Page 8 of Brutal Game

So I followed her out the door, ignoring the surprise of the people around me. I had a princess to hunt, after all. And unlike Cinderella, she hadn’t left me with a glass slipper.

Once outside, I saw her disappear around the corner of the block. Deciding to follow her by car, I reached into my pocket for my keys —only to discover that Cinderella hadn’t left me a souvenir—she’d taken one.

My wallet, to be precise.

What the actual fuck?

Had she been playing me the whole time? Had theinnocent, I hate hockey players, especially youthing been an act? Did she just want my wallet? If so, why? She was smart enough to know I’d cancel my credit cards immediately, so it couldn’t be for money.

I touched my fingers to my lip. It was cut, and wet with blood.

Annoyed that she’d gotten one over on me—and equally intrigued thatanyonehad managed to steal from me without me realizing—I got in my car and followed her from a distance with the lights off. Aviva was up to no good, and I was going to be the one to catch her in her next act—whatever that happened to be.

She’d bit me.

Broken skin.

Made me bleed.

Two could play at that game. And when it came to games, I always won.

3

Aviva

Ihad absolutely no idea what I was doing. No fucking idea.

Shit.

As I slowed to a walk a few blocks from the hockey house, I took deep breaths, trying to clear my head.

That had not gone to plan. Not that my plans were airtight, but that had turned into a complete, confusing, frustratingly hot, sexy-ass shit show.

I’d had a Plan A and Plan B to seek justice for Asher.

Plan A: Break into the hockey team’s locker room, get into Coach Joshua Jensen’s secondary office, and see if I could track down the videos Asher said he’d taken when Jensen sexually assaulted him.

Plan B: Get to know some of Asher’s teammates, and wile my way into their good graces, on the off chance that I could find out who else Jensen was abusing—if anyone—or knew what he’d done.

Plan B was why I’d transferred from Stanford to Reina.After all, I needed to approach the plan sensitively: I’d learned in some of my psych classes that abuse victims, especially ones who’d been sexually abused, felt misplaced shame. And people in tightknit groups—like a hockey team—would feel pressured to keep silent or risk exile. And in this case, any player who spoke up might lose their place on the team as well.

Which was why I preferred Plan A. If I had tangible evidence, I could get my brother justice immediately—and get him back his spot on the team, his hockey scholarship, and his future. He’d lost all of it when he’d reported Coach Jensen to the university’s administration.

If Plan A didn’t work, I’d work on the hockey team to get the information I needed.

Asher wasn’t a great font of information these days. He’d completely shut down when he’d quit the team and dropped out of school. Currently, he was living in our now-deceased great aunt’s house, either working out aggressively, or hiding in his room, playing video games. He had no idea about my plans to expose his coach. He didn’t even know I’d transferred. If he did, he’d be pissed. He certainly wouldn’t tell me which other players knew about the abuse, and had sworn me to secrecy over the whole thing, out of his own misplaced shame. Shame that made me want to kill someone, that filled me with so much helpless rage, I didn’t have enough room to house it.

Sometimes, the unfairness of it all, seeing him in pain, made me feel like I was on fire. I would happily let the world burn, if it made him better or brought him any peace.

Thus, plans A and B.

But as they say: make plans, and the universe laughs.

I had not expected Jack Feldman. I had not expected to be so attracted to Jack Feldman—or for a gorgeous athleticdeity to even notice my existence, much less zero in on me, flirt with me, dance with me…

…and kiss me.

I could count the decent kisses I’d had on one hand. And I’d never had a great kiss until now. He’d conquered me, and I’d let him, and god, it had felt so fucking good to let someone else be in charge for once, even just for a moment. To feel like someone else saw me, and liked what they saw. To be wanted, so badly.

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