn’t you warn me?

Why did no one warn me?

So I fell for the jerk, and it blew up in my face.

Lesson learned: love is off the table for me.

I run my fingers through my hair, messing it up, and pout my lips at the mirror. I’m fucking hot tonight, I won’t lie. The self-tanner keeps my legs bronzed even in the dead of winter. My boots—cute and practical, since there’s nearly a foot of snow on the ground—stop at my ankles, leaving a smooth, glowing expanse of skin up to the hem of my white shorts.

Clearly the boots are where my common sense begins and ends.

“Hey, baby,” a guy says when I leave the restroom.

Don’t call me baby, I think at him. I don’t say it, though. I just give him a practiced smile.

He pushes off the wall, following me back toward the dance floor. “You okay?”

I eye him. He bought me a drink an hour or so ago and has been lurking ever since. Not really in a good way. Maybe he bought me more than one, I can’t really remember. He’s older, though. Definitely not college-age. He seems like the kind of guy who has enough swagger to know what he’s doing in bed… but I don’t like his vibe.

He kind of makes my skin crawl, especially when he steps up and grabs my hip.

“Yeah, fine.” I jerk my chin toward the mass of writhing bodies ahead of me. The music is loud, so we’re more lip-reading than hearing each other. The bass thrums in my chest, vibrating in a pleasant way, but I don’t want him—or anyone—to kill the feeling. “I’m going to dance.”

“I’ll join you.”

The hulking guy behind me trails in my wake to the center of the dancing bodies and immediately paws at my waist. His hands are too high, just under my breasts, and I’m flooded with discomfort. He pulls me into him, my ass against his groin. Against his erection.

Nope.

I force a laugh and twist in his arms, using my hand to leverage some distance between us. My fingers are positively tiny on his chest. “Not the kind of dancing I was talking about, big guy.”

He really is large. Packed with muscles and fat, and he’s got the height of a linebacker. He rolls his eyes and reaches for me again. “You don’t mean that.”

A tendril of fear winds through me, but I refuse to let it show. I only half-heartedly fight as he drags me back into his chest, and then his hand is moving down my front. He gropes me between my legs, and my vision goes white.

What the fuck?

I shove away and stumble backward, looking around. I don’t know if anyone saw it. No one’s even paying attention to me. I’m so focused on putting distance between me and him that I back right into someone else.

New hands brush my sides, and lips press to my ear. “You like trouble, hmm?”

For a second, my heart stops.

Knox wouldn’t be here—and he wouldn’t approach me. I glance over my shoulder, and it’s only because he withdraws an inch that I don’t end up accidentally kissing him. That’s happened before. Not the accidental part, but the making out while dancing.

Except it’s not Knox. It’s Miles.

I think, in this moment, that I’m more pissed because it’s him. The one who knew about the bet and did nothing to warn me. The one who let me fall on my ass in front of everyone.

The one who watches me like he’s the only one who pays attention.

“Don’t touch me,” I hiss.

His hands do the opposite, his fingers inching up to the open skin between my shorts and crop top. I slap at him, but he just whirls me around and into his chest. His knee slips between my legs, and suddenly, we’re dancing.

Against my will, but… whatever. It’s like my body knows that dancing relaxes me, and I just automatically fall into his movements.

Because damn.

The guy can move.

“I’m rescuing you.”

His hands press into the small of my back, keeping me locked against him. Everywhere he touches is electric, and I loathe my reaction to him. His voice curls in my ear like smoke, and I inhale sharply when his lips touch my skin.

“That guy looked like he was two seconds away from ravaging you on the dance floor.”

“Who says I don’t want to be ravaged on the dance floor?” I force out, even though it makes me sick. Because he was touching me against my will, and that was why I was in the process of getting away from him.

But I especially don’t want to be handled by Miles. Or anyone with the last name Whiteshaw.

I step back. My body doesn’t really want to go, but I need the distance to think clearly. And breathe. A glance over my shoulder tells me that the older guy has drifted away, and he’s with some other dark-haired girl at the bar.

“I’m going to get another drink,” I yell. “If you don’t want that guy dancing with me, run interference. That’s probably a new one for you, since you’re usually all by yourself at the goal…”

He watches me with dark eyes. Well, his eyes are anything but dark—they’re brilliant blue, unfortunately. But with the dim lighting in the nightclub, and the way he’s glaring at me, it sure seems like he’s dark.

I shiver and slip away. I squeeze between two bodies, not at all ashamed by the way I duck and run to the bar.

Miles Whiteshaw isn’t going to chase me out of the club.

I claim a stool at the bar and smile brilliantly at the man beside me. A working professional, maybe, judging from the little bits of silver at his temples. His gaze swings around my face and then dips to my body.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asks.

I grin and nod.

Two hours later, I’m drunk. I thought I was on the verge before, but now I’m at a whole new level. The floor keeps tilting under me, but I don’t really give a shit. The amount of people on the dance floor with me keeps me upright. And I seem to have a never-ending line of guys who want to dance.

I’m toxic, you’re going under…

That song played an hour ago, but it’s stuck in my head. Even when the DJ’s music should distract me, those words keep playing.

A guy reels me into his chest. I glance up at him, vaguely concerned when the face looking back at me is blurry. But I push it away and shimmy against him. My smile widens as his grip tightens on my hips, steadying me.

“You want to get out of here?” he asks in my ear. His voice is familiar.

Same guy as before. The one who waited for me outside the bathroom, who groped me. Except now, I don’t really give a shit that he’s hulking and full of bad vibes.

I twist around, giving him my back. My hands go up in the air like they’re floating on their own, and my body moves to the beat.

“No, I don’t want to get out of here,” I call over my shoulder. “I want another drink.”

“Sure thing, baby.”

My nose wrinkles. I don’t like being called baby. Or babe. Or sweetheart.

Knox called me babe or baby for a whole year, luring me in with false promises and lies. Utter horseshit. But the alcohol already in my system dulls the bite of it, and the guy’s hands leave my hips.

I dance by myself. I swing my hips, run my hands through my hair and down my neck. I’m putting on a fucking show for anyone watching, but I’m not really alone. The club is full of gyrating bodies and pulsing music, and while no one else touches me for a time, the air smells like perfume and sweat. Or maybe that’s just me. I can barely keep my eyes open.

“A drink for the lady,” the guy says, appearing at my side.

It’s not so much a drink as a double pour of straight alcohol. It’s clear, or maybe golden. I can’t tell in the flashing swoops of colored lights. No ice in the glass either.

Good choice.

I take the glass and toss the liquid back. It’s tequila. I think. It’s the slow burn through my stomach that gives it away. Grimacing, I grip the guy’s hand. He lets me through the crowd, all the way to the bar. Where his hand then becomes an assistance for me to climb up on the stool.

Then the bar top itself. I wobble, and someone grabs my ankle. Cold hand against hot skin. No amount of alcohol can hide his identity.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Miles growls.

I giggle and look down at the hand, which has moved up to the back of my calf.

“Dancing,” I say. “Obviously.”

“You’re too drunk to even balance.”

The hand becomes two, and then I’m dragged from the bar. I screech and flail, and I land across a set of wide shoulders. My fingers dig into his shirt, but I barely jostle when he turns and strides through the nightclub.

I’m toxic, you’re goin’ under…

I should get those words tattooed across my forehead. Although I’m not sure those are the actual lyrics—does it really matter? I am the toxic one. I’m terrible.

Certainly not worthy of love.

My stomach twists, and I tap his arm.

“I’m gonna puke,” I inform him.

And that’s the last thing I remember.