Chapter Four

~Damon

“Fuck.”

The growl rips from my throat as I come for the second time tonight, my hips jerking off the mattress as my head falls back onto the pillow.

I lie there in the dark room, breathing hard, my chest heaving as the sweat on my skin cools in the air conditioning. My hand is still wrapped around my shaft, slowly stroking the slick, rock-hard length of my cock. I can’t even get completely soft.

I never expected to be this hard for anyone—especially not after driving across campus in the middle of the night—but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.

Not when it’s Bria Summer.

The girl who took my breath away the very first minute I set eyes on her.

I close my eyes, but it doesn't help. Her face is burned behind my eyelids. I can still smell that suffocating, sweet chocolate cake scent on her. So delicious. I can still hear the sharp gasp she let out when my hand tightened on her chin, and the way her pulse fluttered like a trapped bird against my thumb.

She thinks she’s invisible. She thinks she’s just some nerdy freshman that a golden-boy asshole like Marcus could hide in the shadows and step on whenever he pleased.

She has no fucking idea.

She has no idea how many times I’ve watched her walk across the quad with her head down. She has no idea how hard it was to keep my composure when she sat in my passenger seat tonight, trembling with rage, her dark eyes flashing fire as she told me she slapped Marcus across the face with a handful of cake.

What I would pay to watch that scene.

I drag my hand up my stomach, running a fist through my hair as I stare up at the blank ceiling.

Marcus is a blind, clueless idiot. He had absolute gold sitting right in front of him, and he threw it away for a loud, fake moan in the front seat of a Jeep. But as much as I hate that bastard, I owe him one. Because now, Bria is completely free.

I roll onto my side, my grip tightening on my cock as the image of her flushed face flashes through my head again.

Let her run, I think, a slow, wicked grin spreading across my face in the dark. Let her try to resist.

I grab a discarded shirt from the foot of the bed, lazily wiping the warm release off my stomach and tossing the fabric onto the floor.

Sitting up on the edge of the mattress, I drag a hand through my damp hair, thinking about heading into the bathroom for another cold shower to wash away the sweat and reset my head.

​Before I can even stand, a loud, violent smash rattles the wood of my bedroom door, shattering the quiet.

​"Fuck off!" I growl into the darkness, not even bothering to lift my head off the pillow.

​The pounding doesn't stop. It gets louder, someone's fist practically trying to kick the hinges off the frame.

​"Damon! Open the door Man!"

​I let out an annoyed groan, dragging a hand down my sweat-slicked face. I roll off the bed, grabbing a pair of gray boxers off the floor and stepping into them before shoving the door open with enough force to put a dent in the wall.

​"What the fuck do you want?" I snap, leaning against the doorframe as my cold eyes lock onto the idiot standing in the hallway.

"Calm down, dude,” my close friend Jax says, chuckling as he steps back an inch, taking in my bare chest and sweat-slicked skin. He's more of a teammate in the beginning but fucker has a way to my heart with his stupidity.

​I roll my shoulders, resting a heavy hand against the doorframe as I glare down at him. “What the fuck do you want, Jax?”

​“You missed the team party,” Jax says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Everyone’s at the house celebrating the win.”

​I scoff, turning my head to spit a quiet laugh toward the floor. “There’s nothing to celebrate. I spent half the night on the bench while the coach let Marcus run the ice.”

​Jax senses the raw anger in my voice and raises his hands in peace. “Look, man, just let it go. You’ll beat him out for starting center next time.”

​'Damn right I will,' I think, my jaw setting as my teeth grind together.

Jax wiggles his eyebrows, his face lighting up with a sleazy grin. “Anyway, Vicky was looking for you at the party. She kept asking where you were. You should call her—I bet she’d drive over right now and turn that frown upside down.”

​I roll my eyes, knowing he’s totally right. Vicky was always desperate for my attention. She was easy, available, and I’d let myself fuck her whenever I needed a quick release. I always liked it rough with her, but it never hit the spot—never touched the exact, deep ache I actually wanted to satisfy.

​Right now, the mere thought of Vicky touches nothing inside me.

​“Not interested,” I say flatly, starting to push the door shut.

“You’re joking. What, do you have a new toy now?”

My silence only confirms his suspension.

“​No way!” Jax exclaims, a wide, obnoxious grin spreading across his face. “Who’s the chick? Do I know her?”

“No.”

Bria is too invisible for someone like Jax to notice. His type is strictly slender, airheaded girls who flock to the rink after games. He wouldn't look twice at a girl with real substance, let alone recognize her.

“That’s disappointing, man. But hey, if you need help getting her into bed, you can always ask good old Jax here.”

I scoff under my breath. He’s fucking stupid if he thinks I need his help to handle Bria, but I do need her phone number first so I have a direct line straight to her whenever I want to mess with her head.

“I do need your help with something.” I say. “Do you still have the campus housing coordinator's number?”

Jax nods, asking why, and I tell him to send it to my phone, already knowing the old bastard will hand over Bria’s student file in a heartbeat.

One word to him about the illegal shit he’s been pulling with female students behind his wife and kids' backs, and he’ll give me whatever the fuck I ask for.

Morning comes fast, and by sunrise, I’m back on the ice, driving pucks into the net with enough raw force to shatter the glass.

​Adrenaline burns hot through my veins, filling me with that familiar, lethal high. I love the heat. The brutality. Honestly? I just fucking love making the ice my bitch.

​I bring my stick up and pause, my heavy chest heaving against my pads as I catch my breath. A thick bead of sweat drips down my temple, tracing the line of my jaw before falling onto the ice. I yank off my helmet, using the back of my glove to wipe the moisture away before dragging my bare fingers through my damp, dark hair, tossing the wet strands back from my forehead.

Getting benched by Coach Rick yesterday proved two very clear things: patience was never one of my fucking virtues, and I am going to completely obliterate Marcus at his own game.

​Yesterday at the game, everyone treated that golden-boy sweetheart like a god, the crowd screaming his name until they were hoarse—like he’d actually accomplished something worth praising. Those cheers were supposed to be mine. All that fucking adoration belonged to me, not to that spineless, cheating weasel.

I’m far from a saint. Hell, the devil himself should be terrified given the number of hearts I’ve shattered, or the endless parade of crazy girls who tried to trap me after a quick, no strings attached fuck, saying how much they love me. They desire me.

In truth? They all wanted to be the one to tame the bad boy, blindly believing they had a shot in hell at digging into my soul and making me theirs.

​On the ice, I was the devil. In my family, I was the black sheep. In every girl’s bed, I was a habit they couldn't break.

​But for all my flaws, I never lied. I never put on a fake smile or pretended to be anyone’s prince charming. The whole Disney reference Bria threw at me yesterday was fucking hilarious—I don't have a single desire to save her.

I just want to ruin her. I want to wrap my hands around that sweet, thich ass, tear down her sweet 'good girl' walls piece by piece, and make her scream my name until she forgets Marcus ever fucking existed.

Sooner or later, the heavy double doors at the end of the arena creak open. I curse under my breath as a handful of my teammates start filing in, gear bags slung over their shoulders.

"Practice over," I mutter to myself, slapping a final puck into the net before leaning against my stick.

"Damon! You got no class today?" one of them calls out, leaning over the glass next to the rink. "Aren’t you in that same Literature class as me? We had a test today, man."

"And...?" I response smoothly, rolling my shoulders.

I couldn't give a fuck about a test. The pathetic excuse for a professor teaching that class had her mouth wrapped around my cock just a few days ago, begging for it, all so I could secure a free pass through her syllabus. I gave her a damn good time when I bent her over her own office desk and fucked her until she was screaming. My grade is already locked in.

Before my teammate can say another word, Coach Rick marches out onto the catwalk. His eyes lock straight onto mine, his face set in a dark, stern grimace.

"Black. Office. Now,"

I let out an annoyed groan, dragging my helmet up by the cage and tossing it onto the bench as I skate toward the exit.

Two minutes later, I'm standing in the office, leaning against the doorframe with my arms crossed over my chest while he paces behind his desk.

"What the hell was that stunt you pulled yesterday, Damon?" Coach snaps, slamming a clipboard onto his desk. "Leaving the bench early, mouthing off to the assistant staff, completely checking out of the team dynamic? You think because you're the most talented bastard on this roster, you're immune to discipline?"

"I don't think, Coach. I know," I say, a cocky, unapologetic smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. "Marcus was playing like trash in the second period. You should've put me in. Sitting me on the bench while that weak link cost us points is a waste of everybody's time."

"Marcus follows the playbook! He doesn't act like a rogue loose cannon!" Coach yells, stepping up until he's invading my space, his finger pointed right at my chest. "You need to get your fucking act together, Damon! I've got scouts from three different NHL teams coming to watch the regional showcases next month. You think anyone in the pro leagues is going to draft a poison pill with an anger problem? They don't care how fast your slap shot is if your character ruins the franchise's reputation!"

"Let 'em watch," I say, my voice dropping into a cold, lethal quiet as I narrow my eyes at him. "When I'm out on that ice, nobody gives a shit about my character. They care about who wins. And nobody wins like me."

Coach Rick’s face turns red, his jaw clenching so hard the muscles in his cheek twitch. He steps right into my face, his eyes cold and dead serious.

He sighs afterwards, pressing his finger and thumb between his nose. “You leave me with no choice then. “As you know I check records of attendance of each teammate and you haven't been to any of your classes since the semester started.”

He continues. “With your failure to teamwork and overall behavior, I will withhold my recommendation from every single NHL scout that walks through those doors, and I'll hand every last one of those official endorsements straight to Marcus.”

“You can't fucking do that!" I roar, taking a step closer as my fists turn white. "He isn't half as good as me! You can't give my shot to that weak bastard!"

​"I can, and I fucking will," Coach barks, pointing a finger at the door. "Now get out of my office before I bench you for the rest of the season.”

I lose it. I turn and slam his door so hard the hall rattles. My fist hits the wall, pain shooting up my arm, but it doesn't stop my rage.

​Marcus. It's always that spoiled prick.

​I'm breathing hard when I hear shoes squeak on the floor. I look up and see him walking down the hall with a smug grin on his golden-boy face.

​"Aww, did Coach finally kick you off?" Marcus smiles wider, making my jaw ache. "About time. A wild animal like you doesn't belong on this team. I'm the better choice."

​"Better choice?" I laugh softly, stepping toward him. "You're not a choice to begin with. You're just a pathetic boy living off daddy's money who got lucky yesterday.”

Marcus's smile instantly drops into a scowl. "I made the team win! I'm the captain here, Damon; show some fucking respect.”

“Respect?" I raise a lazy brow, my voice dropping into a dangerous mock. "Like you respected Bria yesterday?"

​The shift is instant. His eyes blow wide, flashing from defensive anger to complete surprise.

​"Bria? What the fuck are you talking about?" he stammers, his hands twitching at his sides. "Why are you bringing my girlfriend into this?"

​"Girlfriend?" I chuckle softly, folding my arms across my chest. "What about Chloe? Isn't she your woman now?”

Marcus flinches, panic darting across his eyes for a split second before he tries to harden his stance. "My relationship isn't your fucking concern! Stay away from Bria. I'm warning you, Damon.”

“Or else what?" I sneer, my voice dropping into a lethal whisper. "As far as I know, Bria wants nothing to do with you."

He scoffs, rolling his eyes like he’s got it all figured out. "That pig can't live without me. I'm the only guy who's ever given her the time of day. No man is going to look twice at a girl who looks like that. I've worked too hard building her up."

‘Oh, Marcus’. My jaw clenches, a dark, wicked thrill rushing through my veins. ‘You just made this so much more fun’.

He jabs a finger into my chest, trying to look big. "So you better stay the fuck away from her. We're still together, and we couldn't be happier. I'm the only man for her."

"Oh, we'll see about that." I laugh softly, giving his shoulder a firm, mock-pat before winking at the absolute idiot.

I turn on my heel and walk down the hall. I can practically feel the dagger-sharp glares he's throwing at my back, but I don't give a damn. My head is spinning with a brand new, glorious idea.

Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I tap out a message to my new favorite distraction.

Me: Hey cupcake.

Sweetness: Who is this?

Me: The man about to rock your world.

Me: How would you like to be my fake girlfriend?