Secret Obsession: A Dark Hockey Romance (Hockey Gods)

I’m early to my first class of the day. We went over the syllabus on Tuesday, and now we’re going to be working on our first assignment: a still life.

Our easels are positioned in a circle around the room, pointed so we can all see the bowl of fruit positioned on a box draped in dark-blue velvet. It’s directly under a skylight. When the sun’s out, it creates sharp shadows and interesting lines. When it’s cloudy, like today, everything is softer.

“Ms. Reed,” the professor greets me, bustling inside. “While I appreciate timeliness, I believe you’re not supposed to be in this class anymore.”

I stop fiddling with my charcoal. “What do you mean?”

He sets his things down on his desk and pulls a folded envelope from his briefcase. “I request changes to my roster be printed because I’m dreadful with technology. But I received this today with your name on it from your academic advisor.”

He hands it to me.

I open it, my brow furrowing. It’s a notice of a class change. And sure enough, when I pull up my schedule in the portal, it’s registered there, too.

New class?

Drawing 101, right down the hall. And it started ten minutes ago.

“Professor, with all due respect, I had no idea about this. Can I just—”

“Stay?” He tuts. “Unfortunately, this class is pretty competitive. Your spot has already been filled. I’m sorry, Ms. Reed.”

My chest tightens. I was looking forward to painting a stupid bowl of fruit. And now I’m late to a class that I’m ill prepared for.

“Gather your stuff, I’ll walk you there,” he says. Still sympathetic—or maybe just plain pitying.

I mean, he kind of blindsided me here.

I nod, trying to ignore the lump in my throat, and collect my charcoal, the paints that I luckily hadn’t opened yet, my untouched palette. I stuff it all into my bag and follow him out the door. The drawing class is literally right around the corner, and he steps in with me right behind him.

This class seems similarly set up, everyone’s easels at an angle so they can see the center.

The professor spots her colleague and approaches. Her steel-gray hair is loose and curling around her face, and her skin is flawless. The gray is either an intentional choice or premature, because she doesn’t look older than forty.

“Willow Reed?” she asks me.

I nod once.

“Ms. Reed seemed to have forgotten about the switch,” my painting professor says. “Perhaps the registrar didn’t confirm the change.”

“No matter. Welcome, Willow. I’m Professor Hixby.”

“Nice to meet you,” I murmur.

She guides me in. “We’re working on capturing motion today. The class was about to pair up and draw their partner. I had planned on working with a student due to the odd number, but you can take my spot.” She stops at an easel. “Here you are. I have an extra syllabus printed, as well as materials you’ll be required to have for class.”

“Great.” I take a seat on the stool, eyeing the work on the paper that Professor Hixby must’ve done to demonstrate, then turn my attention to my partner.

And almost fall off the stool.

Miles tilts his head. “Surprised to see me?”

“You take a drawing class?”

My jaw works, and my mind races to put two and two together. He has an elective—obviously. He knew my schedule, since he forced me to give it to him at the beginning of the week. Of course, I crammed it with as much shit that I could in an effort to keep myself looking busy. It was almost too perfect how he managed to switch my classes. But he wouldn’t have been able to do that without someone signing off on it.

“Did you bribe my advisor?” I hiss.

He grins. “Me? Now, why would I do that?”

“This,” I motion between us, “is forcing me to spend time with you.”

“No, if I wanted to force you to spend time with me, I’d tie you up and keep you in my room like a good little pet.” He leans in, his eyes gleaming. “I’d cut off your clothes and make you kneel at my feet as I did my homework, with a gag in your mouth and your wrists bound behind your back. Maybe I’d put a vibrator in your pussy and watch you squirm and see how far I could push you before you begged for just a little more… pressure.”

My mouth is hanging open.

Not because I didn’t expect Miles Whiteshaw to be filthy-mouthed.

And definitely not because his words elicit a physical response in me.

Holy shit—he’s deranged. And I must be, too.

“The day I kneel at your feet is the day I die,” I manage to respond.

He shrugs, sitting straighter and focusing back on his easel. “We can simulate your death if you want, baby. But you’re not leaving this earth one second before me.”

I shiver.

The professor appears at my side with the syllabus and material list. After a quick scan, I pull out my charcoal pencils and show them to her. She nods, grinning, and reiterates what we should be doing. Capturing movement, the action of drawing.

And then she’s tearing her work from the pad and leaving it blank for me. It takes way too long for the newfound ache between my legs to fade. Matters are only made worse in that I have to watch Miles.

I sketch his profile, his nose, his chin, the slope of his throat. I’m a shit drawer, I realize. Especially when it comes to people. My figure doesn’t look anything like Miles.

“Looser lines,” the professor advises, halfway through the class. She grips my wrist and shakes my arm gently. “Draw with your whole arm, Willow.”

She says something to Miles, but I miss it. My face is on fire.

Why did I have to take an art class, at all?

Because I thought it would be fun?

Well, it’s not. It’s judgmental and hard and stupid, and my eyes are burning for no goddamn reason. I give up on watching Miles because it’s not helping. I instead turn to the clock, drawing the circle and the numbers, the hour hand, the minute hand, the blurred second hand. Capturing it mid-tick.

But really, just willing it to move faster.

I put more effort into it, trying to get all the little details in the shadows right.

Miles’ stool scrapes along the floor, and suddenly he’s looming over my shoulder. He snickers.

“Maybe you should stick to singing,” he says in my ear.

And then he’s moving past me, his bag over his shoulder. Most of the class is filing out along with him. A new blush rises to my cheeks. I was so desperate to get out of here, and now I’ve missed the end of class.

I hurry to put my things away and shove the syllabus into one of my notebooks. The professor waves goodbye, and out the door I go. I’ve got a math class after lunch, and homework due for it. It’s Quantitative Problem Solving, which is really fancy wording for applying math to real-life situations.

Although we’ve really only just started, it seems like an interesting subject. And hopefully useful in whatever career path I choose.

Computer science is supposed to open a lot of doors… except right now, it’s feeling more like a lot of them are slamming in my face.

My phone buzzes when I’m halfway to the coffee cart. I step off the sidewalk and answer Violet’s call with a frown.

“What’s up?”

“Are you on the warpath or something?” Violet asks.

I pause. “Um, not at this moment.”

“Where are you?”

I tell her.

“Stay right there. Don’t move. Seriously.”

“Okay, okay.” I look around, but the quad is empty. It’s a little early for lunch, I guess. And it doesn’t help that it’s freaking cold out, with another storm blowing in this weekend. Still, I stay where I am until I spot Violet coming from the parking garage.

She grabs my hand and tows me right back in the direction she came. She doesn’t stop until we’re at her car, both safely inside with the engine running. I put my hands in front of the vents, my teeth chattering.

“I could’ve waited for you at the student center,” I mutter.

“No, you couldn’t have,” she replies. “You’re in deep shit.”

“With who?”

“Amanda?” Violet scoffs. “Come on, Will, if you’re going to get revenge, you should tell me about it beforehand so I can try to help minimize the damage.”

“Um…” I shake my head. “Sorry, I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.”

My best friend stares at me. “It came from your phone.”

“What came from my phone?”

“The screenshots.”

I’m going to smack her. “Can you be any more cryptic?”

She winces.

Guilt immediately slaps me in the face, and I reach for her hands. “Sorry. Sorry, I don’t mean to take anything out on you. I’m just frustrated because of Miles, and… Can you just show me what you’re talking about?”

She grips my hands back. “Don’t apologize. I didn’t mean to be vague—I thought you were just playing dumb.”

“Well, I’m not dumb and I wouldn’t pretend to be.” I retract my arms, sitting on my hands. The heated seats are warming up, and I will take every ounce of it I can get.

Violet hands me her phone. My social media page. Calling out Amanda for being biased, for only wanting to be involved in the dance team because of its proximity to the hockey players. And the screenshots of her lusting after Steele, Knox, and a few others who have since graduated. Her messages to me about hooking up with them at parties, if I think low-cut shirts will do it or if she needs to be more forward…

“These conversations are from ages ago.” I shake my head. “Why…?”

“People are saying you’re sharing them out of spite,” Violet says. “Because Amanda kicked you off the dance team, you want revenge. But they’re saying you broke girl code or whatever.”

Oh, great.

“How—” I swallow my frustration. “Do you think my phone was hacked?”

“Maybe. Either way, we’ve got to perform some major damage control. You need to delete it and post… I don’t know, an apology or something. Or say they were edited—”

“I’m not going to cave.” I grit my teeth. Whoever did this wanted to cause harm. I’d never do that, no matter how much I wanted to punch Amanda for kicking me off the team. “I mean, yes, I’ll delete it.”

I pull up the app, but my social media won’t load. It just spins and spins. “I don’t think I have service down here. I’ll delete it later. Promise.” I hop out of her car. “I’ll just keep on the down-low, you know? It’ll be fine.”

She doesn’t believe me, but she gets out of the car and walks into the student center with me. There’s a little shop next to the dining hall that sells to-go sandwiches, and we both automatically head there instead of the dining hall.

I’m collecting dirty looks as we go, but I keep my gaze averted. Part of me wants to snap back at everyone, but it’s clear that whoever got into my socials wanted this to happen. And in a way, I’m in the wrong.

“Try to delete it again,” Violet urges.

I reload it, but nothing. Just a gray screen.

“This is fucking stupid,” I growl. “I’m going to have to do it on my laptop. Which is at home, of course.”

“I’ll give you a ride.”

We pay for our sandwiches and head back to Violet’s car. We get there without any trouble, but I can feel it brewing like a fucking storm in our wake. The way that thunderstorms send electricity into the air before lightning strikes—that’s what this is. My hair at the nape of my neck is standing up, and I’m on red alert all the way back to my apartment.

“Um…” Violet shifts in her seat. “I’d come up, but I promised I’d get drinks with Grey.”

“Not a problem,” I hop out and lean in the opening. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She smiles, but it’s tight. She’s concerned, and she has every right to be. I am, too. I get up to my apartment and lock my door, then go hunting for my laptop. To delete a post I didn’t even make, with screenshots that somehow came from me… but didn’t.

Which would be fine, if my laptop was here.

But it isn’t.

And, with a sick sense of dread, I have a feeling there’s exactly one person who would’ve broken in and taken it.