Page 50 of Their Obsession

I rise to meet his gaze. He’s only a few inches taller than me but his dark presence is opposing even to the biggest of men. I cup his cheek in my hand, stroking the coarse stubble with my thumb.

“Don’t worry about me. Just focus on scoring. I want to show our girl that she picked a pair of champions,” I tell him with a small smile.

He pulls my hand from his cheek before bringing my palm to his mouth and placing a chaste kiss against my skin.

“We win the whole thing, and maybe I’ll let you fill my ass the way you filled Lilly’s earlier,” I tell him. I’m half kidding…maybe.

Dmitri’s eyes alight with a dark fire that I’ve come to know well. His hand circles my throat as he pushes me up against the lockers. My head hits the metal with a crash that echoes through the empty room. His lips are on mine before I can even register what’s happening. Our tongues brush against each other, fighting for dominance.

“Is that a promise?” he whispers across my lips when he finally pulls back from our kiss.

“Yes,” I tell him before placing a final peck across his swollen lips.

“Then let’s go get a fucking trophy, Rookie,” he says as he releases me. I grab my stick and my helmet and march towards the exit. He smacks my ass as we walk and I shoot him a warning glance. He just smiles back and cocks an eyebrow at me.

This fucking man.

With each step closer to the ice, my nerves wrack higher and higher.

“You’ve got this, pretty boy. Go out there and give them hell,” Dmitri whispers before sailing past me and stepping out into the bright lights of the arena. The stadium erupts with hollers and cheers as the bad boy of the league skates out in front of them. They may think he belongs to them—their superstar; but he’s mine. Mine and Lilly’s. The real Dmitri is protective and caring. And he’s ours. That knowledge warms my core. I smile before stepping out onto the ice.

My skates slicing through the slick surface of the ice is a rush like nothing else. The cold air in my lungs. The sounds of the game, the lights, the energy of the arena—it’s the highest highone could ask for. As if I’m somehow weightless and endless. And now I’m playing not just for a win but for a championship.

Forget ‘mindset of a winner.’ I want to have the mindset of a motherfucking champion.

And when I raise that trophy high above my head, I want my man by my side and my girl looking on in adoration.

My eyes instinctively fly to the stands as I loop around, skimming the boards and stretching my stiff legs. I’m a bit sore from our extracurriculars earlier, so I need to warm up and stretch quickly and efficiently. Lilly is in her normal seat. She looks so pretty. Her soft strawberry-blonde locks are shimmering under the bright lights. But it’s the warm smile and slight flush in her cheeks that makes my heart feel like it’ll beat out of my chest.

I come to an abrupt stop. Ice sprays across the boards. I bend forward, stretching my calves. The slight burn is strangely pleasant, as if my body knows the pain. I sink down, stretching my hip flexors and quads in a low frog stretch with my arms on my stick out in front of me. I pulse my hips, sinking deeper into the stretch.

“Keep moving like that, Rookie, and we’re not going to make it through the game,” Dmitri growls in a very low voice, quiet enough for only me to hear, as he skates past. My cheeks heat at his insinuation.

The clock ticks down until warm-ups are over and we’re hustled off the ice. I hear Coach’s speech, the pregame announcements, the anthem, but the entire time I’m in my own head, in my own world. I block out the outside noise, the intrusive thoughts, the worry and anxiety; and I just envision the win. I visualize the win. Again. And again. And again. It’s my night. Our night. Our fucking win.

Or maybe not.

“At the end of the second period, your Southern Storm are down one-zero.” The announcer’s voice echoes off the metal walls of the arena.

Fuck. We’re going to get blown out in game one. It’s been a fucking battle out there. Both sides showed up to play tonight.

“Shit, they’re playing like their fucking lives depend on it,” Max grumbles as we enter the locker room, vocalizing what we’re all thinking.

“They want to win and we’re just out there like it’s practice,” someone else grumbles.

I hang my head and let out a few breaths. Only one goal against us and I wasn’t even on the ice for it. Salazar looks defeated besides only letting in one goal. We’ve held our defensive line well. But we need to do more. We need to score. It doesn’t matter how cohesive you are, how well the defense plays, if the goalie has amazing saves—at the end of the game all that really matters is the score, and if you don’t put the puck in the motherfucking net, you’re going to lose. And I’m not a loser. I’m not a quitter.

“We just need one goal.” I say more to myself then others but eyes turn to look at me.

“One more goal to tie,” Max corrects me. He’s not wrong.

“One more goal,” Dmitri repeats, giving me a small nod.

“One more goal,” someone else echoes. And another and another until the entire room is chanting, “Just one more goal.” Sticks beat against the floor and fists hit lockers until the noise deafens even the sound of my heartbeat in my ears.

“Enough!” The coach hollers, silencing us all. “Go fucking score one more goal then!”

We all shout and cheer as we stand. One by one we file from the room, renewed energy sparked in our veins. It’s like an electriccurrent is running through us all—charging us, connecting us.

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