Page 61 of Monstrous Serpent

Fuuuck.

My grip tightens on the phone in my hand. I stare at the dark screen.

Two can play their stupid game.

I tug down the waistband of my sweats, point the camera, and snap the picture. Then I go to the bathroom and clean myself up.

After flopping back onto the bed, I spend a few minutes online until I find the perfect website. The corners of my mouth curl as I upload the picture of my cum-covered dick, adding a pair of lips around it.

The finished image is fucking unhinged. Realistic enough that whoever opens this will have a very bad night.

I upload the image to the text thread and send it.

Me: enjoy

Then I block their number.

Good luck texting back, assholes.

Chapter 17

Atlas

My shoulder catches UConn's winger square in the chest, and his skates leave the ice. He goes over the dasher, ass up, and into his own bench.

Clean hit.

Probably.

Not my fault he didn’t keep his head up. Not my fault I needed to hit something.

The ref's pointing somewhere, but I'm already skating away before he makes up his mind because fifteen seconds into the third period is too early to be in the box. Even I know that.

Usually, I'd circle back and drop a chirp. Maybe congratulate him on his airborne technique because, honestly, he got some hang time on that one. But today, I keep my mouth shut, jaw clenched. Every white jersey out here might as well be that motherfucker from the picture with his lips wrapped around Jenkins.

Seriously, the fact that I've only been in the box once this entire game is a miracle. That dumbass holding penalty wasn't even my fault. Fucking Nakagawa was hugging my stick. On purpose.

Hunter glides in off my left shoulder without looking, close enough that the scrape of his blade is the only thing louder than the blood in my ears. His stick taps mine. Once.

“Easy.”

“Dude, I'm the picture of restraint. You don't even know.”

Except I’m not the picture of restraint. Haven’t been since Hunter’s phone chimed, and I saw some guy’s lips wrapped around Jenkins's dick. Then my body did something it has never once done for anyone who isn't Hunter . . . Lost its fucking mind.

Cap picks the puck up behind our net and wheels, buying a second. I drift along the blue, hold the point, and keep my feet moving. Rua swings low on the strong side, stick down, and Cap hits him on the wall.

He’s gone, cutting through the neutral zone with Shaw driving the far lane.

UConn’s D holds the blue. There’s no lane for him to carry, so Rua sends the puck deep.

I step down the wall. “Go! Go!”

Shaw gets there first, but their defenseman smokes him a half-second later and pins him. Rua crashes in, digs the puck out of their skates, and kicks it back up to me at the point.

I walk the line to change the angle. Their winger chases, reaching, but he’s a half-step behind.

“Screen! In his eyes!”