Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
A dream two-way center, so to speak. He probably has all the hotshot NHL coaches and agents drooling to have him on board.
And I want to crush that.
Him.
I want to slice him open and see what lurks behind the facade carved by God’s worst sense of humor.
We’re dancing around each other as he tries to get past me.
Not going to happen.
I don’t even like defense, but today, I’ve decided I’ll humble this peasant so he can retreat to whatever hole he crawled out of with his tail tucked neatly between his legs.
“Tell me, Osborn.” I skate in front of him, keeping up with his fluid movements. It comes naturally to me because I’m lithe, but how the hell can he move like that with a giant’s frame?
“Anything, princeling.”
“Is your mama still in the business of riding rich guys’ dicks? Because I have a huge cock she can sit on all night. I’ll pay her for the trouble, too, so that she can buy you a new stick.”
His smile falters. Mine widens.
That’s it.
Break for me, Osborn.
Just like the rest of them.
He knocks his helmet against mine, and I hold him in place, pushing as hard as he does.
This is how it’ll go. Osborn will hit me, and we’ll have the best power play while he sits in the box like a sad kicked puppy.
His breath spills into mine, a rush of adrenaline and raw heat blending with the wild hum of the crowd around us. Their roars thrum beneath my skin like fuel.
“I have a better idea.” He gets close, so close his knee is shoved between mine, and despite the protective gear, it’s as if he’s kneeing me in the fucking balls.
His voice dips closer to a murmur, low enough to raise the hairs at the back of my neck.
“You should sit on my huge cock, Armstrong. If you’re good enough, I might pay you the rate of a low-rent whore.”
This fucking—
I lunge at him, hitting him not so cleanly, and the whistle screams like it’s personally offended. At that exact moment, Osborn checks me into the boards so hard, it rattles beneath our weight as the crowd loses its mind.
My ears start ringing, the whole arena sounding like it’s buried somewhere underground, and my vision goes fuzzy as he lifts me.
All of me.
The motherfucker actually hauls me up by my collar and shakes me like I’m a snow globe, then cracks his helmet against mine. My sight is swimming in a blurry daze, but I still shove at him with everything I’ve got.
“Is that a no to my offer?” His rough words push past the chaos, the crowd’s noise, the screams of our coaches and teammates.
“Just so you know.” I’m grinning before I even register the metallic flash on my tongue. “I’m going to kill you, Osborn. I’ll chop you into tiny pieces, feed you to the sharks, and keep your skull on my nightstand as a candleholder.”
“Will that be before or after you bounce on my cock like a good little slut?”
I growl deep in my throat as I’m about to punch him, but he’s yanked back by none other than Jude.
Fuck this shit.
Soon enough, Jude and Osborn are at each other’s throats as both teams try to separate them.
I stand up, and the ref waves me off toward the fucking box.
“Seriously? Me?” I yell, then force myself to calm the hell down, because what in the ever-loving fuck is going on right now?
If someone could explain, that would be perfect, thanks.
At the lack of a satisfying reply, I skate toward the box, remove my helmet, and try as hard as fuck to be cool.
Breathe.
Just breathe, me. No, we’re not used to the box, but I need to chill the fuck out and not let that degenerate get into my head.
Isn’t it too late, though?
Shut it, demon of reason. No one needs your useless commentary.
I remove my mouthguard and swallow the metallic taste that’s flooding my senses. No, literally, I’m seeing fucking red.
“Everything all right, Pres?”
Kane’s the one who just spoke through the glass, although his attention is divided between me and Jude, who’s still trying to fight Osborn as the crowd goes wild.
“Never been better.” I lick my split lip, running my tongue across the cut over and over again.
Every sting of pain reminds me that I need to inflict it ten times worse.
Bring that bitch down.
Make him fucking crawl.
“Don’t clash with Osborn,” Kane says. “He doesn’t fall for provocations.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“Just leave him to me.”
“No, he’s mine. Stay out of it.”
Kane’s brows pinch together, but he’s distracted. Jude is being Jude, and the other team members can’t control him, so Kane skates to the middle of the brawl.
Letting out a grumble, I flop onto the bench in the box, chugging half a bottle of water.
Finally, the teams break Jude and Osborn apart, sending each toward his respective side.