Page 2 of Offside Devil

“But you’re so, so pretty.” He advances on me, fidgeting sideways like a crab. “I just wanted to…”

To what—kill me? Assault me? Eat me sauteed over a bed of rice? He lets the end of the sentence go unfinished, which is the most horrifying possible choice, though I’m not sure he even knows it. He’s just exuding craziness. Slasher movie levels of Do Not Venture Near This Guy.

But there’s nowhere for me to go. He’s in between me and the only door.

I breathe and try to draw on my six years of kickboxing lessons, but I can barely recall the difference between a jab and a hook right now. My fists ball up anyway and I drop into a crouch.

I may be nearly naked, and this man may have a hundred pounds on me.

But my God, I won’t go down without a fight.

As it turns out, I don’t have to fight at all. Because just as the creep’s hand is reaching out toward me, those pale, bloodied stumps of his fingernails looming closer and closer…

The door bursts inward.

And a whole new threat arrives.

2

ZANE

Until five minutes ago, I was having a good day.

Not so much anymore.

Outside the huge windows of the Bean & Whatever the Fuck This Place Is Called, the sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and life is just fucking peachy. I was practically levitating as I parked my Ferrari and strolled up to the coffee shop. Walkin’ on goddamn sunshine.

Then I saw Coach Popov sitting with Carson fucking Deluth at the corner window seat, and I knew my day was about to get a hell of a lot worse in a hurry.

Keep your shit together, Whitaker, I counsel myself. There’s a lot riding on today’s little impromptu coffee chat. It’s gonna be a big season for the Phoenix Angels—or at least, it will be if I have my way.

After all the shit I’ve been through, all the dark paths I’ve wandered down, it feels good to finally be in the spotlight again. I’m determined not to blow my chance. You don’t get too many of those in this life, and the devil knows I’ve burned through more than my fair share of them.

I’ve got the scars and nightmares to prove it.

But today’s about moving past the past, not reliving it. Coach wanted to put our heads together to align on expectations for the upcoming season. I’m thinking big—MVP trophies for me, Stanley Cups for the team, goals and assists and highlight reel moments galore.

That’s all fine and dandy. But it does beg the question: Why the hell is Carson here?

My jackass teammate does not factor into my plans. If it were up to me, I’d staple his ass to the bench for good. He’s been nothing but a thorn in my side since we got drafted together. Whatever skill he has on the ice is completely outweighed by how much of a dickhat he is to deal with off of it.

But I’m not dealing with that shit. Not this year. Not on this team. The Angels are my squad, and if Deluth thinks he can stand in the way of that…

He’s got another thing coming.

I need a sec to get my shit together, though. To put on my game face, so to speak. So I pretend I don’t see the two of them huddled together in the corner and instead, I saunter up to the counter.

There’s a little spitfire of a thing working the register. Jet-black hair like Wednesday Addams with the black nail polish to match, a tiny silver nose piercing like a metallic freckle, and bright green eyes. She’s got her lips pursed in a perma-scowl and an insolent arch in her eyebrows.

I shake my head and tell myself to mind my own business. After Paige, you’d think I’d be done with feisty succubi who don’t know the meaning of “professional responsibilities.”

But “After Paige” is a little bit of a misnomer in and of itself. She’s still there. Burned into my veins in a metaphorical sense. Scarred into my skin in a more literal one.

Nearly four years later and I still can’t get her out of me.

I wonder if I ever will.

Hell, now that I tune in, even the song on the radio reminds me of her. Like the universe is playing some sick, cosmic joke on me. I hear that familiar refrain and just like that, I’m transported back to being in the car with her, the chorus blaring on the radio as we hurtled closer and closer to?—

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