Page 1 of These Wicked Games
one
Oli
Eight years earlier.
“Kuli . . . I’m dying.” Andre collapses forward onto the ice like a possum playing dead. Mistakes are immediately made as he rolls, trying to get up, looking like a turtle flipped over on it’s back. It’s amusing, and I’m not going to save him from his dramatics, even if he’s blocked most of my shots for well over an hour now. I guess I’ll let him faint in peace. Pucks litter the ice and I’m already dreading picking them up. “Dying.” He groans, reaching for his helmet and taking it off before tossing it away from him, then tries another poor attempt at getting up. “I see the light.”
“You’re so fucking dramatic.” Such a drama queen. I smile despite my fake irritation.
Taking my own helmet off, I shake the sweat from my hair. I can feel it trickling down my neck. I hate that feeling. You’d think being an athlete most of my life I’d be used to it, but no. It feels like claws scraping down my spine.
Andre makes one last poor attempt at getting up before collapsing back, and I smile as he pretends to nap, poking him with my hockey stick. He slaps at it weakly. “Why are you so out of shape, Dre?”
“Fuck you,” he wheezes, then opens those hazel eyes. “You try wearing all this gear and having puck after puck after puck shot at you for nearly an hour.” Skating around him, I smile, circling him like a vulture waiting for their prey to die. “You’re making me dizzy.”
I poke his ass with my stick as I skate by it. “Come on. Get up.” Everyone else has gone home for the day, but I just needed some extra practice after the game last night.
The game last night.My skin starts to buzz thinking about it.
NHL scouts, there for me.
From the fucking Vipers! It’s surreal.
He groans, standing and shucking off his gloves. “My nuts are sweating.”
My face screws up. “Gross. Thanks for that.” Andre grins, wiggling his eyebrows and throwing his arm around me, half leaning on me. “You stink.”
“As if you smell any better, brother.” He messes with my hair. I know it’s probably more brown than blond right now with the amount of sweat dripping from it. I swat him away as he darts off toward the tunnel. I watch him, my best friend.
My best friend.
Years ago, if I’d told myself that hockey legend Tripp Ostrander’s son and I would be this close, I wouldn’t have fucking believed it. Now here we are, on the Owego Titans in upstate New York getting noticed by scouts for the Virginia Vipers. It’s unreal, but this is what I’ve worked my ass off for. I’d take any team at this point, but I’ve been watching the Vipers since I was little. They’ve always beenmyteam. The same team his father Tripp played on.
I’ve worked so hard to get here, and it’s finally happening. I refuse to lose this chance. One day when I was little, my mother had flipped channels on our tiny TV and I made her stop on a game. It changed my brain chemistry. From that day on that was it; I wanted to be a hockey player, and it’s been my mother’s mission to make my dreams come true.
Hockey’s an expensive sport, and I didn’t grow up like Andre. I wasn’t born into this. My mother emigrated from Kazan when she was pregnant with me. She left behind her home country, my abusive shithead of a father, who I’ve never even met, and fought for everything she had. For us. For me. She had no job, she barely spoke English, and still beat all the odds. She worked her ass off. Nothing ever stood in her way.
Until now, I guess.
Just the thought of her sends my already sky-high anxiety even higher. That little squeeze in my chest every time I think about her at home alone doubles. It’s fine . . . she said she was having a good day when I called her yesterday. My mother is the toughest woman I know.“You think I’m going to let cancer beat me, malysh?”she’d laughed, but I don’t find it fucking funny because cancer doesn’t give a shit who you are or how tough you think you are.
She did look a little thinner the lasttime I saw her . . .
Head in the game. As much as I hate this I need to focus. As soon as I get signed I’ll have the money to put her up. Easy. She won’t want for a fucking thing. Even with how nervous I was last night I still kicked ass—two goals and three assists. Andre only let one goal slide past him. It’s amazing watching him on the ice.
If the rumors are right, they came here for me specifically. At least that’s what Andre’s father heard. Tripp treats me just like a son, and it blows my mind every single time. I can’t believe this is real life. If five-year-old me could see where I am now . . . “We still going out?” I nod, sitting on the bench. “I just need a twenty-minute power nap,” Andre says, sliding down the bench, peeling off his pads and then his compression shirt. Everyone else has gone home for the day, but I just needed some extra practice. Andre, of course, stayed with me.
“Yeah we are. Bar on Laugherty?” Maybe that’ll take my mind off everything. It’s been a bit since I’ve hooked up with anyone. I wonder what Andre will do—or should I say who? That little knot in my stomach begins to grow, my feelings becoming more tangled. It’s so stupid. Things have been, I don’t know . . . off? Have they been off? I’m not sure. Something is different, though, and I can’t figure it out.
Maybe it’s just me and how nervous I am about everything. I can’t deny there’s been something a bit different about us since Andre came out to me. Not that I care—I don’t. It’s not that at all. But something sits differently in my chest when I see him now. Some bit of curiosity I let spark from time to time when he’s near me. A little sprinkle ofwhat ifthat I’ve been too afraid to fully leanmy weight on.
“The Vipers would be stupid not to sign you.” He lays his hands on my shoulders, giving them a big squeeze that makes me bite back a groan. There it is again. That heat pooling low in a very dangerous place. It just feels good, that's all. My muscles are tense. I get congratulated and ass-slapped plenty but his hands on me always hit different. I go to reply but something catches my attention.
“What’s that?” I look at his arms, right around his biceps. Marks that look like barely there bruises across his skin. He has a black eye too, but he took a nasty hit last night during the game. “What happened?”
“Huh?” Andre looks at his arms, and it’s now I see them around his wrists too. What the hell. “Oh,” he laughs with zero lightness. “A guy got a little too into it if you know what I mean.” He wiggles his eyebrows again and I don’t like the way my stomach clenches at the thought. I don’t have a problem with him being gay. I don’t give a shit. Still, this lead weight seems to get heavier each time he talks about it.
“Well . . . be careful. Can’t have our top goalie out with a sex injury.”
