Page 13 of These Wicked Games
She shakes her head, pouring me another shot. “You played great. The Otters are just really good.” I roll my eyes and ignore the kick of a smile on her face. “So is that all pure hatred or sexual tension I witnessed?” I nearly throw up the contents of my stomach.
My entire hockey career has been spent in the shadow of Oliver “Kuli” Kulivov. The golden boy of hockey. Self-made dickhead. Oli’s name has been yelled at me since he got signed onto the Titans. He’s a natural—a fact my father will not let me forget.
And he used to be my best friend.
Despite the comparison, we got super close, and he’s one of the reasons why I chose to be a goalie. I’d assumed I’d get less comparison because Oli’s was center, but nope. Then it became about how many shots I blocked, how many goals Oli scored on me, until he was placed into a substance abuse program.
I still don’t understand what happened that day. I handed those samples to Dr. Wexel. He thanked me. Mine came back negative,which shocked me. While I had smoked weed with this guy I’d been hooking up with, I’d tried everything I could to dilute the drugs in my system as much as I could. I still expected to fail, though, and you know, I was fine with that. What I wasn’t expecting was for Oli to fail.
It still doesn’t make sense. What makes even less sense is why he thought it was me. I still don’t understand why that was his assumption, but fuck him anyway. “I want to beat his fucking face in.”
“Uh-huh, beat something maybe.” She smirks, and maybe if the alcohol in my blood wasn’t dulling my reactions and irritation, I’d flip her off. Probably not, though. She’d break my finger. “That man’s eyes were locked and loaded the second they saw you.”
“Not my type. I like my men soft and submissive.” Okay, huge fucking lie, but there’s no way I’m admitting to Vanessa that I like to be roughed up during sex. Not a conversation we’re having. Not like there’s been much of that recently, though. I’d thought coming here I could try and find some fun before I had to go home and face the asshole I live with.
“Whatever you say, Andre,” she teases, wiping down the bar. All the glass is now picked up and thankfully the table isn’t broken.
“Do you need any money for damages?”
She waves me off. “Kuli gave me a couple hundred. Just some broken dishware. Nothing major.” She stops wiping the bar and puts her elbows on it to look at me. Fuck, I hate these looks. Mom looks, that’s what they are. She’s got two kids at home and I can imagine her giving them this exact look.
“Stop it.”
“What?” She blinks her thick lashes.
“You know what.”
“Andre—”
“Just let me sit here, okay? I’ll go home in a few.”
She sighs. “You don’t have to live like this. You have people, you have me.”
“What I have is a famous father who everyone admires and loves. They aren’t going to believe me, Vee. They won’t.” All it would do is cause a bigger shitstorm, and I am not strong enough to handle that. I’m nearing thirty but he still controls every bit of me, and I don’t know why.
I’m tired. So fucking tired.
She looks like she wants to fight but thankfully let’s it go. Times like these I really wish I hadn’t told her. I know how it weighs on her. It’s not in her nature to just sit back and watch bullshit happen. It was selfish of me, but I’d just had to tell someone. She’s a fighter, and unfortunately, I have no fight left in me.
Not when it comes to him.
At twenty-seven, and being extremely rich, you’d think I’d live by myself. Nope. He’d never allow that. Thankfully I have access to my bank account, but unfortunately so does he, and he monitors my spending. I’m not sure why he feels the need to do it. He has plenty of money himself. It’s just one more way to control me, I guess.
As I walk down the street to our gated home, dread seeps into every step I take. I played fucking great tonight, but so did the Otters. Their team over these last few years has really risen in the ranks, and that’s because of Oli. They went through a rebuild period nearly five years ago and the work was worth it. They’re known for their brutal defense and quick, agile plays that trip up even the most experienced goalies. One advantage they have is because of their minimal trades—their chemistry with each other can be felt. It’s like they know each other on a level that’s so important on the ice. You can be the best player in the world, but if you don’t mesh with your team, it’ll be your downfall. With the Otters, they just scream family.
My mind goes to their goalie. I watched it on the jumbotron. It makes me sick. I’ve never seen someone get carried off on a stretcher in person. Hopefully he’s okay. That was a nasty hit and head injuries are scary.
My anxiety spikes as I unlatch our gate then punch in the code. It’s nearly two now, and I can only hope he’s asleep. I know deep down I’m not that lucky.
He always waits up for me.
Opening the front door to our house, I walk inside like I’m an intruder instead of a resident. I toe off my shoes, then make my way to the kitchen. I need some water. It’s deceptively silent right now. I pour myself a drink and my stomach clenches, then rumbles. I should have eaten something at the bar. It was so late, though, and I didn’t want to bother Vee after causing her issues earlier tonight.
“Where have you been?”
Shit.
The hairs on the back of my neck rise. “Out.”
