Secret Obsession: A Dark Hockey Romance (Hockey Gods)

THREE YEARS AGO

“Hey, goalie.”

I skate in a quick circle, finding the girl I’ve been dreaming about coming across the row behind the goal. Sure, there’s glass between us. And I can’t really hear the crowd usually—a blessing when they’re assholes—but I somehow hear her.

Her smile lights up her whole face.

She’s decked out in her dance gear. The tight cropped shirt and black shorts, the high socks and white sneakers. Her makeup is extra.

“Competition day?” I call, casting a quick glance behind me.

They’re at the other end of the rink. It’s a scrimmage, and my offense is hammering down on the other team. It gives me a little reprieve to chat with my favorite girl.

Willow nods. “Wish me luck?”

I leave the crease and press my hand to the glass. “Good luck,” I mouth.

She smiles and puts her hand against mine.

God, I’d do anything for that smile.

“Whiteshaw!” Coach barks.

I snatch my hand away and skate back to the crease just as the puck soars past me.

Into the net.

Fuck.

The searing sound of his whistle rips through the rink.

“Everyone on the line,” he orders. “We’re doing sprints until Whiteshaw can tell me why he wasn’t in the fucking net!”

There’s mass grumbling and glares in my direction, but Knox is the one to jostle me.

“Don’t worry about it, dude,” he says. He lines up beside me. “Everyone gets on Coach’s bad side at some point or another.”

The whistle blows, and off we go.

It fucking sucks to skate fast in my pads. I come in last, weighed down by my gear and restricted in my movements.

We go again.

And again.

And again. Until sweat drips down my back and my lungs sear. Everyone else seems in various shades of exhaustion, too. My brother is leaned over, his forearms braced on his thighs.

Until Coach skates to a stop in front of me and points back toward the net.

We spend the next forty minutes with everyone taking shots at me, until I can stop ten in a row. And thankfully, that comes sooner rather than later.

If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s stopping a fucking puck. When I’m paying attention anyway.

“There might be hope for you yet, Whiteshaw,” Coach comments. “Now everyone get out of my sight.”

Tonight, I’m on a mission. I hurry through stripping down and showering, changing into new clothes. My bag is packed, and I’ll take care of my sticks later. Right now, I’ve got somewhere to be.

Ten minutes later, I’m walking into the Crown Point Arts building. They’re holding the dance competition this week, and it’s not too difficult to find my way upstairs to the large, open space. It’s used as a gymnastics gym and converted for their competitions. But the dance competitions also use it when the gym at CPU is otherwise occupied.

I find a seat and tap the girl on the row below me on the shoulder. She might go to CPU, I don’t know, but her face blanches when she sees me.

“Has CPU gone on yet?” I ask her.

“Are you Miles Whiteshaw?” she asks instead. “Knox’s brother?”

I grind my teeth. “Yeah.”

“Wow,” she breathes.

“Our team,” I reiterate.

Her awed expression shutters slightly. “Oh, yeah. They’re coming on next, I think.”

Perfect. I settle back, hoping my face conveys that I’m done talking. It doesn’t stop her from glancing back at me, and then she leans over toward her friend. They burst into a fit of giggles. I don’t know why.

A few minutes later, the familiar CPU blue and silver colors bounce out onto the stage. They set up, and I scan the area. I see Willow and her best friend. They’re both blonde, and they exchange a glance with each other right before the music starts.

But my gaze is glued to Willow.

She’s toward the back, maybe because she’s only a sophomore, but she dazzles. Her smile sparkles. She shifts into position, rolling and twirling and moving with the music. Not even like she’s moving with it, but she has fully become the music. Not everyone does that. My gaze turns more analytical as I study the girls around her.

Her friend keeps up with her. She might even have a magic of her own, some sort of ethereal grace that, as a hockey player, I wish I could emulate on the ice. Her feet barely touch the floor.

No—it’s still all Willow. She demonstrates her strength, joining together with another girl to perform a lift of a third. And then they end in a pose that has her bending backward, reaching toward the floor.

I rise along with the rest of the bleachers, giving them the standing ovation they deserve.

It’s only after the competition ends, and CPU is crowned the winner, that I realize I should’ve brought her flowers.

Or something.

Either way, I wade through the crowd toward the black curtain that separates spectators from dancers. Well, most of the crowd seems to part before me, so I don’t even have to use my weight to force my way through.

Interesting new thing, this borderline fame of being on the hockey team. It’s my first semester at college. I’m still figuring shit out.

But I like it, in a heady, power-drunk sort of way.

My legs are still sore from practice, and that grounds me a bit. I push through the black curtain, finding the gap, and step into the other side.

Chaos. Teams seem grouped together, but they’re busy packing their bags and chatting, sitting on the floor stretching, whatever. I follow the loud laughter around to the back of the stage, and my gaze latches on Willow.

She’s with her friend, her long, golden hair curled and down. It was just up in a high ponytail for the dance, but I spot the fabric tie around her wrist a second later.

Her hair down, where it reaches the bottom of her shoulder blades, makes my dick twitch. I want to stalk up to her, wrap my fingers around those silky golden locks, and wrench her head back. And kiss her like she’s my only oxygen.

Jesus, Miles, get a hold of yourself.

I shake it off and continue forward, until Willow spots me.

Red rises to her cheeks, apparent even through her thick makeup. Her fake lashes make her eyes look huge but half-lidded, adding to her sultry expression.

She captivates me without even trying.

“You were great,” I tell her.

“You saw?” Her lips part, and her gaze darts to her friend. Back to me. “You were just getting yelled at—”

I shrug. “Worth it.”

Her smile makes it worth it.

“We’re headed to Haven,” her friend says.

“You’ve met Violet, right, Miles?” Willow loops her arm through her friend’s. “She’s dating the football quarterback.”

I probably have, but this is the first time I’ve heard her name. I offer my hand, which she shakes.

“Do you want to join us?” Willow asks.

I find myself nodding. Although what I really want is to ask if she’ll go somewhere else with me. But on the high of winning a dance competition, I doubt she’d agree.

So we go to Haven, a bar close to campus that notoriously never cards college students. I get a drink and sit next to Willow, across from Violet and her boyfriend, as they discuss the other teams’ dance routines. And theirs. Jack seems bored, but he’s tracing some pattern on Violet’s shoulder that makes her lean into him.

“What do we have here?”

I bite my groan as my brother appears at the head of the table. “Hey, baby brother. Do you ladies mind if we join?”

Violet eyes Knox, then Willow. She’s the first to nod, and Knox grins.

Soon enough, there are more of us squashed around the table. Knox and Steele, thick as thieves, along with Erik and Jacob—two juniors who play crazy good. They act like magnets for the rest of the bar. We’re visited by more than a few of the other dance team girls, who touch the guys’ shoulders and bat their eyelashes.

“That’ll never be me,” Willow whispers across the table to Violet. “The day I fawn over a hockey player, you can commit me to a psych ward.”

Knox hears that.

I see the expression that crosses his face, and he leans toward Willow.

“You shouldn’t have said that, baby,” he says to her.

She smirks. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. Because that’s a challenge in my eyes. I’ll win you over, eventually.”

I scoff.

Willow nudges me. “You got something to say to that, Miles?”

I look at my brother, then at her. I believe her. That she’d never fawn over someone who didn’t deserve it. So I don’t fight it, and I don’t rebuke my brother. I don’t stake a claim on Willow, even though she makes my heart hammer and draws my focus like no other.

My mistake.

One I’ll be paying for, for quite a while.

PRESENT

I stand outside the freezer door, my stomach in knots.

I didn’t want to lock her in there—but the damn girl needs a wake-up call. Something to snap her out of the dazed look she’s always wearing. She doesn’t care that she’s in my bed. She doesn’t want it, but she doesn’t fight. She doesn’t care that Knox gets a reaction out of me every fucking time they’re in the same room together.

She hasn’t noticed that I haven’t fucking left her.

She should be okay for a little while. It’s why I left her there and went back to retrieve my bag, throwing it in my car. It’s why I took my time walking back, although every instinct wanted me to run to her.

There’s also the possibility that she isn’t panicking. That she’s okay being cold. It’s been fifteen minutes. My watch vibrates with an alert.

My heart is racing. Are you working out? the watch asks.

No, I’m just stressed.

She hasn’t banged on the door and demanded her release.

Ice slides down my spine. Those doors are thick. Maybe she was, but I didn’t hear her? Or she only worked up the nerve when I had already left her?

I unlock the door and swing it open.

Horror greets me.

Willow is facedown on the floor, her arms outstretched like she was reaching for the door. Her eyes are closed, and there’s frost on her hair. Her wet hair.

I’m a fucking idiot.

I race in and scoop her up. Her shirt is up to her ribs, exposing her stomach. I tug it down and hurry out of the freezer, letting it slam behind us. Is she breathing?

Shit, I don’t think she’s breathing.

I drop down, resting her ass on my knee, and use one hand to feel under her nose. Shallow exhales warm my fingers.

“You’re okay, wild girl,” I say to her, folding her arms in. I shuck off my coat and wrap it around her, then pull her close again.

Her nails are bloody. I stare at them for a second, then shake it off and snap into survival mode.

Not my survival—hers.

“Stay with me,” I say to her.

There’s frost on her eyelashes, for fuck’s sake. Shoving away the nausea, I get her into my car and blast the heat. Her head lolls, even when I lean over and buckle her seat belt. I take her hands and cup mine around them, blowing warm air on her frozen fingers. They’re white and ice cold.

If she gets frostbite because of me…

I’m glad Knox is keeping everyone away from the hockey house. That way, we can exist in my shame without a fucking audience.

I speed home, the car sweltering hot by the time we get back. She stirs a little, drawing her arms into her stomach.

“Miles?” Her teeth are chattering. “What—”

“I’ve got you.”

“So c-cold,” she whispers.

I know. I know, and it’s my fault.

I slam the car in park and hop out. I lift her and carry her inside, upstairs, into the bathroom. I turn the water on cool, so it’s barely better than how her fingers feel, and I step into it with her.

She gasps. Her head falls against my chest, and she lets out a groan. “It hurts.”

“I know. It’s going to warm you up.”

It’s cold as shit. But it doesn’t dampen the relief that she’s awake and talking.

We stay in the tub, with the water pounding down on her chest, until she reaches out and turns up the heat on her own. Her teeth continue to chatter, and she cradles her hands in her lap.

“You can p-p-put me d-down,” she forces out. “You don’t have t-to stay.”

“I will be staying,” I say firmly. My grip on her tightens. But I do lower us into a sitting position, until my legs are splayed out in front of me.

We’re drenched. The water pools in her lap and runs between her legs, over her stomach. It’s soaked through my shirt and even my hair. Speaking of hair. I run my fingers through hers, meeting ice-cold chunks.

I dunked her head in water and threw her in a freezer.

That might be a new low.

Well, at least I didn’t drug her.

No, no, Miles, focus.

“Let’s get these off,” I murmur, tearing her shirt over her head.

She tries and fails to undo the button of her jeans, so I do it for her. It takes some shifting to get the wet denim down her legs, and then her shoes and socks. I tear my shirt off, too, dropping it on the pile. Her hands are still shaking, but she seems to relax farther into my body now that the barriers between us are gone. I undo her bra and pull that off, too. Not that I have exact scientific reasoning for that.

“I f-feel warmer,” she says.

Pretty sure she’s lying.

Her fingers splay across my abdomen, which automatically tenses under her touch. My dick also gets the message, and I grit my teeth as it stiffens under my jeans.

Fucking worst timing possible.

I shift us forward and turn up the temperature of the water, then recline again. My arms lock around her.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper into her hair.

She hums. It vibrates through her, and I squeeze her all the tighter.