Secret Obsession: A Dark Hockey Romance (Hockey Gods)

Our second goalie, who isn’t the greatest goalie to ever exist, is Jeremy Blue. Nicknames include: Blue Jay—when he’s demonstrating that he can stop a puck, and because sometimes he resembles a blue bird flapping his wings in the crease—and Blue Balls. You know, when he’s holding out on us.

I sit off to the side, because Coach made it clear that I wasn’t playing today at all. I’ve got my pads on in case something goes wrong, and Blue Balls fucks it up and gets injured. But until then, I’m benched. All because of a little fight with Pierce.

Greyson, on the other hand, is out there skating for his life.

We’re playing the Shadow Valley Knights, and they’re out for blood tonight. They’re ranking a bit better than us at this point in the season, and they seem to remember the last time we played each other. The fight that Steele started with one of their best players, Josh Maverick.

I spot him now, gliding around the ice like a pompous peacock. Steele’s got his gaze on a swivel, seeming determined to check Maverick into the glass every time he gets the puck… and a few times when he doesn’t.

The whistle blows, and my attention drifts from Blue Balls to the stands next to me. True to my order, with some help from my teammates, Willow and her friends are seated behind the bench. She’s actually adjacent to me, which works out just fine.

I hit the button on the plug’s remote stashed in my pocket.

She was mid-conversation with Violet, but all of a sudden she goes rigid.

“Are you okay?” Violet says, maybe.

There’s a lot of noise in the stadium, and I’m mostly lip reading and anticipating. I up it a level, and Willow squeezes her legs together.

Do I want her to orgasm in front of her friends?

Not particularly.

But…

Nah, don’t do that.

She hasn’t come since she moved in with me. It’s only been a week, but she hasn’t said a word about it. I don’t even think she’s noticed.

My teeth grind together.

The play has resumed, drawing Violet’s focus back to the ice. Willow, however, turns and glares at me. Her hips are moving ever so slightly, and her eyes lose focus the longer I let it continue.

Her pupils are dilated.

I shut the toy off again, and she sags in her seat.

There’s a shout, and I jump forward to see what’s happening better. Our goalie caught the puck, but one of the Knights slammed into him. The net is askew, and Steele and Finch are on the asshole opponent in a split second. They shove him away, but it seems like the Knight doesn’t really give a shit. Because he’s got Finch in his grip, and they’re exchanging heated words.

The whole arena is yelling for a fight. Steele glides around Finch and the Knight, his gaze granite. And then Finch tosses his gloves to the ice, and so does the other guy. The crowd loses their minds. Even I find myself yelling for Finch to beat his stupid ass.

Blue Jay skates toward me, stepping off the ice. He grabs a towel and tears his mask off, holding it to his bloody lip. Not sure how he managed that with a full helmet on, but whatever. We both watch Finch and the Knight exchange blows, until Finch somehow manages to get the Knight down.

“That’s our boy,” I yell, banging my fist on the glass.

Good for him.

He’ll definitely get fucking laid tonight.

Coach glares at me. “Whiteshaw,” he barks. “Get on the damn ice.”

I smirk at Blue Jay—he’s got the good nickname for stopping them from scoring on that last shot—and slide my mouth guard in, then shake my hair back and put on my helmet.

Grab the stick and go. No time to waste.

There’s going to be a penalty for us, no doubt. Maybe both sides. But being down a defenseman isn’t something Coach wants to leave for the second-best goalie on our team.

Even if he promised I wouldn’t play tonight.

I take the ice. My muscles are warm, my skates sharp. I’m ready.

Part of being a goalie is keeping yourself limber while waiting for the play to get into your section of the rink. Another part is keeping a line of sight on the fucking puck.

Like now, when the ref is ready to drop the puck to my left. A Knight is right in front of me, trying to block my view. I crouch and look between his legs and watch Knox get control over the puck and send it across toward Rodrigues. Who passes it to Greyson, and the play shifts toward the other end of the rink.

And just like that, it comes flying back.

“Come on, fucker,” I mutter.

A Knight skates through my crease, and I spare a moment to shove him out of the way. They’ve got the puck, and they’re coming in aggressive. My gaze follows it, my body loose. It’s more instinct than anything.

They shoot, and my arm snaps up, blocking it off the pad on my arm. My heart jumps, and adrenaline crashes through me. I grin around my mouth guard. The puck is reclaimed by Greyson, who skates behind the goal and is slammed into the wall. They both fall, and I guard the corner of the net.

The puck comes wheeling toward me, almost like it’s going to go right past me parallel to the goal, and I dive on it. I pull it into my body.

A Knight skids to a stop in front of me, and suddenly my face is showered in ice shavings.

A whistle blows—but fuck that. I jump up, but Knox beats me to it. He shoves the guy backward, shit-talking and punching him at the same time. More Knights and Hawks players flood in, trying to get in on the action.

I tear off my helmet and gloves, sending them scattering across the ice, and jump into the fray. Never mind that my pads make my body bulky and slow my normal body movements. It’s meant to help me guard the goal, not get in fucking fights. I get off a few hits on random players, not really caring where I’m swinging.

A lineman—one of the refs—grabs me by the back of my jersey and drags me backward. My knuckles ache. There are fights everywhere. Rodrigues is mouthing off, but he’s being hauled backward by Finch. Knox and the asshole that shot ice in my face are still yelling and trading blows around the ref who’s trying to separate them.

Steele and Maverick are fighting.

Big surprise.

I hide my smile.

“Off the ice, Whiteshaw,” the lineman snaps, pushing me.

I realize we’re at the door, and I step off the ice.

“What the fuck?” Coach roars. “Jesus Christ, Whiteshaw. Sit. Don’t fucking move.”

I shake my head and wipe at my mouth. Someone got in a free hit. Don’t ask me who. But when I glance up at the stands, Willow’s seat is empty.

The fuck?

I bang on the glass separating me from them. Violet looks over, her brows furrowing.

“Where is she?” I yell.

Violet rolls her eyes. “She’s getting a drink. She’ll be right back.”

A drink, my fucking ass.

On the ice, Blue Jay has returned to his spot in the crease. And you know what? Fuck, it’s fine. But Willow’s not fucking drinking. I spot her coming down the stairs with a cup in her hand. She takes a sip, and my blood boils.

She was doing fine this whole time. The week was fine. She didn’t seem to struggle with not drinking—not that I gave her a fucking choice. Or put her in situations where I thought she might fail.

Like this.

She sits and doesn’t so much as look at me.

I just… I stare at her. Fuck the game and everything else, I can’t take my eyes off her. And the way her body loosens up the more she sips whatever’s in her cup, and her eyes lose their wild edge. Thalia gets her another one.

She’s sinking into oblivion right in front of me, and no one’s fucking saying a goddamn word about it.

She lifts the cup to her lips, and I hit the button on the remote. Her plug vibrates to life, and I click it through the levels until it must be wiggling in her ass. She jerks and spills the drink. It drips down her chest, soaking her shirt.

The buzzer sounds.

End of the first period.

I end the vibrations again, my thumb coasting over the smooth buttons. I follow my team into the locker room and listen to Coach berate all of us for playing like heathens. He’s smiling, though. I think he likes the aggression, but he’d never admit it.

Out we go. The second period passes faster than the first. Willow tries to drink, and every time, I punish her with the toy. Over and over again, until it seems like her stubbornness might win out against the battery.

But she doesn’t take it out, and she avoids my gaze.

Third period, and I’m dying to drag her out of here.

Finally, the fucking game is over. We won by the skin of our teeth. Four to three. Higher points than we usually allow in a game, but whatever. We got it done. I skate out to congratulate Blue Jay, fist bumping him before taking a lap of the ice. We trade handshakes with the other team, then we’re released.

We head back into the locker room and strip out of our gear. I take a sip of water and catch Steele’s eye. He wanders over. Coach is talking, so I tell him in a low voice what I need.

He nods.

Player of the night goes to Knox, unsurprisingly.

Finally, finally, Coach lets us go. We finish packing our equipment, and Steele stands.

“Party at my house tonight after Haven. We’re mixing it up.”

There are cheers around the room, and Knox flashes me a confused look. I shrug him off and continue with my laces, making sure everything is perfect for the next time I open my hockey bag. Not everyone is as anal—I know for a fact that my brother just throws his shit in his and hopes for the best—but I prefer to know exactly where things are.

Which is why I pull up Willow’s tracking data before I text her.

Where are you?

I already know she’s still in the stands. Maybe she’s talking to her friends or waiting for us to leave or… whatever.

WILLOW

Waiting for you

Okay. Maybe I believe it, maybe I don’t.

Meet me by the locker doors

I grab my bag, my keys, and nudge Knox. “You’ll distract Finch and Rodrigues tonight?”

He snickers. “You mean keep them at Steele’s? Yeah, dude, I can do that.”

My phone goes off again, and I glance down.

ASPEN

Steele said I should tell you…

W’s drunk. I think it’s kind of bad this time.

Fuck.

I crush my phone in my grip. At least, it feels like it. I go out of the locker room doors and find it empty, and I drop my sticks and bag on the floor. I follow the little blue dot up to the next level, the long wraparound hallway that has openings to each section, up and down.

I find Willow standing on one of the folding chairs, arguing with Violet.

Violet seems… stressed.

Greyson appears a moment later, his hand landing on my shoulder. “How do you want to play this? I’ve dealt with drunk Willow before, but…”

“Nah.” I shake him off. “I got it.”

“Ooh,” Willow jeers when she spots me, swaying on the spot. Only Violet and Aspen manage to keep her from pitching headfirst into the row lower. “Big bad goalie.”

I grit my teeth. I get to the row above her and stalk down, but she dances across the seats and skips down one.

I’m chasing a fucking five-year-old.

“Nice try, you asshole,” she calls over her shoulder.

Steele appears in the next aisle over, quickly jogging down. She’s too busy paying attention to me, trying to get away, and fails to notice the hulking defenseman blocking her route. O’Brien snatches her up and lifts her off her feet.

Willow screeches like a banshee.

The sound bounces around the nearly empty arena, garnering us a look from the Zamboni driver. I meet Steele in the aisle, and he hands her off to me. I adjust my grip on her, tossing her over my shoulder, and strike her ass once. Hard.

She falls silent.

Thank fucking God.

“Miles—”

“Save it,” I snap at Violet, who appears ready to take Willow from me. No one’s taking her from me. Not when she’s clearly determined to self-destruct.

Violet’s had a month to steer Willow onto a better path. Or provide any support at all—and she’s gotten worse.

At least I’ve noticed.

At least I’m trying to do something about it.

Willow’s gone limp over my shoulder, but I’m not fool enough to think she’s passed out. No, she’s probably biding her time. I feel her fingers tracing the edge of my sweatpants, pushing the hem of my shirt up to touch my skin.

It sends goosebumps through me, but I ignore it.

“Go have fun,” I tell them but focusing more on my friends.

With Steele and Greyson here to herd the girls away, I know there won’t be too much of an issue. Even Thalia doesn’t seem like she wants to put up much of a fight. So I stay where I am as they all shuffle up the stairs and out into the hall. I count in my head to a hundred, then I finally move.

I’ve been thinking about this for a while, but I kind of figured it would be a last resort. Something I wouldn’t have to use unless she forced me… and yeah, this kind of feels like I’m being backed into a corner.

But really, it’s about to be her backed into… well, far be it from me to ruin the surprise.