Page 52 of Don't You Pucking Dare

Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m pounding on Amanda’s door for the next party invitation. Another face answers my heavy knocks.

"Shit, sorry. Is Amanda here?" I ask.

She shakes her head, giving me stink eye.

"Fucking bitch," I mutter, mostly to her but also about Amanda.

The fluorescent lights of Walmart make everything feel surreal. My fingers tap against the counter as I spin my story to the clerk—something about rats at my sister's house, my busy father sending me to handle it. The lies flow easier now, like playing a piece I've practiced a thousand times. The pellet gun feels heavy in the bag, a weight that should frighten the girl who spends her days with her cello.

Back in my dorm, I run my fingers over the pellet gun's surface before sliding it into my backpack. The Reapers think masks and underground chambers make them scary? Let's see how they handle being on the other end of fear for once.

A knock interrupts my dark thoughts. Amanda appears in my doorway like an expensive ghost, all designer clothes and calculated casualness.

"Hey." She leans against the frame, trying too hard to look like she isn't. "My roommate said you stopped by."

I pause, studying her. The mean girl facade has cracks in it now. "She knows who I am?"

"Are you going to be my plus one?" Her question carries more weight than she wants to show. "To the party?"

"That's why I came by." I match her casual tone while my new weapon sits feet away, hidden but present. Like everything else in this game we're playing.

"Want to help me take him down?" she asks. The words rush out like she's been holding them back.

A laugh escapes me—genuine this time. "You? Seeking revenge?"

She presses a manicured hand to her chest, all dramatic flair. "Me? Never."

"We need to look hot," I say. The words feel strange in my mouth—the cellist talking fashion with the mean girl. But everything's strange now.

"Like, hot hot." Her eyes gleam with excitement.

We grin at each other, co-conspirators in whatever's coming next. The pellet gun in my bag feels less like a weapon now and more like a promise.

Brody Black isn't the only one who knows how to play games.

Chapter 22

The Ravens are three games deep into the season, and my shoulders ache from the extra hours I've been putting in. I've been grinding to be considered for the center position, showing up before dawn, staying late until the Zamboni guy has to kick me out. Coach Jacobs noticed. The Reapers noticed too, and their word carries weight in ways most people don't understand.

Ice shavings coat my practice jersey as I work on faceoff drills. My practice win percentage has jumped from sixty to seventy-five in the past two weeks. Each draw is about timing, about reading your opponent's tension before they even move. Like most things in life—anticipate, then dominate.

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead as I strip off my gear in the locker room. Everything smells like sweat and rubber. My practice jersey's soaked through—proof of the extra hundred puck handles I forced myself to do after team drills.

"Sloane's been asking about you." Thatcher's voice carries across the room. He's halfway dressed, fresh bruise blooming on his shoulder from a board check.

I shake my head, remembering last weekend. One drunk hookup and suddenly she's trying to stake a claim. Typical.

"She wants to know if she should come to the next game." Thatcher grins, enjoying this too much. "I told her I don't give a fuck what she does." He's been different since getting involved with the Reapers—darker, more confident. Getting his hands dirty has changed him.

I smack his shoulder right on the bruise. "You're right. I don't give a fuck if she comes or not."

"What about Lola Kemper?" Caleb drops her name like a grenade into the conversation.

My head snaps up, eyes finding his. Even with Jack absent, hearing her name in someone else's mouth sets my teeth on edge.

"Under my jurisdiction," I mutter. The words come out like ice. Lola's a game I'm playing carefully—this calculated dance of avoidance and possession. She knows I'm ghosting her. Probably knows why. But girls like her, they always come back for more. Normal guys, normal relationships—they'll never be enough once you've had a taste of darkness.

Coach Jacobs' office smells like coffee and old hockey tape. The walls are covered in team photos, championship banners, memories of glory I plan to add to.

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