Page 2 of Pucking Obsessed

“Well, well,” he chuckles out the words, patting me on the shoulder. “Wait till Tristan hears you’ve finally got a thing for someone.” He’s about to say more, but I stop listening the second I see Scott Jacobs approach Madison.

ScottfuckingJacobs. I’ve never liked him because he thinks he’s so slick. Smarmy is what he is, always acting like he owns the place because he’s Castlebrook’s head hockey coach’s son and his mother is the dean of admissions. Scott Jacobs couldn’t find the fucking puck if I bashed him in the face with it, and the way things are going tonight, I just might. He wraps an arm around Madison, and I see her flinch, trying to pull away. But Scott just holds on, flashing his teeth in a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I know you don’t really know me,” he says, voice dripping with fake concern, “but I’m kind of a big deal in Castlebrook. Are you a freshman? I’m Scott, but everyone calls me Skippy.”

My vision blurs with rage. I take a step forward, but Callum grabs my arm. “Hey, you don’t want your legacy to be the guy who finally snapped and killed Skippy Jacobs.”

I don’t bother responding. I wrench my arm free and stomp over, ripping Scott’s hand off her shoulder. I get right in his face, my height giving me the advantage as I tower over him. “Touch her again,” I grit out, “and I’ll fucking kill you.”

Scott brushes off his shirt, smiling like the smug asshole he is. “Careful, Lockwood. You’re captain this year, do you really want to risk your place on the team?”

I grab him by the collar, yanking him up so he’s standing on his tiptoes. “Touch her again,” I repeat, my voice deadly calm, “and you’ll see how little I care about hockey, this school or your miserable little life.”

Scott laughs, but it’s shaky now. He glances behind me, pointing. “Looks like you scared her off.”

I release him, shoving him back hard enough that he stumbles. I turn to see Madison walking quickly toward the treeline, her arms wrapped around herself. Without another glance at Scott, I follow her, ignoring the whispers and stares from the people around us. Let them talk. I don’t give a shit.

I slip into the woods, trailing her without a sound. She doesn’t look back, just keeps walking like she’s oblivious that she’s being followed. I don’t say a word, just watch her, letting the silence stretch between us. She finally stops, her back still to me, and the only sound is the crunch of leaves under my boots as I close the distance.

“Do you make a habit of following girls into the woods?” she asks, her voice surprisingly steady.

“My only habit is being where you are at all times,” I say, the words spilling out before I can stop them. I come to a halt right behind her, close enough that I can breathe her in. She’s sweet with some spice and a hint of my fucking favorite... maple syrup. I reach out, fingers hovering just above the glossy strands of her hair, but before I can touch it, she spins around.

She has to look up at me because I must be a whole foot taller than her. Those gorgeous eyes of hers are wide and unafraid. I can’t help myself, I reach out and cup her jaw, tilting her chin up. The contact sends a jolt through me, like my heart’s been kickstarted back to life.

“You’re not afraid of me,” I murmur, my thumb stroking over her soft cheek.

She leans into my touch, just for a second, before pulling back. “I’m not afraid of anything anymore,” she says, a small, almost triumphant smile on her lips. “My dad’s dead. I’m free now.” I’m too fixated on how close she is to me to process what she’s just said to me.

Before I can respond, she surprises me by pushing up on her tiptoes and pressing a quick, sweet kiss to my lips. It’s innocent, chaste, but it sets me on fire. Her fingers brush the hair out of my eyes as she pulls back, leaving me stunned.

“Thanks for getting that guy off me,” she says, her voice light. “No one’s ever stuck up for me before.”

She turns and walks away, heading back toward the vigil without another word. I stand there, watching her go, rubbing my thumb over my lips where I can still feel the slick remnants of her cherry-flavored gloss. A grin breaks across my face, pride swelling in my chest. If I made an impression on her tonight, wait until she finds out I’d burn the whole fucking world for her. She was mine the minute I laid eyes on her. She just doesn’t know it yet.

This is it. This right here is when my obsession with Madison Caldwell officially begins.

MADISON

This truck stop diner is a hellhole. I hate it. I hate the stale air, the smell of grease and diesel, and I swear I hear the dull hum of the broken neon lights that flicker overhead in my nightmares. It’s the only place in town that will hire me, and frankly, the pay is the only thing keeping me and my mother afloat. The owner, a gruff bastard named Rick, is a hardass, but at least he makes sure I have enough shifts to pay the rent.

Mom’s never had a job, and when dad was alive, he’d borrow just enough to keep from getting his knees broken. He always had a way with women though, conning them out of money to help pay his way. I’d say it’s hard to believe that Mrs. Lockwood would have wanted anything to do with him, but I’ve seen it before. I’ve heard my mom cry and scream over catching him with other wealthy men’s wives, but he’d always say they meant nothing. He was doing it for our family, after all. I shake my head at the memory. He truly was disgusting.

It’s been exactly one week since the vigil at Castlebrook University, one week since I stood there trying to pretend I was sad when all I felt was relief. I don’t know who’s going to pay for him to be buried, or what will happen to him if no one does.That’s not my problem, because my dad’s dead, and that’s the only thing I’ve ever wished for. So I’ll keep working here, keep dealing with the gross men and their affinity for inappropriate jokes at my expense, because at least now I’m free. I won’t be traded off to some old man for a debt I didn’t incur. Yeah, those were his plans, but fate stepped in and I at least have a future ahead of me now.

Even though I wash them til they turn pink, my hands feel greasy, and my apron is already stained even though my shift just started. I wipe them off quickly and grab the plates of food the line cook just slopped together. He’s new, barely been here a week and I already hate him. He grins at me, a sleazy look in his eyes, but it’s not the first time he’s leered at me, and it probably won’t be the last.

At least he hasn’t tried anything with me, yet. It’ll come. It always does and then I’ll introduce him to my trusty, dusty box cutter that I keep in my apron pocket. I need it just to be able to walk home after my shift without having to worry about getting tossed in a car or pushed into an alley.

I carry the tray to a booth where two burly truck drivers are sitting, talking shop in between shoveling appetizers into their mouths. I plaster on my best waitress smile, the kind I’ve been perfecting since I started working here when I was sixteen. It feels like they’re undressing me with their eyes, making my skin crawl. It’s all part of the job, right? I mentally remind myself as I slide the plates onto their table and ask if they need anything else.

They both look at me like they’re trying to figure out how much I cost, how far I’d be willing to let them go for the promise of a tip. My stomach turns. I slip my hand into the pocket of my apron, fingers brushing against the cold metal of my box cutter. It’s a stupid precaution, but it’s the one thing that makes me feel safer here. I’ve never had to use it, but the moment I flash it atsome gross guy who thinks I’m a pushover, he backs off. Every. Single. Time.

Without waiting for an answer, I turn hoping they eat quickly and leave, when something catches my eye through the large front window. A black Mercedes SUV sits in the parking lot, its windows blacked out like it carries someone important. I highly doubt a celebrity would choose to dine here, so it’s gotta be a drug dealer who splurged on a new ride.

The same vehicle has been here every shift I’ve worked this week. I haven’t seen anyone get in or out. It just sits there, and whoever is inside is presumably watching the place. I get a sick feeling in my stomach as a thought runs through my mind. Maybe I’m not as free as I thought I was. What if the man my father promised me to has come to collect what he feels he’s due?

As if summoned by my thoughts, the front door bells chime and in walks a guy who makes my pulse stutter. It’s the guy who threatened to beat the douchebag up at the vigil for thinking he had a right to touch me. The same one I impulsively kissed in the woods that night. My first kiss, and I gave it to him because I wanted to. Not because I felt pressured or like I owed him, but because I genuinely wanted to know what it’d feel like. I’ve been in survival mode for as long as I can remember, with no time for things like dating. I didn’t regret the kiss because I didn’t think I’d ever see him again, but by the way he’s glowering at me, I’d say he has other plans.

There’s a girl with him that I recognize from the vigil. She looks different in the daylight with short chestnut hair, plaid skirt, combat boots, the kind of girl who walks into a room like she owns it. She makes a beeline for me before I can even blink, wrapping me in a hug so tight it knocks the wind out of me.

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