BEGGING FOR MY HOCKEY RIVAL のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 61 - チャプター 70

ROWAN.My skin was fucking burning.My neck was on fire. Sweat was glued to the small of my back, soaking straight through my silk dress shirt while I sat jammed into a leather armchair, grinning like a trained hound for four hours straight.It’s just heat, I thought, staring at the amber glass sitting between my knuckles. Adrenaline. Run hot and you blow your engine.I had my entire life laid out on a grid. Clean lines. Zero static.Get nominated for the NHL rookie awards... clear my graduate degree... push my stat sheet until my entry-level deal maxed out... then cut the leash and run. Three years. A West Coast roster. Halfway across the continent. Enough leverage to block my father’s cell number for the rest of my life.Once the real money hit my account, I wouldn't need his backing. I wouldn't need his blessing. And I wouldn't need a sick, volatile rookie wrecking hotel suites and screaming my name at security.I forced a slow smirk onto my mouth, leaning back in the chair, keepin

JULIAN.The cheap drink was burning holes straight through my throat... hot... bitter... acidic as battery fluid.My fifth glass... sixth glass... I lost count after the third.The clubhouse was packed with rich bastards laughing in the dark, but I couldn't hear a single one of them over the screaming inside my skull. I sat hunched low in the corner booth, my jaw locked so hard my back teeth were grinding together... my knuckles shoved deep into my jacket pockets... split skin on my joints tearing open again under the leather.He’s at his father’s estate right now, my brain snarled. He’s sitting in some silk shirt across from that girl... smiling... talking West Coast stats... letting his old man dictate who gets to touch him.I dragged my hands tighter inside my coat until my knuckles popped in the dark.He used you, I told myself, staring into the dead amber liquid. You were just a bloody, unhinged distraction. A shield to keep his father off his neck.The booth cushion creaked as t

ROWAN.The heavy silk knot of my dark tie felt like a velvet noose tightening against my throat.I stood in front of the vanity mirror, my fingers trembling with a sick, toxic heat as I pulled the stiff, high collar of my dress shirt up as far as the tailored cotton would stretch.It didn't hide it. Not even close.Right on the side of my neck... right where the heavy tendon met my shoulder... the flesh was a swollen, dark purple mess... scabbed over with dried, dark blood. Julian’s teeth marks were burned into my skin like a brand... a jagged, possessive signature left by an unhinged animal who had smashed through my balcony glass in the middle of the night just to choke his name down my throat until I gagged.You're mine... You don't get to come home to play happy family with some rich bitch...My jaw locked so tight my back teeth ached. I swallowed hard, feeling the raw, bruised tissue tear slightly under the fabric... my breath hitching as I adjusted the black silk until the heavy

ROWAN.The gala was loud as fuck, and I hated every single bastard in the room.Two hundred rich phonies in tailored tuxes standing around drinking champagne and acting like they gave a shit about hockey. My head was pounding. My neck was fucking burning. I had my dress shirt zipped up to my jaw, the stiff collar digging straight into the purple teeth marks Julian had bitten into my skin last night—and the raw thumb bruise sitting right on top of it.Just play the part, I thought, taking a hard gulp of scotch, Smile for the cameras. Get through the night.A heavy, broad hand landed flat on the small of my back before I could even turn my head.I locked up instantly. My back teeth clicked together so hard my jaw throbbed.It was Charlotte's father. The silver-haired billionaire scout. He didn't say a word to the crowd around us. He just used his weight to shove me two steps backward, crowding me right into the dark corner behind a massive marble archway."Get your fucking hand off me,"

JULIAN.I pulled the truck straight into the gravel lot of a shit-hole two-story motel off the highway. Neon sign buzzing loud as fuck... flashing pink light across the wet truck hood... rain slamming down in thick, freezing sheets.Eighty bucks cash. No cards... no names... no paper trail for his old man to track down.Rowan didn't say a word the whole time I paid the guy behind the cracked glass window. He just sat in the passenger seat with his head back, dark eyes watching me through the rain.I popped my door open, stepped around, and yanked his door open."Out," I grunted into the cold.Rowan didn't hesitate. He stepped out into the freezing mud, his long fingers shooting straight out in the dark... grabbing mine tight.I locked our hands together... bloody, split knuckles fitting right between his fingers... and hauled him up the rusted metal stairs to the second floor.The room was tiny as fuck. Faded carpet, a cheap queen bed with a heavy quilt, and an old heater humming like