Page 71 of Pretty When He Bleeds

It never fucking is, you piece of shit.

The rest of the game is a warzone. Hits get harder, penalties rack up, and the chirps get nastier. At one point, Kane and Killian are close to dropping gloves, but the refs step in before things escalate.

Lakehaven manages to tie it up in the second period, and for a while, it’s a bloodbath—both teams fighting for the edge, for the win.

It’s fucking exhausting, but this is what we live for. This is Blackthorne vs. Lakehaven.

With five minutes left in the third, we’re up by one, but the game is still anyone’s. Lakehaven’s throwing everything they have at us, desperate to even the score. Their goalie’s been solid as hell, blocking every near miss, but so has ours.

Then, with barely two minutes left, Easton gets a breakaway.

I see it happening, watching as he snags the puck, speed fucking inhuman as he shoots up the ice. He cuts through our defense like they aren’t even there, dodging every attempt to take him out.

I push hard, skating after him, closing the gap. If he scores, we’re going to overtime, and I’ll be damned if I let that happen.

He winds up for a shot and I lunge, stick out, knocking the puck right off his blade. He stumbles but stays on his feet, whirling on me, pissed. “Cheap fucking move, Bishop.”

I grin, flicking the puck up the boards and out of their zone. “Cry about it.”

He shoves me, but the refs don’t call it. The final seconds are chaos—Lakehaven pulling their goalie for an extra skater and throwing everything they have at us, but they don’t score.

The buzzer blares.

Game over.

We fucking win.

The arena explodes, Blackthorne fans on their feet, screaming, chanting, losing their goddamn minds. My teammates swarm me, shoving me, hyped as hell. I can barely fucking breathe, the adrenaline pumping so hard it makes my skin buzz.

Across the ice, the Falcons look wrecked.

Kane’s expression is pure fucking fury, while Easton glares at me like he’s seconds away from starting a brawl. I shoot him a smirk, tapping my stick on the ice. “Better luck next time, asshole.”

He flips me off, but I just grin.

Blackthorne fucking wins, baby.

Damon

Thecanvasinfrontof me is streaked with chaotic lines and bold strokes. It’s not the kind of painting you show off at a gallery, but it’s mine. It’s raw, messy, and imperfect—kind of like the thoughts that have been swirling in my head since Roman left for that damn away game three days ago.

I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose with the back of my hand, careful not to smear paint all over them. They’re just basic black frames, nothing fancy, but they’re a necessity when I’m working on details. My eyesight’s shit when it comes to fine lines, and I’ll be damned if I let a blurry brushstroke ruin the vision in my head.

The apartment is quiet, save for the faint hum of music playing from my phone speaker. I’ve got a half-empty cup of coffee on the counter and paint splattered across my bare chest, but I don’t care. I’m too lost in the rhythm of the brush against the canvas, in the way the colors bleed together like they’re alive.

The painting is supposed to be abstract, but I can already tell it’s taking on a form I didn’t plan. The sharp edges and bold colors have softened, the lines twisting and curling into something more familiar.

Roman.

It’s not an exact likeness—more an impression of him, the way he feels rather than the way he looks. I’ve painted him before, sketched him in my notebook like some kind of obsession, but this is different. This feels… intimate in a way I can’t quite put into words.

He’s been gone three days, and I’ve told myself a thousand times not to miss him as much as I do. But the asshole has this way of sneaking into my head, even when I’m trying to focus.

I don’t know what it is about him—the way he smirks when he’s being a cocky bastard, the way he leans against my bike like he fucking owns it, or the way he lets himself unravel when we’re alone. All of it has me twisted up in a way I don’t think I could fix, even if I wanted to.

The painting helps, though. It always does. I add another layer of shading to the background, the brush dancing over the canvas with precision, and my shoulders loosen. I don’t even realize I’m being watched until the back of my neck prickles.

The feeling pulls me out of my focus, and I glance up, blinking as my vision adjusts. That’s when I see Roman.

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