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)
“One,” I whisper near his face as he struggles to breathe, and the rest of our teammates speed off with the puck.
“Get the fuck off me,” he snarls, pushing me away.
I glide back in sort of a jerk, because as he spoke, the air tingled across my lips and went somewhere it shouldn’t.
No. This isn’t happening right now.
On the next attack, Armstrong is on me. He tries to check me, but I’m the one who does it, making him fly before he hits the ice with a thud. It’s not clean—we lose possession of the puck, and I’m sent to the penalty box.
But at least I drag Callahan to the box with me, because he started to fight me.
“Two,” I mouth to Armstrong from inside the box, waving provocatively, even if that tension in my body is coiling tighter.
He tilts his head to the side and flashes me a grin as he flips me off discreetly.
The moment I’m back, I check him again.
Then again.
And fucking again.
It’s the only way I can purge this tension spreading inside me. The rage and loathing and fucking…what?
What on earth is going on in my body right now?
In the third period, the Vipers are ahead and we’re scrambling to catch up.
Or the team is.
I’m more focused on Armstrong, following his every movement, matching him like a shadow.
When he has the puck, I’m in front of him.
“Careful, Osborn,” he mutters. “I’m starting to think you’re obsessed with me.”
“Obsessed with putting you in your place.”
“Try harder.”
He feints left, as sharp as a blade, then swerves right. I read it instantly and slam my shoulder into his. Hard.
He stumbles back—but not before hooking an arm and dragging me down with him.
A collective “Ahhh” roars through the arena as we hit the ice.
His helmet cracks against it with a hollow thud and a muffled “Fuck!” His expression is murderous, his face contorted with pain, probably because I’m crushing him.
That’s not what I’m focused on, though.
Despite the protective gear, I can feel my body lying flush atop of his, and that jolt sparks down my spine again.
Only, this time, it’s stronger and blurs my vision.
Armstrong swallows, and I’m staring at his Adam’s apple as it bobs up and down, his eyes widening upon focusing on me.
No idea what he sees on my face, whether it’s the manifestation of that tension or if it’s something murderous or entirely different, but his lips part in slow motion, and I can’t rip my gaze away.
From his lips, I mean.
No clue what the fuck I’m doing as I reach a hand to his face—his helmet, to be more accurate. I need it gone so I can…touch.
His lips. His eyes. His skin. Doesn’t matter where.
All I know is that I need to touch him.
Just once.
Once is enough.
“Osborn, stop looking at me like that—” His choked words are interrupted when I’m hauled away from him by none other than Callahan.
We break into a brutal fight. I punch him harder than I usually do in these skirmishes, because the useless piece of shit interrupted something.
What, I don’t know, but there was something.
It takes a lot of effort for our older teammates to break us apart, and we’re both sent into the box. Soon after, the game is finished.
But the tension I feel about Armstrong isn’t.
If anything, it’s wilder and deeper than any time before.
Next game.
I’ll get him in the next game.
I never actually got him. Except for recently, that is.
But after that specific game three years ago, something different happened—I started fucking men.
And the first guy I fucked was blond with a similar build to Preston’s. I might have imagined a different face when I pounded him doggy style.
I pictured bright-green eyes and the bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he stared at me with his lips parted while he was trapped beneath me.
I might have come the hardest I have in my entire life.
Now that I think about it, Preston was my queer awakening.
I don’t know what the fuck I would’ve done if Callahan hadn’t pulled me off him. I don’t think I would’ve been satisfied with just touching him.
I never have been.
Even now, I want to yank him from the ice and devour him.
Preston’s eyes meet mine during his greeting of the crowd and he pauses, his smile faltering before a frown appears between his brows.
I wave at him one finger at a time.
No, I shouldn’t be here when I have a game tomorrow, but let’s call it studying the enemy or something.
Soon enough, the game resumes, and Preston is a scoring machine. He cuts through the defense and exchanges the puck with Callahan and Davenport in pure showmanship.
The three of them have always made a great team, complementing each other perfectly.
But I don’t think that’s the only reason Preston is going above and beyond.
Because every time he scores, he stares at me. I repay him with a wink, a wave, or a thumbs-up. Sometimes smiling or nodding approvingly, which appears to bemuse him, judging by the frowns.