Secret Obsession: A Dark Hockey Romance (Hockey Gods)

I sit outside the bathroom door, frowning down at my phone. I should be in the bathroom, but she managed to get it locked before heaving her guts out. If I was nice, I’d be in there with her, locked door or not. You know, to hold her hair and rub her back.

As it is, I’m not nice. And the sound of her throwing up vaguely makes me nauseous, too.

My current screen is information on the pill that makes your body unable to process alcohol. It’s prescription only, but this is Crown Point. There are dealers for everything if you know where to look. Find me a college campus that doesn’t have a guy with connections to the local pharmacy, I dare you.

It’s got too many side effects for my comfort.

And getting Willow dry needs to be painful but not dangerous.

I eye the door again. She’s gone silent.

Maybe that’s my solution. Every time she has a drink, I get her drunk enough to throw up? Or…

Fuck, I don’t know.

Movement on the stairs draws my gaze. Finch has a pretty girl hooked under his arm, and a smirk firmly in place.

I wasn’t too sure about him, but I think my brother and our friends are rubbing off on him. Hudson Finch used to be nice. That niceness has flaked to the floor like peeling paint, leaving behind a rough shell.

Good for him, though. Hockey isn’t for the nice.

It’s for the angry.

It’s for those of us who need to rage against something—or, more often than not, someone.

They pass me without comment, disappearing into Finch’s room. The door closes softly behind them, and the high-pitched moans start up almost immediately.

Funny, that.

Ah, well. He’ll learn that puck bunnies like to put on a show. Brush your finger over their tit, and they’ll pretend they’re coming. Learned that one from watching my brother pick up a girl my freshman year. He basically blew her mind, then shoved her toward me.

And then she blew me.

The girl in question turned out to be a bitch named Paris, a grade-A puck bunny with a golden tongue. Too bad she was a raging bitch when her mouth wasn’t full of cock. She’s graduated now, thank God.

I hop to my feet and try the bathroom doorknob. It’s still locked, but we keep a long, slim nail on top of the frame for situations just like these. I run my finger along the top until I find it, then insert it into the little hole in the knob.

It unlocks with a click, and I replace the nail. Then I enter.

Willow’s arm is stretched out along the edge of the toilet, and her head is resting on it. Her eyes are closed, her breathing even.

Well, shit.

I pick her up, shifting her until her head rolls onto my shoulder. And then I bring her to bed, because… well. Worst pretend boyfriend of the year award goes to me?

She doesn’t wake up, and I don’t try any funky business. She’s already in just my briefs and the band t-shirt she wore today. She didn’t make any attempt to do anything when we got back here. She just crawled into bed, and that lasted about an hour.

And now we’re here.

I continue researching tough-love ways to get her to stop drinking.

She uses it as an escape for the hard shit. Like getting over my brother, or dealing with his betrayal, or anything that requires emotions. Hell, she might even be drinking to conceal how she feels about me.

Not to me, obviously. I’m not stupid. But to herself.

I get a text, drawing my attention from the webpages.

JACOB

You up? I have it.

Yep. Meet you outside?

I loathe leaving her in her sleep—a particular sore point for her—but this is more important. And with the way she’s snoring, I don’t think she’s going to wake up for a few hours.

Be there in 5.

I smile to myself and hop out of bed. I pull shoes on and make my way downstairs, flipping on our porch light. In less than five, Jacob’s truck coasts down the street. I jog down the walkway to meet him.

He rolls down his window. “Do you need help?”

I shake my head. I mean, in theory, probably. But also, I’d rather not risk Willow waking up to Jacob leaning over her. “I heard your explanation last time.”

He frowns. “Okay.”

“Where do you even get this shit?”

“I know a guy.”

Well.

“You know you’re welcome here if you ever want to… hang out.” I cross my arms over my chest, silently cursing my lack of a jacket. We’re supposed to be indestructible hockey players, impervious to cold—or whatever people say about us. But damn it, my nipples are going to fall off.

“My little vacation has run out of time,” he says, holding his hand out through the window. “I appreciate that, though, man.”

I shake it. “Next time you pass through here.”

“Definitely.”

I take the paper bag with me, and Jacob rolls up his window. At the kitchen table, I empty it and spread everything out. I get the instrument ready, then make sure it’s connected to my phone. There’s a little chip number and everything.

A chill races through me.

I want to do this, but I also know that Willow will freak out when she discovers it. Aspen and Steele still haven’t had this conversation yet—and I’m crazy enough to want to be around for that show.

Back upstairs.

I gently roll Willow onto her stomach, parting her hair to expose the back of her neck. It just… goes in, I guess. I mean, could I have paid slightly better attention to Jacob’s instructions? Yeah. Too late now. I hold the back of her neck, lest she starts squirming or suddenly becomes conscious, and push the inserter into her skin. She lets out a whimper but doesn’t otherwise stir. Not even when I press down on the trigger and the chip finds its new home.

Satisfaction rages through me. I pull it out gently, then replace the bandage that’s been hiding Amanda’s nail marks. They’re healing well, though. Another one might escape Willow’s notice, and in a few days, they’ll all be healed enough that she won’t give them another thought.

I check my phone again, and her blue dot shows up on the app.

I’m hard in an instant. I toss the inserter thing into the drawer in my nightstand and my phone on top of it. She’s not wearing panties, and I slouch out of my sweatpants. I part her legs, guiding her so she’s more on her stomach than her side, and run the tip of my cock through her center. She’s wet. Even asleep.

I push into her, groaning at the tightness of her. Her muscles clench around me automatically, and I thrust in deeper. Until I’m buried inside her to the hilt.

My self-control isn’t all here.

I fuck her fast, every jerk of my hips on her ass slamming the headboard against the wall. She’s not waking up because the alcohol still has her firmly in its grip. And this is the last time this will happen.

I run my hands over her body, cupping her perfect breasts, and bury my face in her back when I come.

My erection doesn’t fully disappear. It stays hard enough that I remain inside her, keeping my cum trapped. And she doesn’t make a noise when I adjust our positions to sleep. Her floral scent, and that of sex, wraps around me.

Before I fall asleep, I’m fully hard again. I relish the thought of fucking her when I’m asleep, too. Like our bodies just can’t help but move together on a subconscious level. It should be subconscious. As easy as breathing.

Like love.

Well, I knew I was obsessed with her. It should be fucking obvious that I’m in love with her, too.