HICKEY
915 Words
The heat climbed my spine and settled right in the center of the bruise he’d left, yet I refused to look up at him because I was focused on the laces of my skates, pulling them with enough force to snap the cord.
"I’m not hiding anything," I bit out, my voice sounding like it had been dragged through gravel. "I’m cold. It’s a rink, Rossi. People get cold."
Letting out a soft, huffing sound that served as a laugh without reaching his throat, Michael shifted his weight until his heavy, black-skated feet were planted firmly in front of mine. He acted as a physical shadow, blocking out the fluorescent lights of the locker room while he loomed over me.
"Funny," he murmured, leaning down so his face was level with mine while the scent of fresh peppermint and that terrifyingly familiar musk hit me like a body check. "Because you look like you're sweating. You're flushed, Axel. Is it the hoodie, or is it the memory of my fingers?"
My head snapped up as my jaw tightened, and though the locker room was still full of guys, they were clearly pretending to be busy while their ears twitched to catch a scrap of our conversation.
"Shut. Up," I hissed through my teeth.
Watching as Michael’s eyes dropped to the edge of my hoodie’s collar, I didn't have time to flinch before he hooked two fingers into the fabric and gave it a sharp tug downward. The material dragged across my sensitive skin and exposed the dark, angry mark on my neck to the entire room.
"Oops," Michael said, his voice flat and entirely unapologetic.
A low whistle traveled across the locker room while Miller let out a muffled "Jesus" and someone in the back started humming a slow, mocking tune. Shoving Michael’s hand away with my heart doing a frantic, ugly dance against my ribs, I glared at him. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
"Just checking the handiwork," he said, straightening up and flashing that crooked, shark-like grin. Projecting his voice so the rest of the team could hear, he looked over his shoulder. "Don't mind us, boys. Axel’s just a little cranky this morning. He’s not a morning person, are you, babe?"
Standing up as my skates clattered against the rubber mats, I found myself eye-to-eye with him despite being shorter without my skates on. I wanted to deck him or scream that I wasn't his "babe" or gay, but since I’d signed the paper and agreed to Vanessa's lie, I remained silent.
"We have practice," I managed to say, my hands fisted at my sides.
"We do," Michael agreed. Reaching out as if to touch the mark again, he instead just patted my shoulder with a heavy, firm pressure that felt like he was claiming ownership in front of twenty witnesses. "Coach wants us doing drills together. Speed and agility. Since I'm the one you have to keep up with, I suggest you sharpen your blades. You looked a little slow on the turn last night."
He turned on his heel and headed for the ice with his skates clicking rhythmically, never looking back because he knew I’d follow the tug of the leash. Grabbing my stick with white knuckles, I felt Miller’s eyes on me.
"Hey, Axel," Miller called out as I reached the door.
Stopping with my back to him, I asked, "What?"
"Maybe... maybe wear a scarf next time?"
Refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response, I pushed through the doors and hit the ice. While the cold air should have helped freeze the panic and the weird, buzzing electricity in my veins, stepping onto the white sheet only revealed Michael already mid-lap. He moved effortlessly, leaning into the curves with powerful glutes and thighs driving him forward in a way that made my stomach tighten for all the wrong reasons.
Seeing me and slowing down, he skated backward with a smirk that promised the practice would be anything but professional.
"Ready to work, Thorne?" he called out, spraying ice as he dug his blades in to stop right in front of me. "Or are you still thinking about how I taste?”
“f**k off, Rossi,” I stuttered, making my way towards the rink with the devil right on my heels.
"Don't worry," Michael added, his voice dropping to a sandpaper rasp as he glided closer until his jersey brushed my arm. "I'll be gentle. I know you're still a little tender from last night."
"Get on the line, Rossi," I spat, my voice cracking.
Coach blew the whistle to start the puck-protection exercise, but because nothing was simple with Michael, every attempt to shield the puck resulted in him pressing his chest against my back and bracketing my thighs with his own.
"Look at that form," Michael whispered in my ear as we collided against the boards, the sound of our pads slamming into the wood covering his voice. "So obedient, Axel. Such a good little slut, arching your back for me on the ice just like you did in my head this morning. You want everyone to see how much you like being pinned, don't you?"
His breath was hot against my ear as he hooked a leg around mine, tripping me just enough to force my weight against him. "Keep your head down and your mouth shut, and maybe I won't tell them how you whimpered when I bit you."
- Writer
