Secret Obsession: A Dark Hockey Romance (Hockey Gods)

I follow Aspen and Violet into the Crown Point Theater. The orchestra plays here, and Aspen’s been working with them for the past two months. She says it’ll be fine, so… I guess it’s okay. Even if we’re technically sneaking in.

We enter the large theater, and my breath catches. There’s red velvet and gilded columns and rows and rows of seats that immediately inspires awe. The painting on the domed ceiling is angelic. Literally, angels and clouds and naked people.

“Wow,” I say on an exhale.

“That’s not the most impressive part,” Aspen laughs.

She takes my hand and pulls me along. Down the sloped aisle and up a staircase tucked into the side. Onto the stage, which is lit up with the house lights.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell us you sang,” Aspen murmurs.

Violet hums her agreement. She’s known for a while that I decided to start teaching little heathens, but it isn’t like I ever told her I wanted to sing in front of other people.

No, Miles discovered that. Although he didn’t throw it in my face, he did make me sing for him in his bed. Quite often.

And it seems that’s where we’ve been for the last week, bouncing between campus for classes, the arena for his practices—which are once again open for students to watch—and his bed. I’ve been dodging calls from the detective, and Miles hasn’t said anything about her either. Although I have the sneaking suspicion that she calls him, too.

He keeps threatening to tell everyone he knows about my voice—but apparently, he already has. Because when Aspen and Violet showed up this afternoon and demanded to know about my dark singing secrets, there was only one culprit.

And now we’re here.

“What do you know?” Aspen asks me. “Pop?”

“Wait.” I hold up my hands. “What?”

She’s moving across the stage toward the grand piano. It’s not quite in the center, and the lid is down. It’s all closed up, not that Aspen seems to give a shit. She runs her hand over the gleaming black polish and drags the bench out.

“We’re having a concert next week,” she says. “They moved the piano up here, when it’s normally off in the wings. When I play for the theater, I use the upright piano downstairs.”

“Oh,” I murmur.

“So…?”

So I name a song off the top of my head. “Glory” by Dermot Kennedy. And I’m half hoping that she won’t know it.

But to my surprise, Aspen launches into a rendition.

“Holy shit.” Violet laughs. She grips my shoulders and propels me toward the piano. “Sing, Willow.”

I do. My voice is soft at first, but neither of them judge me. Warmth blooms through my chest, and I find myself getting bolder as it goes on. Aspen looks up and grins at me, urging me to continue.

When the song comes to an end, I trail off into silence.

My heart aches, but in a delicious, adrenaline-fueled way.

Violet and Aspen both clap, and I allow my grin to take over my expression.

“I think the lessons are helping,” I say, clearing my throat. “Nora’s been teaching me how to be more confident with my own voice.”

Two lessons a week has done wonders—but I can’t help but think that singing is just a hobby. I’m going into the tech industry, and maybe I’ll follow in my parents’ path and work for the government.

I don’t know.

Everything is up in the air, and with only a few months left of college, it’s high time I figure it out.

My parents are the driving force behind my career choice. Not because they pressured me, but because I’ve always idolized them. They’re where I learned everything. How to do mental math in elementary school, and coding websites by the time I was in middle school. There was a brief stint in hacking, although that really isn’t my forte. And it’s not legal, so. There’s that. I only managed to break into the school’s grading system once, to change a grade for another classmate, and my parents caught me. They nearly skinned me alive, and I learned my lesson. Don’t hack unless you can’t be caught.

But because they’re such badasses in the sector where tech and government collide, it’s easy to want to emulate that.

Even if I’m not really feeling it.

But feeling something and being skilled are two completely different things. I like it well enough to get straight A’s in my classes, even the difficult ones. I’m good enough to not have to spend every waking hour studying this shit, like some of the other students in my major.

So if I’m a little lost right now in all aspects, at least I have career options that will pay well. Even if it gets to be tedious and monotonous and—

“Willow?” Violet squeezes my arm. “Where’d you go?”

I suppress my sigh. I should be excited to be here, to have just sung in front of an empty theater and felt alive for about a full minute.

I smother the emotion instead and smile at my best friend. “Sorry. Just a little…” I wave my hand.

My phone buzzes.

UNKNOWN

Just wanted to say sorry to you. It’s Ronan Pierce.

Well… that’s weird.

How did you get my number?

RONAN

Bought it off one of the dance girls

Ummmm…

Too creepy?

Plus, you were just buying me drinks. How could you know I had a psychotic goalie stalker? Unless you’re apologizing for something else?

Can we talk?

My frown deepens.

“What is it?” Aspen asks.

I shake my head, ignoring the niggling feeling in my stomach. I stuff my phone in my pocket and force another smile. “Nothing, just some odd message. I’m hungry.”

“Haven?”

My smile wobbles. I’ve been on a good track recently. Like, for a week. I haven’t touched alcohol. Going to a bar just seems like tempting fate—or me—to fuck things up.

“You’ll be okay,” Violet says. “But we can go to that diner, the one that just opened. What’s it called?”

“The Market,” Aspen supplies. “They do breakfast all day, I heard.”

“Yeah, okay. Let’s go there.”

My phone buzzes again in my pocket, but I ignore it. I take Violet’s hand, loop my arm through Aspen’s, and return to Violet’s car.

The Market is closed.

“Oh,” Aspen pouts. “Damn.”

“Maybe just the dining hall, then,” Violet murmurs.

I let out a breath. “Sure.”

Except there, I come face-to-face with Ronan Pierce. His bruises have faded, and he casts a wary glance around, like he’s searching for Miles. Then he focuses on me.

He’s handsome. I didn’t notice it before, or maybe just didn’t take exceptional note of it. He could make some girl pretty happy if he set his mind to it. Or maybe he already does?

“Willow.” He holds up his hands as if to stop me from moving.

I’ve already stopped.

Violet and Aspen stop, too, but I wave them on. I exchange a glance with Violet, and she rolls her eyes.

“What’s up, Ronan?” I keep my voice light.

“I—”

“Pierce!”

He flinches ever so slightly and rotates. I’m left staring at his back—and that won’t do. I head for the lines of food. It’s dinner time, and the place is mobbed. It wasn’t Miles’ voice anyway, so he’s probably not in danger of being punched again.

I spot Miles entering the dining hall. His gaze sweeps around and lands on me, just as Ronan catches back up.

“Hey.” Ronan grabs my arm. “We need to talk—”

Miles is suddenly between us.

Ronan yells, going down to his knees. I peer around Miles, and my jaw drops. He’s got Ronan’s wrist in his hand, twisting it so the latter has no choice but to fold with the pressure.

“What did I tell you about touching my girl?” Miles asks, leaning over him.

“Miles.” I grab the back of his shirt and tug. It’s not enough, though. It doesn’t seem to be snapping him out of the rage that’s burning through him. My palms flatten against his back, skin-to-skin, and I slide them around so I’m hugging him from behind. “Miles, let him go.”

“He put his hands on you.”

We’re drawing a commotion. People whispering and pointing.

“Please,” I whisper. My nails rake his abdomen. I slip around his body, inserting myself between Ronan and him. But my focus is entirely on Miles. “It’s not worth it. You’re going to get in trouble.”

He blinks.

Chase King, another football player, suddenly shoves through the crowd.

“Whiteshaw,” he barks. “For fuck’s sake, let him go.”

Miles flings Ronan’s arm, sending him crashing backward. But then he lasers in on me, and my throat closes. Excitement and anxiety wrap through me, and I take a small step back. Miles’ gaze drops to my feet, the way I slide them backward in an attempt to be sly. But his gaze always draws me in, especially when his blue eyes rise and burn into mine.

He holds out his hand.

I stop and look at it.

I know what awaits me if I take it—and I want it.

So I take it.

He pulls me out of the dining hall, telling the attendant there that we’ll be back. We go upstairs, silent the whole time we march up through the stairwell, and down the hall lined with offices.

Athletic department.

We get to an office, and I miss whose it is. We’re inside in a flash, and he closes and locks the door behind us.

I step into the dark space, feeling my way forward. I bump into a chair. I grip the back of it automatically. It’s impossibly dark here, and my skin prickles with apprehension.

“Strip,” comes Miles’ order.

I let out a breath. My fingers are already moving, undoing my jeans and shoving them down. I kick them off, along with my shoes, and tear my shirt off. It makes it easier knowing that Miles can’t see me either.

The office has no windows. It’s pitch-black with the door shut.

Actually, no. There’s a sliver of light that comes from under the closed door. It’s blocked by two spokes that I can imagine are his legs. Meaning he hasn’t come farther into the room.

I feel around the chair, to the desk. My other hand finds the wall. I get to the back corner and turn back around, shedding my bra. I toss it at where I think Miles is, and his surprised huff is enough to bring a smile to my lips.

“Mmm,” he murmurs, inhaling. “Where are your panties, wild girl?”

I snap the elastic still on my hip.

“Give,” he orders.

I practically tear them off and toss them the same way I tossed my bra.

“I can smell your arousal from here.” His voice is deep and rasping.

Yes, I’m turned on. Impossibly so. Although I can’t pinpoint if it’s the excitement or my guess that he wants to punish me for speaking with Ronan.

A light turns on—his camera’s flashlight. I raise my hand against it, trying to see past the searing brightness, and he comes forward. The light bathes my naked body in a cool bluish-white color, seeming to make me seem paler than I am. I look down, then back up to him. I’m in the corner of the room, with the desk to my right, and the wheeled office chair tucked behind it. If I leaned over, I might be able to reach it from here.

Miles jerks the light, directing me wordlessly to the chair. I go to it and pull it out, only hesitating for a moment before sitting.

“Spread those legs for me,” he says. “Hook them over the armrests.”

I hum and do as directed. He moves around the desk and stands so he can see all of me. With my legs splayed like this, he has a prime view of my pussy. And damn if that doesn’t excite me more. Adding to the fact that I can’t see his face, or much of anything besides the light aimed on me.

“Touch yourself. Sink your fingers into your greedy cunt.”

Something in my chest tightens. I run my finger through my center, collecting the wetness there. My thighs tremble. I pay attention to my clit for a moment, rubbing tiny little circles, until Miles tsks at me. My cheeks flame, and I move my hand lower. A single finger inside my cunt. I thrust it in and out until Miles makes another noise, and I add a digit.

“Keep going.”

Okay, I mouth. I don’t have words. I finger-fuck myself, legs spread like a whore.

“Good girl,” he murmurs. “You look so pretty on camera.”

I freeze, orgasm forgotten. My cunt clenches around my fingers, but I pull them out and grip the armrest.

He chuckles, and suddenly he tosses the phone on the desk. It’s facedown, so the light—and if he’s still recording—illuminates more of the room while only capturing the ceiling.

I see him better now.

He’s got his shirt off, his glorious abs on display and his pants undone and shoved down. My panties are in his grip, and he’s sliding it along his length. Stroking himself off with the silk.

My lips part.

He gets closer, still jacking himself off with my panties.

I narrow my eyes at it. The little glimpse of the metal piercings flash through the blue silk that he picked out this morning. Yeah, we’re still doing that. I’ve given up on trying to change it and secretly kind of like it.

Except when he’s being a dick, like right now.

He’s close enough that his fist is jerking himself off even with my breasts. I sit up straighter, reaching for him, but he catches my fingers and intertwines them with his. Keeping my hand away.

And then he’s groaning, and he covers the head of his dick with the fabric in his grip. His balls tighten, lifting closer to his body, and his cock twitches. I bet it’s throbbing in his grasp.

He finishes and helps me off the chair. I stand, my body pressing to his. He doesn’t give me room to breathe. He barely ever gives me room to think. But then he’s turning me around and putting my hands on the wall, and he’s kneeling behind me.

“Miles—”

His nose is in my cunt. Inhaling. His teeth nip at me, his fingers separate me. He devours me like this, like he’s never tasted anything so good, and my head hangs down. Every inch of me is tensing up. He keeps me on the edge for seconds, minutes. Time drags out, and his movements stay slow and methodical.

“God,” he groans. He shifts. His breath coasts along my ass cheek.

I should expect his teeth—but I don’t.

He bites me, and I jump forward. Without anywhere to go, really, he easily drags me back. He bites again, harder, and I whimper. His fingers massage it. His other hand is still between my legs, working magic on my clit.

Until he rises and lines up behind me.

Then I understand that this was just him warming up.

“Hold the wall,” he grits out.

I barely have time to readjust my palms and brace myself. He slams into me with the force of a hurricane, and I scream. It just comes out. A wordless, breathless torrent. He fucks me with unmatched vigor. Every time his hips slap into my ass, it feels like a spank. Pain and pleasure have me captivated, and the noises that come out of my mouth—I don’t even know what I’m saying.

Some sort of plea. To release me, to fuck me harder. Nonsensical begging.

He cups my breasts, curving around me to lift my upper body and pin it against him. His hips continue to pound into me, but now we’re moving forward. I’m smashed between the wall and him. Only his hands on my breasts, rolling my nipples, act as a buffer. My cheek is on the cool paint, no doubt leaving behind makeup and sweat and tears.

“Do bad girls come?” He nips my earlobe.

“No,” I groan.

He slams to a halt, fully inside me. His forehead touches my shoulder, and his fingers tighten on me to the point of bruising, and he comes hard.

My body is on fire.

Pulsing and tense.

I swallow and take a deep breath, knowing that everything leading up to this moment was just foreplay. And this is the punishment.

He steps back and turns me around. I stare at him, but his face is completely in shadow. He retrieves my panties from where he must’ve tossed them on the chair, and he kneels. He maneuvers one leg through its hole, then the other.

I forget that he came in them until he’s got them back around my hips, and the cool wetness greets me.

“Ah, ah,” Miles admonishes, putting his finger to my lips. “It’s this or no panties at all. And then my fresh cum will seep out of you and wet the crotch of your jeans. Would you like everyone to know what we did?”

Pretty sure they already know.

He smirks and grabs his phone.

He stops recording, the light extinguishing.

We stay still in the darkness for a moment, and then his flashlight comes back on. He finds our clothes, tossing mine to me. Bra, shirt, jeans. Shoes. Jacket.

I put it all back on silently, fighting off the urge to run away and finish the job Miles started.

“Does it burn?” he asks me, his eyes hungry. “Tell me what it feels like.”

“It feels like I’m going to explode.”

“But you’re not,” he confirms. “You’re my dirty little whore when I want you to be, but when we’re with our friends, you’re just a good girl with a secret. Isn’t that right?”

I frown.

He reaches out and strokes my cheek with the back of his hand. Those knuckles that can do so much damage are calming on my hot skin. And I am hot. Burning up, as he said.

He opens his arms, and I step into them.

Automatic response.

What’s wrong with me?

But my arms wrap around him, and his around me, and I can’t help but feel like his words are true. Good girl with a secret. His dirty little whore. Both exist, both are true, and he frees both of those sides of me.

There’s something darker at work here, though. Another bet I haven’t spotted, a game in which the rules are in a foreign language. The other shoe about to drop and crush my heart before I can even give it away.

The longer I stay in his embrace, the more I want to run away.