CHAPTER 3 ~ ROD IN MY ASS

​I didn’t think at all about the consequences because thinking had only gotten me a hollow chest and a front-row seat to my own humiliation.

​The air between us was charged, thick with the smell of the ice and the salt on Michael’s skin.

He was still talking, his lips moving, probably dropping another polished insult designed to make me crack, but the sound had cut out.

All I could hear was the blood rushing in my ears, a rhythmic, violent thud that matched the pulse in my throat.

​I looked past his shoulder one last time. Liam was laughing now, his hand sliding up Chloe’s waist, his eyes scanning the ice until they found me. He gave me a slow, deliberate nod, a victor acknowledging the defeated.

​Something in me snapped. It wasn't a clean break; it was a total collapse of the walls I’d spent years building.

​"Shut up, Rossi," I growled.

​Michael’s eyebrows shot up, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Make me, Thorn—"

​I didn't let him finish. I dropped my stick, the heavy composite clattering against the ice like a gunshot.

My hands, still encased in my bulky gloves, came up and seized him. I grabbed the collar of his jersey, the fabric bunching in my grip, and yanked him toward me.

​Because he was on skates, he slid forward easily, his chest slamming into mine with a dull thud of padding meeting padding.

​And then I kissed him.

​It wasn't a sweet kiss but it was intense as hell.

​I shoved my mouth against his, hard enough that I felt his teeth scrape against the inside of my lip. I wanted to bruise him. I wanted to erase the image of Chloe and Liam with something so shocking, so fundamentally wrong, that the world would stop spinning.

​Michael froze. For a heartbeat, he was a statue, his hands hovering near my waist as if he were about to shove me across the rink. I expected a punch. I expected to be tackled.

​Instead, I felt his fingers curl into the fabric of my jersey.

​He didn't pull away. He leaned in.

​His mouth opened under mine, a low, guttural sound vibrating in his chest that I felt more than heard. It wasn't the kiss of an enemy; it was the kiss of someone who had been waiting for a reason to bite back.

Rossi's tongue slipped inside my mouth, his teeth grazing against my lip, his stubble scratching my chin. I shuddered, a whine rising in my throat as Rossi took my chin in one hand and kissed me hard and deep,

his tongue exploring my mouth, so damn confident and forceful it quickly overwhelmed me.

I didn’t like it one bit. I didn’t like how

emasculated the kiss made me feel, as though I were some kind of girl, a

virgin girl, who’d never kissed anyone.

It was too intense and strange, Rossi’s

stubble making it glaringly obvious that I was being kissed by a man. But it felt like my body was melting, my knees going weak and limbs boneless

​The stadium, which had been a roar of post-game celebration, went unnervingly quiet. It was that specific kind of silence that happens right before a riot breaks out.

​I squeezed my eyes shut, my gloved hands moving from his collar to the back of his neck, pulling him closer until there wasn't a single inch of cold air between us. I wasn't thinking about the fact that I was straight. I wasn't thinking about the fact that this was the man I’d hated for three hundred and sixty-five days.

​I was only thinking about the way Liam’s smirk must have vanished. I was thinking about the way Chloe’s jaw must have dropped.

​I was using Michael Rossi as a shield against my own pain, and the terrifying part was that he was letting me.

​He pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against mine, his breath coming in jagged, shallow hitches.

His dark eyes were blown out, the pupils swallowing the iris until they were almost entirely black.

​"Thorne," he whispered, his voice wrecked, stripped of all that usual arrogance.

​I didn't answer. I couldn't. My heart was trying to kick its way out of my ribs. I let go of his neck, my hands trembling so violently I had to hide them by my sides.

​I didn't look at the stands. I didn't look at my teammates, who I knew were staring at us like we’d both grown second heads. I just turned on my skates and headed for the tunnel, my vision blurred and my skin feeling like it was on fire.

​I had given them something to talk about. But as I cleared the ice, the realization of what I’d just done hit me like a blindside hit to the kidneys.

​I hadn't just kissed a guy. I’d kissed that guy.

​And Michael hadn't fought me. He’d kissed me back.

The silence of the tunnel was a lie.

​Behind me, the arena was finally waking up from the shock, the low murmur of thousands of people beginning to swell into a roar of confusion and frantic chatter.

But in the concrete hallway leading to the locker room, the only sound was the rhythmic, hollow thud-scrape of my own skates.

​I didn't look back. If I looked back, I’d see Michael. I’d see his expression, or worse, I’d see the look on Liam’s face, and I wasn't sure if I’d throw up or start swinging.

​I hit the heavy double doors of the Knights' locker room and shoved them open so hard they bounced off the rubber stoppers with a loud crack.

​I stumbled inside, my breath coming in short, panicked bursts. I needed to get this gear off. It felt like it was shrinking, crushing the air out of my lungs.

I ripped the Velcro straps of my gloves off with my teeth and flung them across the room. They hit the far wall and slumped to the floor.

​"Axel?"