Secret Obsession: A Dark Hockey Romance (Hockey Gods)

My lungs ache. The last thing I remember was taking gasping breaths, then nothing. More darkness, but it seemed worse than the pitch-black I was locked in. This was endless, and I was falling through it without a parachute.

But then cool, stale air rushed into me, and the familiar scent of Miles curled in my nostrils. His voice in my ears.

Another hallucination.

But when I asked if I was dead, his voice was a sweet melody. Sweet and sad, and he denied death. The pain in my muscles and joints came back next. My head was pulsing, a migraine of epic proportions brewing behind my eyes.

Miles loves me.

He told me. Again. And it sounded more like a plea, or an apology.

Except Miles Whiteshaw doesn’t apologize.

He put his folding knife in my hands. I blink at it and try to get my numb fingers to work, to flip open the blade and slice through the tape. It takes me too many tries to get the blade pointed the right way, and then the right leverage. Force.

The blade slips through the tape as soon as I get it started. I sit up and glance over at Miles. He’s on his knees, glaring up at the brother of the guy he killed without a shred of fear.

Me? I have plenty of fear.

“Are you sorry for killing my brother?” he asks Miles. “Your final words, Whiteshaw. Better make it count.”

My heart kicks it into high gear. I cut the tape away from my ankles and move to a crouch. When neither notice me, I swing my leg out. Then the other. I land silently and step forward.

The gun is in Miles’ face. He’s going to fucking obliterate him.

But Miles says, “If I knew this was how it would end, I would’ve tortured him a bit more first.”

I’m not losing him.

I lunge forward and swing with the knife. It buries in the back of the guy’s knee, and he lets out a yell. A split second later, the gun goes off.

I scream, the noise tearing from my throat as I rip the blade out.

He comes to his knees. I leap onto his back and wrap my arm around his throat, and I finally get a good look at Miles.

His face hasn’t been ruined by a bullet. He’s on his side, staring up at us.

But then the man seems to get it together, and he grabs at my wrist.

I let out a scream and bring my other hand around, squeezing my eyes shut. I drag the blade across his throat. It hurts. My grip is all wrong, and the blade bumps in my hand as it catches on something.

His windpipe?

Hot blood coats my hand and the arm still around him. He lets out a gurgle noise.

Oh my god.

I release him and shove off his back, falling to my ass behind him. All I can do is stare at the blood pouring onto the concrete in front of him.

I just killed him.

Or—well—he’s dying.

Miles staggers up and takes my hands, helping me to my feet.

“You okay?” he yells.

I touch his jaw. “I’m fine.”

“What?”

There’s blood in his ear. Shit. Did the gun go off right next to his head?

“We need to go.” I yank on his hand.

He follows right behind me, only pausing to lift the knife from my trembling hand. He folds the bloodied blade and sticks it back in his pocket, and we race out of the basement. He slams the door shut behind us, as if to keep the horrors from following us.

Fat lot of good that will do.

He pulls out a phone—not his own—and dials. He hits the speaker button. “I can’t hear shit,” he says in a too-loud voice.

“Miles?” Knox’s voice.

My gut sours, and bile rushes up my throat.

“It’s Willow. And you better give the phone to someone else before I hang up.”

“I’m here,” Violet interrupts. “Are you okay?”

“Miles got me out.” I reach over and take his hand. “We’re okay.”

He comes closer automatically, wrapping his arms around me. My head fits perfectly tucked under his chin, and he surrounds me better than a security blanket. Because he’s alive, and his hands coast over my skin like he’s making sure I’m really here, too.

“Where are you guys?”

“Grey and Steele are on their way,” Violet says softly. “He told me and Aspen to stay with Knox, just in case he tried to do something else…”

I press my lips together.

“They’ll be there soon. Hang tight, okay?”

“Okay,” I whisper.

Miles takes the phone back and hangs up, stuffing it back in his pocket.

“I love you,” he says.

“You’re still yelling,” I whisper.

“I can’t hear you.”

I smile. It makes it easier to say, “I love you, too.”

He grins. Oh, so he heard that?

“Asshole,” I add. But my smile widens, too.

Greyson and Steele arrive to help survey the damage. In this case, another freaking body in my house. Although I guess this area is technically not even mine, so… that’s better, right?

I stay on the staircase with Miles while they do something downstairs. I keep casting furtive glances, then outright staring, at my landlord’s apartment door. With all the hustle and bustle of activity, it seems strange that she hasn’t come out.

Finally, Miles rises and knocks on her door. He listens hard for a moment, then shrugs and tries the knob.

The door swings open easily.

We exchange a look, and I hop up. We walk into the apartment slowly. I automatically reach for the back of Miles’ shirt, fisting it and keeping myself close to him. Her apartment is stuffed to the brim, bordering on hoarding tendencies. The pathway into the kitchen and living space is narrow, hemmed in by stacks of books and boxes, side tables loaded with bits and bobs. Even two trash bags, tied off, lean against the wall by the door.

“I didn’t realize it was so bad.” I frown.

We step into the kitchen, and my heart sinks.

There’s blood on the floor.

“Don’t touch anything,” Miles calls back to me.

I nod once. We skirt the blood and continue on. Past the island, there’s a kitchen table with four chairs. It’s covered in mail and newspapers. Beyond that is a sliding glass door that leads to a small, unimpressive backyard. It’s always been overgrown, since I moved in, but seeing it in tandem with the apartment makes me nauseous.

Should I have seen the signs?

Offered to help? Mow the lawn or whatever?

“There,” Miles whispers, pointing to the living room. “She’s in there.”

We round the corner and both stop.

She’s dead.

There’s blood on her shirt. Her head is leaned back, her mouth open wide.

“He shot her,” Miles growls.

I tug him backward.

“This is a crime scene.”

“I don’t know how to explain this,” Miles says, his voice tinged with desperation. He whirls around and grabs my shoulders. “I don’t know how they won’t spin this into something it’s not.”

I meet his wild eyes. “It’ll be okay.”

I take his hand and lead him back outside. All the way, this time, to the front steps. I sit him down and go to the top of the basement stairs, calling for Greyson and Steele. When they don’t respond, I go down. And I find that nothing at all has changed. Not the position of the body, not the tape I left on the floor, not the blood pooling under him.

“The landlord is dead,” I tell them.

They both look at me.

I smile, but it’s desperate. “You both need to get Miles out of here. And… do either of you know a good lawyer?”