Page 91 of Brutal Obsession

Eventually, he finishes and rumbles through the opening. Silence reigns.

It forces me to concentrate on my heartbeat. My body. The dull ache in my leg.

Nerve pain.

I don’t want to think about how long my body has betrayed me. I want… something more than a distraction. Something worse.

And then a door from the players’ bench swings open, and Greyson steps out onto the ice. He’s shed his pads, the uniform. He wears a form-fitting black sweater and jeans. His skates are laced over them. His hair is wet.

He glides to me and presses his hands to the glass.

We stare at each other, and then, with deliberation, he tips his head to the gate left open by the Zamboni. Do I want to go out onto the ice? Not particularly.

Still, I rise and find my way down there. It takes several painstaking minutes, and then I’m in a mat-covered hallway. I spot the Zamboni first, parked against a wall, and then the opening.

Greyson waits for me there.

His hands are wrapped, his left thicker than the right. It doesn’t stop him from extending them toward me, and it doesn’t stop me from taking them. He steadies me as I take my first step onto the ice.

My boots aren’t made for this. I slip a little, and he chuckles. He’s taller in skates. Whereas our height difference used to be manageable—annoying, but manageable—now he towers over me.

Without warning, he swings me up into his arms. One arm under my knees, the other against my back. His fingers curl on my ribcage.

I shriek and latch on to his shoulders. Some part of me is convinced he’s going to drop me in the center of the ice and watch me try to make my way back to the edge.

He grins. “You okay, Violent?”

I narrow my eyes.

“New nickname.” He skates away from the opening. His motions are fluid, easy. Like he was born skating, not walking. The air whistles past us as he picks up speed. “Do you like it?”

“Violent? Not particularly.”

“It suits you.” He flexes his left hand, just visible under my knees. “I blame you for this.”

“You would’ve done it regardless,” I argue.

He skids to a halt in the center and sets me down.

Shit.

See? I knew this was going to happen.

I hold on to his forearms once I’m upright, although I don’t expect to stay standing for very long. He spins me in a slow circle, rotating around me on his skates. My boots make my movement easy—as in, unable to stop myself from going wherever the hell he wants.

“You put the idea in my head.” He tips forward, putting his face in front of mine. “You fuck with me every chance you get.”

I laugh. It’s mean and coarse, even to my own ears. “I do? You’re one to talk.”

I release him and step back.

Bad idea.

My arms pinwheel, and I manage to latch on to him. Too late, my feet slip out from under me. I hit the ice hard on my ass, my legs between Greyson’s. His upper half is dragged down with me, doubling him over, but he manages to stay upright.

“This is going well,” I mumble.

He hums and traces his finger over my collarbone. “What’s wrong?”

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