Page 8 of Pucking Vamps

I shove into him again, causing him to slide backwards on the ice from the force of it. “Unlike you, loser, I don’t need to buy my fucks. Or pretend I don’t like dick.”

His eyes go wide, rage burning in them. Yeah, buddy. I’ve seen how you ogle the guys’ assess. You can pretend all you want, and you might be able to fool everyone else, but I know you aren’t as straight as you make yourself come across.

“The fuck you said, Johnson, huh? Not everyone is a bitch that likes to take it up the ass like you.”

It stings how accurate that accusation is after last night. Club Guy’s thick cock is all I’ve been thinking about this morning. I just can’t get it out of my fucking mind. The way it moved inside me, the pressure and burn of the stretch. My body is addicted and there is no rational explanation for it other than me liking it. Some hidden preference got triggered and now that I’ve tasted it, there is no turning back.

“Oh shit! You do, don’t you?” Park snorts, a shadow of something crossing his punchable freckled face. “Listen up, guys! Our left wing likes to take co—”

I send my fist under his chin. It makes a nasty thwack sound upon contact. His head tilts back, and he stumbles from the force of my hit, barely keeping his balance on the ice. I don’t give him the chance to recuperate. I’m onto him, punching and hitting whatever part I can get to. I know he is some billionaire’s spoiled rich brat, which only makes my blood boil and my heart hammer faster in my chest.

I hate privileged assholes like him. Just because your mommy or daddy or grandparents lucked out on money and brought you up without a care in the world doesn’t mean you own it. And Park… He’s one of the worst and needs to be brought down from his high horse, so I might as well do that, right? I’m doing society a favor.

A hook gets me in the flank. Grunting, I twist to the side, punching him in the stomach. He groans, baring his teeth at me.

“You are dead, Johnson, you hear me!”

A well-timed knee surprises me, but I gather myself quickly enough to avoid a jab to the nose. It gets the side of my jaw instead, making my teeth clatter, but at least I won’t be dealing with a broken nose. One of the others who have now surrounded us shouts for us to stop, but neither I nor Park are in any state to do that, so there isn’t an actual attempt to get us off each other. The guys know better than to get between two players having a scuffle.

I get Park in the side of the neck. He sways and I’m just about to knock him out when a scream to stop splits the air.

“Johnson! Park!” the coach yells, his voice icier than the rink. “Cut it out!”

I freeze. Park freezes, too. At least for a moment. Then he drops to the ground like a bag of potatoes and curls into a ball, whimpering and panting and playing the victim.

I blink at him, my brain not braining.

He did not.

Coach rushes over to us, giving me a nasty side-eye as he crouches down to check on Park. “Park, can you stand?”

The redhead moans in reply, overplaying it. “I don’t know. Johnson got me in the face. I think my nose might be busted.”

I roll my eyes. Is he seriously doing this? Throwing me under the bus like this? I did hit him in the face, but his nose is fine. At most, he has a chipped tooth or something.

“Let me have a look.” Coach sighs, helping Park into a sitting position. He inspects the asshole’s face for a tense minute, exhaling in relief. “It’s not broken, but your chin is bruising. Go put something on it. You are sitting the rest of practice out on the bench.”

“Yes, Coach.”

With the help of his two cronies, Park leaves the rink, disappearing down the hall leading to the changing room.

“Johnson. In my office,” Coach grates, annoyance contorting his features.

“Coach! He was say—”

“In. My. Office.”

Balling my hands into fists, I storm out. I catch Nick’s concerned glance, but there is nothing I can do. I messed up getting caught pummeling the spoiled rich brat, and even though it was a mutual effort, because of who he is and who I am, I am the only one that’s going to get burned.

Fan-fucking-tastic. Just what I needed.

“Sit,” Coach tells me in his authoritative voice. “How many times have I told you two not to fight?”

His raised tone makes me want to find a hole in the ground and hide there. I am not the most adept when it comes to reeling certain emotions in, but he has to know I wouldn’t have hit Park for no reason.

“His big mouth started it. I asked him, nicely, to shut up but he wouldn’t.”

“I don’t care. I thought I was clear last time.” He paces over to the window that overlooks the rink, rubbing his forehead. “It was only yesterday. Jesus Christ! You need to get your shit together or sitting out the next game will be the last of your concerns.”

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