Page 8

EIGHT

SAINT

Every time I call her Golden Girl, the more mad she gets, and admittedly, that only makes me want to do it more .

See just how pissed off I can get her, taunting her until that good girl facade drops.

Piece by piece.

I like seeing the fire blazing bright in her eyes, and the second I got a glimpse… I wanted more.

That’s why we’re facing off in front of the net right now, even though there’s not a chance in fucking hell she’s getting that puck by me in her frilly, short little skirt and leotard.

Not even if it’s slightly distracting with the way it’s seated around her curves.

No shot.

“Let’s go. What are you waiting for?” I arch my brow as I bend my knees deeper in a squat above the ice. “Unless you’re scared? We can always call it like it is. You forf?—”

“Shut up,” she cuts me off. “I’m just thinking of my strategy. Do not rush me, Devereaux.”

My lip twitches. “Well, can you strategize a little quicker? Some of us have other things to do than play with a spoiled princess all day.”

I soak up every bit of the indignant look on her face. I’m fucked-up, but I never claimed to be anything else.

I think there’s a technical term for it, but I’m too busy staring at her pretty little lips, which are twisted into a scowl, to think of it.

“You know, I find it hard to believe that you are this much of an asshole,” she says, shooting daggers across the ice at me with her eyes.

“Believe it. Actually, give me a little more time, and you’ll see I’m even more of an asshole than you thought. Now, shoot. The. Damn. Puck.”

Chin raised, she cuts a final look at me before squaring her shoulders and swinging the stick. It’s almost as tall as she is because my stick is fit for me, and I’m almost six five with skates on.

The puck lands directly between my legs, which I block by turning my foot to the side and letting the puck rebound off the blade of my skate, barely moving at all.

“Shit.” The low curse floats between us, and I smirk, cocking a brow. “Don’t move from that stupid net. That was just… a bad shot.”

Mhmmmm.

“It’s so easy. Stick… puck… net.” I slap the puck back to her with a flick of my wrist. “Right?” Her eyes narrow into slits, and I grin, dropping back down into a defensive position, hips bent, eyes holding hers.

I could do this all day, blindfolded, with my hands tied behind my back, with her standing about three feet closer, but I actually do have somewhere to be, and our hour of allotted ice time is almost up.

Time flies when you’re busy talking shit to the vapid, spoiled little princess who thinks that she’s better than everyone.

I might not know Lennon Rousseau, really know her outside of the things I’ve learned about her and her family, but I know exactly the kind of girl she was before she ever opened her mouth.

I’m judging the fuck out of a book by its cover.

Again, she slaps at the puck, and it flies toward me, pinging noisily off the steel of the net before sliding back toward her across the ice.

“Ugh.” She groans and drops her head back on her shoulders, staring up at the ceiling.

I’m about to go in, running my mouth just to piss her off, when suddenly, she slips and loses her footing, falling backward and hitting the ice, hard , with a pained groan, the hockey stick clattering to the ground beside her.

Shit.

I sprint toward her, closing the short distance between us in a few strides. “You okay?”

She pushes up into a sitting position and pulls her knee to her chest, rubbing her ankle, her lips twisted in pain. “I… I think I tweaked my ankle.” Her voice breaks as she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth.

Fuck, is she going to cry? I have no fucking clue what to do with that.

Sure, yeah, I’m a dick, but I don’t want her to get hurt. I’m not a sadist.

Reaching up, I drag a hand through my hair. “Do you want me to… carry you? Off the ice?”

“No, I’ll be fine. Can you just help me up?” Her lip quivers, and I nod.

I tuck my stick under my arm, and her palm curves around my forearm as I help her up. For a second, her leg seems to tremble when she tries to put any pressure on it, her nose scrunching in pain. “Ouch.”

“Okay, just let me carr?—”

In the blink of an eye, she’s snatching my stick from under my arm, checking my shoulder as she skates toward the puck, then slaps it directly into the net.

“Yesssss.” Lennon throws her arms in the air like she just scored the game-winning goal, a cheeky, shit-eating grin turning her pink lips up in the corners. “Take that, Devereaux! Sucks to be a loser.”

That sneaky little shit.

Her ankle wasn’t fucking hurt at all—she was playing me like a goddamn fool, and I fell for it.

Motherfucker.

If I wasn’t so annoyed that she did so, I’d be slightly impressed. Clearly, she should be in the theatre or whatever the hell it’s called with that performance.

“Can’t win if you’re cheating, Golden Girl. Which is the only fucking way you were getting that puck by me.” I shrug as I slowly skate over, stopping in front of her.

The balls of her cheeks are flushed red, and her piercing jade eyes are dancing with mirth instead of burning bright with her usual hatred.

Honestly, I can’t decide which one is hotter.

“You didn’t say anything but, and I quote, ‘You can’t get the puck by me,’ and wouldn’t you look… I did. It’s sitting right there in the net.” She gestures behind us. “Might want to choose your words more carefully next time. Oh, wait… that’s right, you can’t say a word to me now.”

Yeah, and maybe I’ll go back on my promise just to piss her off.

My lips quirk as I fight back a grin.

Maybe she isn’t as mindless as I thought.

“Nice knowing you, Satan. I would say have a good day, but I really hope you don’t.”

With that, she drops the stick at my feet and skates off toward the exit, with me watching her hips sway the entire fucking way.