Page 21 of These Wicked Games (Wicked Sins #1)

nine

Oli

S o hey, pro tip. If you want your athletes to athlete don’t make them room together for the season if they hate each other.

Forcing me to room with Andre is not working, in fact it has made shit worse.

I only went back for my clothes earlier this morning.

I’d refused to leave Grey and Atlas’s room, and slept on one bed while they shared the other.

It worked out for everyone. Atlas loves a good cuddle.

When I went back to my room, Andre tried to talk to me, and I contemplated throwing either myself off the balcony or him.

My game is off, and I can’t think. Of course I had to take a test before this game, and maybe I’m being dramatic, but it seems like the tests are coming more frequently this season.

Maybe I’m just hyperaware of it with Andre now here .

I sit on the bench as another line goes out for the third period.

I’m pissed. Normally it’s me out there, but I get it.

I’ve played like shit tonight. I watch my guys skate on the ice, followed by Andre who skates towards his net.

I watch him. He does this weird-ass thing where it looks like he’s talking to the crease.

I know he does it every single game, every single period.

I don’t really know what the fuck he’s actually doing, but it’s weird.

Goalies, man.

Looking behind me I see Giselle, though, and smile.

She’s with a guy who I hope isn’t that trash boyfriend she has.

She can do way better than that douche; I hope she knows that.

By the way she just laughed at what he said in her ear, I hope it’s someone new.

Her eyes lock with mine, then brighten as she waves hard at me.

I give her a look, then nod my head in the guy’s direction. She shakes her head with a wide smile.

Good, she can do better.

I get up, turning toward the glass. “What the fuck are you doing?” Sev hisses.

I grab my stick, handing it to her over the ice. She squeals. The guy next to her smiles, helping her reach it. “I need another stick.”

“Next stick you lose or break I’m deducting it from your paycheck,” Coach grumbles.

I smile, sitting back on the bench and watching the game.

Finally it’s my turn to get in on the action, but I’m just terrible. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m sluggish, unfocused. I’m missing passes and forgetting plays. I get checked into the boards when I’m not paying attention, and end up tripping over Ryker’s stick during a face off .

“You want to get your head in the fucking game, Oli?” Colton snaps as I pass him.

It’s the beginning of the season, but I wanted to set us up for an easy ride to the playoffs.

This is not the way to do it. I don’t know how to fix this.

I want to win. I want to fix this ball of poison seeping into my lungs and heart.

I sit on the bench and realize now with fatal clarity what this is.

I’m . . . depressed.

Fuck. I just . . . I don’t have it in me.

I feel like I’ve lost. Andre betrayed me, he hurt me.

I’m hurt. Rubbing my chest, I let this newfound revelation hit me in the gut.

I’m upset. Why is that so weird to think?

I’ve fought my entire career to get here.

Andre nearly derailed it, and while I’ve worked my ass off, with a flick of a pen he’s here again. Killing me all over.

He was my best friend. I had no one. No one. He knew how hard my mother struggled. He knew the pain she was in after her diagnosis. He knew what going pro would mean to me.

He betrayed me anyway.

My eyes sting, I try myself to blink back the pain rising up inside me now of all times.

I try to focus but the rest of the game is just shit. I don’t get any better and maybe my mood is leaking into my team because everything sucks. We miss passes, our timing is off. I’m tripping, not paying attention. It’s a mess of a game.

“Hey, Oli!” Andre shouts at me. “A little help now and then would be fucking nice!”

I ignore him.

We end up pulling Andre at one point toward the end but it’s hopeless. I hate empty nets anyhow. If you’re down by this much this close to the end, what’s the point. The Atlanta Fire Hawks end up getting another goal, bringing the grand total to five to two.

When the buzzer sounds, we immediately head back to the locker room, and after Coach hands us our asses—specifically me—I shower and don’t talk to anyone. Our tradition only happens when we win, and honestly, Grey and Atlas look like they want to skin me alive.

Guess I’m not going back to their room tonight.

I get it. They’re pissed. I’m pissed at me too.

All I want to do is sleep and forget.

Hours later I’m still awake. I can’t close my eyes.

Tonight was a shitshow, and what pisses me off more is I can’t even blame Andre.

Wait, nope. Yes I can. Does it make sense?

Not exactly, but it doesn’t need to. If we had a goalie who didn’t make me see red, I’d be able to focus better.

It’s all Coach’s fault, which again, I know isn’t true.

He has no more say in trades than I do. Sign the asshole, whatever.

Making me room with him, though? That’s a whole different level of torture that is so fucking unfair.

Get along. He doesn't get it. This isn’t some silly rivalry. Andre tried to sabotage my chances of going pro. He did sabotage me getting onto the Vipers.

My head’s throbbing .

After my positive test most teams didn’t want to touch me. It’s a miracle that the Otters took a chance on me, and I’m thankful, but right now I feel paranoid and I hate it. I can’t keep doing this. Something has to give.

Maybe I’ll smother him with a pillow in his sleep.

Tossing, I roll, punching my pillow a few times. It helps a little. Helps more when I imagine it’s Andre’s face.

I hear a commotion outside our hotel-room door before it opens slowly. I hear voices, plural. Light flares quickly before snuffing out when the door closes. The city lights behind the curtain don’t help any. I can’t see, but I hear Andre’s muffled laugh along with . . . Did he bring somebody back?

“Oh, shit,” I hear someone whisper. “You have a roommate?”

“Don’t worry about him,” Andre says softly. “He’s probably asleep. He’s old.” The man giggles at his stupid joke. We’re basically the same fucking age!

Fuck you, I’m not old.

“So you’re telling me I have to be quiet,” I hear the man he’s with say.

“Can you be a good boy for me?” Andre whispers.

I hear the sound of clothes shuffling, then a belt, before what sounds like jeans falling to the floor.

I open my eyes, looking at the wall, facing away from them.

My chest feels tight. I can’t breathe. I don’t know what to do.

I’m so uncomfortable, but I’m afraid to move.

I swallow, hearing them get onto the bed. Soft moans weave through the room. “Condoms?” I hear the guy he’s with ask. Andre rolls, opening a drawer and rustling around. “Oh fuck. ”

I squeeze my comforter in my hands. I need to move. My chest feels tight. I’m turned the other way, but I hate that my mind is trying to fill in the blanks.

My cock is hard.

This is fucking dumb. I’d thought sleeping with someone the other night would have helped this tightness I feel all the fucking time. It’s like my body’s in a constant state of unrest and I don’t know what to do about it.

Swallowing hard, I dare to roll just a little onto my back. A louder moan echoes from the other bed. “You have to be quiet,” Andre chuckles.

“Sorry.” He laughs softly. “Your dick feels so good.”

I can’t fucking help myself. It’s like my brain is on autopilot and I can’t figure out how to put it back in manual.

I roll over, and luckily the AC I have on masks any sound.

It’s still dark, but I can see shadows moving through the darkness.

Straining my eyes, I see the guy he’s with moving on top of him.

While I’ve always known Andre is queer, seeing it in action is doing things to my lungs. I can’t breathe. “Fuck, right there.”

“You feel so good.” Moaning, grunting, the sounds of skin, the bed moving slightly.

My cock aches.

It’s just the sex noises. It’s just sex noises.

It’s not Andre.

Reaching down, dipping inside my sleep pants, I stroke myself slowly, feeling the slightest bit of relief. Fuck this, I have to do something. This burning tightness in my chest only amplifies. I need to snuff the fire out somehow .

“I need it.” I close my eyes, and the sounds wrap around my cock. I start to stroke, needing this tightness to let go. I need relief.

“Ride me,” I hear him moan.

My hand picks up speed and I hate myself for the images that spring to mind.

Andre on the dance floor, that man’s hand down his pants, then him on his knees.

In the shower, his cock hanging between his legs.

He’s bigger than I am, and I can’t help but think about what’s he’s doing with it now.

Fucking that guy. The grunts and moans crescendo with the speed of my hand.

I’ve clearly gone insane because I think about it, being Andre right now.

Only it’s him riding me. I don’t know if I’d want to be fucked.

I shouldn’t want any of it, but here in the safety of darkness I can’t help letting my intrusive thoughts bleed into my mind.

I imagine his skin, slick with sweat. His hair piled on top of his head, some strands falling out of his signature bun.

Those piercing hazel eyes dripping with need as he grinds on top of me.

I’m fucking broken and I don’t even care.