Page 20 of Don't You Pucking Dare

"You don't get a say." His face is already turning red.

"Not asking." I keep my voice steady. "I'm done being a fucking wall ornament. I want some real action this practice."

"You get plenty of action, and you're damn good at what you do!"

"Thatcher!" I call out like this was the plan all along. "You're in the net. I'm taking your spot."

Thatcher hesitates, looking between me and Coach. But he knows better than to question it. Smart boy.

First drill, I show them exactly what they've been missing. While Thatcher flounders in the net like a fish on ice, I'm breaking up plays before they start. Every check lands. Every pass connects.

"Holy shit," Caleb whistles after I strip the puck clean from Jack. "Since when can you move like that?"

I smirk, damn it feels good to be acknowledged.

Thatcher's getting destroyed in goal. His reflexes are too slow, and he keeps dropping into butterfly way too early. When Zane's soft wrister somehow gets through his five-hole, even Coach has to look away.

"Fuck me," Thatcher groans, flat on his back for the fifth time. "How do you make this look so easy, Black?"

I skate past him, enjoying the way Coach's clipboard can't hide his impressed expression. "It is. You’re dropping too early. The anticipation is important to time."

By the end of practice, everyone's seen it. The way I read the ice, anticipate plays, create opportunities. This is what I was built for—being in the action, not just watching it. Now back in the locker room, I get dressed for the real fun. Lola has it coming for her.

Breaking into Lola’s sanctuary is almost too easy. The code Jack extracted from Kiah opens the door like an invitation. These dorm halls feel sacred at this hour— all these little birds in their nests, never knowing there's a predator among them.

Her scent hits me the moment I step inside. Strawberry and cotton, pure Lola. Everything about her space screams control— perfectly made bed, sheet music arranged by the composer, even her pens lined up by color. My presence here feels like a violation. Good.

I pull on gloves, moving to her vanity. Her hairbrush yields long strands of chestnut silk. Perfect DNA samples to remind Rick Kemper that his precious daughter isn't as untouchable as he thinks.

But it's the letter tucked inside her drawer that stops me cold. Worn edges, creased from countless readings. The paper feels fragile in my hands like her heart must have been when she first read it.

Lola,

Consider this a warning disguised as a letter. Your existence is a complication I never wanted…

Fucking Rick Kemper, playing protective father while hiding from his own sins. The Reapers found him easily enough— he just didn't think his daughter was worth the risk.

The letter reveals everything: why she holds herself so rigidly, why she lets men touch her but never claim her, why she pours herself into music instead of people. Daddy's perfect little girl, abandoned and trying to maintain control.

I tuck a few strands of her hair into my pocket, right next to her father's letter. Two weapons, both sharp in different ways.

The doorknob turns.

I move on pure instinct, sliding into her closet just as the door opens. The crack gives me a perfect view of her sanctuary— my hunter's blind.

Lola walks in looking shattered, something raw in her expression that makes me wonder what mood she’s in. She strips off her jacket, revealing those perfect tits in that tight tee. The window beckons her like a stage, and she throws it open, letting twilight spill across her skin.

Then she reaches for her cello.

The instrument settles against her like a lover as she positions herself in the window frame. She's putting on a show for the whole world, my private little musician now on display. Something dark and possessive coils in my chest.

Soon, she'll learn that some performances are meant for an audience of one.

Her bow slides across strings, releasing something ancient and haunting. Vivaldi's Winter—I recognize it from somewhere in my past. But she plays it like she's bleeding the notes into existence, each sound a confession of pain.

I could watch her forever like this, my private concert in stolen time. She has no idea I'm here, no idea that while she pours her soul into music, I'm plotting ways to destroy her.

With one hand, I pull out my phone and type a message to Noah.

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