Page 14 of Sweet Venom

But I didn’t.

This rage is uncontainable. Indestructible.

No amount of hockey violence can rip me from its clutches.

I shut the water off and rake a hand through my hair, pushing it back as I step into the locker room, the thick scent of sweat, tape, and victory hanging in the air. The place is alive with noise—guys shoving each other, laughing, and talking about the game.

“Nice hit out there, Callahan.” Ryder slaps me on the back as I pass, his grin sharp and his eyes still wild with post-game energy. “Thought you were gonna take Hunter’s head clean off.”

“Should’ve. Next time.” I yank a towel off the bench, rolling my shoulders, not caring that everyone can see the map of scars on my back, partially concealed by tattoos.

Half of the guys here know the reason, and the other half wouldn’t dare ask.

“Fucking savage,” Drayton, our goalie, mutters, shaking his head as he laces up his dress shoes. “You play like you’ve got a personal vendetta against the ice itself.”

“Ice started it.” I reach into my locker.

A few guys chuckle. Others are chirping about a missed play. Even though it’s summer, elite college hockey teams like the Vipers don’t really take time off. We often do captain-led practices—whether it’s skates, scrimmages, or drills.

The coaches are technically not involved—aside from conditioning and strength coaches during some sessions—but really, it’s all due to a program created by our captain, Kane.

He’s currently leaning against the lockers, already fully dressed, and going through his phone.

Unlike me, he doesn’t like showcasing his scars. Not that Iloveit per se, but it’s a fuck-you to the system, so everyone can see what type of monster my father truly is.

Not that I’m any better. Birds of a feather and all that.

“Davenport,” I call Kane’s last name, and he lifts his head, his expression calm, his face so welcoming, you’d think he was an angel. “I need a word.”

“About your irresponsible play?” He lifts a brow. “Sure.”

I pause after grabbing my deodorant. “I only got sent to the box twice.”

“One is overkill.”

“I was still the best player.”

“Nah, that’s me.” Preston lifts his hand in my peripheral vision. He’s sitting on the bench, a towel hanging low on his hips, one ankle resting on his knee like he owns the damn room.

He pauses taping his wrist, his usual smirk firmly in place. “Hell of a game, Callahan, but we all know I’m the fan favorite. Even though it was a practice game, there’s already an article.” He slides his hands in the air as if unveiling the title. “Armstrong, the league’s undefeated left wing strikes again, even during the offseason.”

I lift a brow. “Pay the reporter?”

“Stay jealous, big man. Now, more importantly, how’s my hair?”

“Like roadkill on a humid day.”

“I see you’re still jealous.” He pats his styled blond strands. “Don’t listen to Jude’s nonsense, my premium genetics.”

“And yet those premium genetics still lost the puck battle against a guy built like a traffic cone,” I remind him, just out of spite.

Pres, Kane, and I grew up together, but Pres is probably my best friend. Kane has always been self-contained in a way, never goes too high or too low, perfectly able to remain calm under duress, then shove himself back into a mold. He has the type of control Pres and I lack in spades.

So we inevitably grew closer. In a sense, Pres’s sickness speaks to mine and his darkness mirrors my own.

We’re the toxic duo everyone hates to see coming.

Preston tuts, unfazed. “That was strategy, Callahan. Gotta let the little guys think they have a chance before you yeet the whole damn carpet into next week.”