Brutal Obsession (64)

Stay after the game.





In your seat.





Why?





Because I fucking said so.





Sounds dangerous.





When have you not liked danger?





Admit it—there’s a thrill going through you right now. Maybe you’re squeezing your hand into a fist trying to fight it, or you’re clamping your thighs together. The thought of us alone… in this stadium?





I shiver and don’t answer him.

I can’t.

Because he’s right, his words do something to me. Something uncomfortable, that I’m not willing to admit. Not even to myself.

Knox scores with ten seconds left, officially breaking the tie. Willow—and the rest of the girls—jump up from their chairs, screaming and cheering. My own reaction is delayed, my phone clenched in my hand. I force myself to be happy, to clap and holler along with my friends.

There’s one more play, the ref dropping the puck, and then the buzzer sounds.

Game over.

The Hawks won—barely. By the skin of their teeth, with Greyson benched for the second half of the final period. Both teams look like they went through a war, but our blue-and-silver-clad team rushes out onto the ice in celebration.

“Come on,” Willow says, tugging on my hand. “We’re going out to celebrate.”

I smile and stay seated. “I’ll be right behind you.”

Her gaze sweeps my face, and she eventually nods. “Text me if you want me to come back to the hotel room. Even if it’s only ten minutes from now. Got it?”

My breath hitches, and I force another smile. “Got it. Thanks, Willow.”

She leaves with Jess and Amanda. It takes some time for everyone in the section to go. Paris doesn’t so much as look at me as she sweeps by, but I hear her mention Greyson. Maybe she thinks this is her own version of a power play. Doing what she does best, flirting with him in a crowd full of people.

I swallow.

Slowly, slowly, the whole stadium empties. A Zamboni drives out onto the ice, the driver old and weathered. He maps a crawling path around the rink, and the ice returns to a smooth, blank slate. I track him with my eyes, unable to do anything else.

My nerves are shot.

Eventually, he finishes and rumbles through the opening. Silence reigns.

It forces me to concentrate on my heartbeat. My body. The dull ache in my leg.

Nerve pain.

I don’t want to think about how long my body has betrayed me. I want… something more than a distraction. Something worse.

And then a door from the players’ bench swings open, and Greyson steps out onto the ice. He’s shed his pads, the uniform. He wears a form-fitting black sweater and jeans. His skates are laced over them. His hair is wet.

He glides to me and presses his hands to the glass.

We stare at each other, and then, with deliberation, he tips his head to the gate left open by the Zamboni. Do I want to go out onto the ice? Not particularly.

Still, I rise and find my way down there. It takes several painstaking minutes, and then I’m in a mat-covered hallway. I spot the Zamboni first, parked against a wall, and then the opening.

Greyson waits for me there.

His hands are wrapped, his left thicker than the right. It doesn’t stop him from extending them toward me, and it doesn’t stop me from taking them. He steadies me as I take my first step onto the ice.

My boots aren’t made for this. I slip a little, and he chuckles. He’s taller in skates. Whereas our height difference used to be manageable—annoying, but manageable—now he towers over me.

Without warning, he swings me up into his arms. One arm under my knees, the other against my back. His fingers curl on my ribcage.

I shriek and latch on to his shoulders. Some part of me is convinced he’s going to drop me in the center of the ice and watch me try to make my way back to the edge.

He grins. “You okay, Violent?”

I narrow my eyes.

“New nickname.” He skates away from the opening. His motions are fluid, easy. Like he was born skating, not walking. The air whistles past us as he picks up speed. “Do you like it?”

“Violent? Not particularly.”

“It suits you.” He flexes his left hand, just visible under my knees. “I blame you for this.”

“You would’ve done it regardless,” I argue.

He skids to a halt in the center and sets me down.

Shit.

See? I knew this was going to happen.

I hold on to his forearms once I’m upright, although I don’t expect to stay standing for very long. He spins me in a slow circle, rotating around me on his skates. My boots make my movement easy—as in, unable to stop myself from going wherever the hell he wants.

“You put the idea in my head.” He tips forward, putting his face in front of mine. “You fuck with me every chance you get.”

I laugh. It’s mean and coarse, even to my own ears. “I do? You’re one to talk.”

I release him and step back.

Bad idea.

My arms pinwheel, and I manage to latch on to him. Too late, my feet slip out from under me. I hit the ice hard on my ass, my legs between Greyson’s. His upper half is dragged down with me, doubling him over, but he manages to stay upright.