Page 65 of Triple Pucked
I cling onto D’Angelo’s words like they can stop me from flying apart.
Yet I can also feel the other words that are written with ink on the inside of my thigh, which feel like they’ve been branded.
Fuck up. Stupid. Mine.
My lovers think that Blythe is only a demon from my past.
But she is still a monster in my present.
What will they do when they find out the things that she has been making me do?
The words that she has been forcing me to write on myself?
After seeing a photograph as evidence that I’d followed through on her order, Blythe had sent me a text:
Don’t wash it off until u r in the showers. I want 2 watch on TV & know u r marked as my toy
No one else knows that Blythe is still controlling me.
I can’t let them find out.
I’ll sacrifice anything for my family.
In my heart, Blythe is not my dom but she is playing with me like she is.
I’m only following Blythe’s commands so that she doesn’t go public with a tell all story about her relationship with me at college.
Worse, she says that the story will include photographs and videos that I didn’t even know she’d taken of our scenes. She intends to splash it over the internet.
The bloody bitch is threatening me with revenge porn.
When I wear a blindfold with D’Angelo, I trust that he’s not filming me.
But Blythe was.
I’m not ready for the world to see me like that. I’m not bloody ready to explain to Mum and Dad everything that happened with Blythe.
When I am finally able to be open with the public about my new relationships, I want them to be associated with love and not abuse.
Would I lose my sponsorships?
I know that I’d lose these next games and our chance to head to the playoffs, if Blythe wrecked me like that over these crucial weeks.
It would destroy everything for Robyn, Eden, and D’Angelo.
I won’t let that happen.
My heart is beating too fast. I’m dizzy.
I’m on the ice in an NHL game but I keep zoning out.
I clutch my stick more tightly, trying to focus.
Yet I can feel every word on my thigh, which I wrote with shaky hands in the equipment closet of the arena, hoping nobody would walk in on me with my pants around my ankles or as I was taking a photo of the degrading words scrawled on my inner thigh.
Once, I had nothing to lose.
It’s funny that now I have too much to lose, right?
