6. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Viktor

I'm on fire today, blocking every shot that comes my way like a goddamn ninja. Glove save, stick save, pad save—you name it, I'm doing it. It's like the hockey gods are smiling down on me, blessing me with superhuman reflexes and an unbeatable swagger, even if it's just a practice scrimmage.

"All right, boys, run it again." Coach Nieminen's voice booms across the ice.

I smirk behind my mask as I make another incredible save. But let's be real, I'm not just putting on this show for the love of hockey. No, I've got an ulterior motive.

"Hey, Becks!" I call out, unable to stop myself. "Did you see that last save? Pretty impressive, right?"

So what if I got all subby and shit the other day? And there's no denying the way his pupils dilated too.

Can't school every feature, not against me. Not when I'm looking dead into those two different colored irises.

Fuck.

I need to stop thinking about that. Wearing a cup and getting hard is the most uncomfortable shit ever.

"Focus on the drill, Novotny," my stupid goalie coach yells.

Okay, he's not stupid. Sure, I've got natural talent, but Rinne's made me better. And we're continuing to work on that dumb habit I have of overcommitting to the right.

But Beckett-fucking-Harper's a damn brick wall. He barely glances my way. It's like I'm invisible, just another cog in the machine.

And it's starting to piss me off.

I mean, come on. I'm Viktor Novotny. Goalies like me don't grow on trees. I'm a once-in-a-generation talent, a force to be reckoned with. Would it kill him to throw a little attention my way? A nod of approval? A ‘Nice save, Novotny'?

Hell, I'd settle for a grunt of acknowledgement at this point.

But no. He's too busy focusing on the other players, especially the rookies.

What do I have to do to get his attention? Strip naked and do a fucking dance at center ice?

Actually . . .

"Novotny!" Coach Nieminen's voice snaps me out of my thoughts. "Pay attention. We've got a big match coming up and I need you sharp."

I toss the puck I'm holding, then kick it like it's a soccer ball. Since when have I become easy to ignore?

As the scrimmage continues, I put in all my effort as if it was a real game, showcasing my work ethic. Maybe that will get my new assistant coach's attention. I continue defending my crease, each save more impressive than the last, each one a silent plea for Beckett to just fucking notice me.

But he's focusing on the rookie who's taken over Alexei's spot, his mouth moving as he gives him pointers and advice.

I bang my stick against the ice and snarl.

Eventually, practice ends, and by the time we hit the showers, my mood has me feeling like a wilted lettuce leaf in a forgotten corner of the fridge, slowly turning into a slimy, unappetizing blob of sadness and despair.

"What the fuck are you moping about again. Seriously, you're making me want to call Eli." Jackson eyes me as I drop onto the bench after my shower.

Already in my boxers—always put them on in the shower so no one sees the scars all over my ass— I sulk my way through getting dressed, only half-listening to the locker room chatter around me.

Zach pulls his sweatshirt on, then quirks a brow at me. "Take it your latest obsession is still ignoring you."

I shoot him the finger. "He's just playing hard to get. He'll fall in love with me sooner or later."

Connor eyes me, brow quirked. "Ever consider you're barking up the wrong tree? You know . . . that he might be straight."

Jackson snickers and I roll my eyes. "Not sure what he is, but the whole interaction at the harbor did confirm one thing—he's attracted to me. And that's all that matters."

He bumps me with his shoulder. "We still on for that movie with Eli later?"

"You would know if you belonged to our group chat. Can't believe you assholes are vers."

He whacks me in the chest. "Told you to just add us both."

I palm his face and push him away. "Not how it works. Only one person per couple, and neither of you want to choose. Bunch of losers."

Jackson groans and turns to finish getting dressed as the locker room empties out, leaving just the two of us because he's taking his sweet time, as usual, fiddling with his hair in the mirror like he's about to walk a fucking runway instead of return to our dorm room.

Just as I'm about to tell him to hurry the fuck up, Beckett walks by. Jackson stiffens, his hand frozen mid-primp, and I instinctively walk to him, placing myself between him and Beckett.

I know my friend's still fucked up over what happened last year, no matter how much he tries to play it off. That piece of shit did a number on him, and it kills me that I wasn't there to stop it.

Never again, though.

Not when I've got eyes on him 24/7. And by "eyes," I mean, the tracker I implanted between his neck and shoulder. He's been impossible to tag. But then the fucker asked me to come by one day to freeze a bunch of paintballs—God knows why—and he eventually passed out from pain meds.

It's just . . . a precaution. The safety of those I care about is an obsession of mine, one that can't be helped, especially not after what happened with my twin sister.

Turns out, getting kidnapped comes with the territory of the family business. But it fucked me up not knowing where she was, if she was okay.

Luckily, my parents tagged us when we were infants. Seems I'm not weird, it's just a common practice in our family.

Even Alexei tagged Eli. He slipped a tracker into him when they first got together. He thinks I don't know about it but please. I've got the info too. Just in case.

Connor was the easiest to tag. And my aunt gave me Alexei's info, same way he has mine.

Zach, on the other hand, was a bit of a challenge. He'll kill me if he knew I'd tagged him after our little play session. But what Zach doesn't know won't hurt him.

Or me.

Hopefully.

Beckett's gaze lands on me, then softens, and I feel a flicker of . . . something. Respect, maybe? Appreciation? I'm not sure, but I kind of like it.

"Good practice today, you two," he says, then continues on his way, and I let out a deep breath. But he suddenly stops, then bends to pick something off the floor. "What—"

My lucky card.

I lunge forward and snatch the burnt Ace of Spades from his hand, our fingers briefly touching, sending electrical bolts shooting across my skin. "It's mine."

He looks down at the card and smirks. All hockey players are superstitious, and some of us have good luck charms.

Jackson sags forward when Beckett leaves, his hands resting on the countertop, his cocky facade slipping for just a moment.

"You okay?" I keep my voice low as I tuck the card into my wallet.

He nods, not quite meeting my eyes. "Yeah, yeah. I'm fine. Just . . . You know."

"Let's get out of here."

We collect our shit and walk out of the rink together, but then go our separate ways. He heads to our room over in Young Hall and I make my way to the back lot where my ugly black minivan is parked to start my nightly routine and then pick up some ice cream.

No one knows about this car. It's my little secret, my escape when I need to get away from the pressure of being Viktor Novotny, hockey and chemistry prodigy, and resident troublemaker.

Okay, that's bullshit.

The minivan is my stalkermobile, the one no one would ever suspect I drive. The Chrysler Pacifica also blends into Rosewood Bay, a favorite amongst the nannies and au pairs. But it's common enough that it doesn't stand out on those occasions outside of our incorporated village either.

And it has ample enough room for when we need to transport a body or two. Like Coach Buckland's.

I slide into the driver's seat, turn the key in the ignition, then pull out of the lot, heading in the direction of Beckett's apartment.

Not sure if he thought I'd head home after our little encounter at the harbor a few days ago. But if I'm anything, it's patient. Well, mostly patient. And he wasn't very stealthy, only waited twenty minutes before heading back home.

Turns out he lives in one of the apartments above the coffee shop and, fortunately for me, not one that faces the water.

The drive is relatively short. Who wants to live far from work anyway? I park a few streets over from Beckett's place, not wanting to risk being caught if my coach happens to look out the window.

After grabbing my psycho nun mask and binoculars, I hop out of the minivan, and make my way toward the building across from Beckett's. It's the perfect vantage point.

I slip around to the back toward the rusty old fire escape, then take the stairs two at a time, my heart pounding with a heady mixture of adrenaline and anticipation. There's just something about the rush of doing something I know I shouldn't. It's like a drug, and I'm a hopeless addict.

Once my mask is in place, I pull the hood of my sweatshirt up, blending into the darkness as I creep to the edge of the roof, my eyes already scanning the windows of the building across the street.

This isn't my first rodeo. I've done this little song and dance about three times already. It's how I know Beckett Harper spends most of his time reading or playing sudoku before bed. And that he never goes out.

Boring.

But he hasn't brought anyone home either, and I haven't noticed anyone else living there. So, that's a plus.

I zero in on his window. At least he has the lights on today with the blinds up. Right after I take a seat on the parapet, Beckett comes into view, a towel wrapped around his waist. Stray droplets glisten on his skin, tracing tantalizing paths down the planes of his chest and abs. His thick, dark brown hair is tousled and damp.

He walks over to the dresser, his back to the window, and I lean forward, trying to get a better look. The broad expanse of his shoulders tapers to a trim waist, all lean muscle and taut skin. But there, peeking out from under the towel near his hip . . .

A scar.

Jagged and silvery, standing out starkly against his tanned skin. It appears old, long-healed, but no less startling.

A sports injury, maybe? But before I can ponder further, Beckett turns. And holy hell . . .

I haven't seen him naked yet. Well, not in real life, just my fantasies. But even my wild imagination didn't do justice to the sheer magnitude of what he's packing.

The towel does absolutely nothing to hide the massive erection jutting out from his hips, obscenely tenting the fabric. I catch myself licking my lips, transfixed by the thought of that beast splitting me open, ruining me for anyone else.

He moves to the bed, and I swallow hard as he undoes the towel, letting it drop to the floor, revealing his gloriously naked body. And when I say glorious, I mean it. The man is a goddamn Adonis, all hard planes and rippling muscles.

But instead of putting on his boxer briefs, he just tosses them aside and sits on the edge of the mattress, his dick standing at attention. For a moment, he just stares at it, like he's fighting some internal battle. His hands clench into fists, and I hold my breath, waiting to see what he'll do.

My jaw drops and I lean forward a bit too much, catching myself before I fall right off the edge when he starts to stroke himself, just lazy strokes up and down his shaft.

And when he starts to tease the head, rubbing his thumb over the slit, I'm done for. He's taking his time, savoring every moment, and I can't look away. It's like watching a work of art unfold before my very eyes.

Soon enough, he's picking up the pace, fist flying over his shaft. He leans back, bracing himself with one hand on the bed, hips lifting to meet his strokes. His head tips back, exposing the long column of his throat.

God, what I wouldn't give to be in that room with him. To be on my knees, choking on that gorgeous dick. I'd let him do anything he wanted to me, let him use me however he saw fit.

I grab my own length that's already punching at my zipper, wanting to break free. I'm hard as a fucking rock, leaking in my boxers like a goddamn teenager.

Sweat glistens on his skin, a flush spreading down his chest, and then his back arches off the bed as he comes, painting his stomach and chest with ropes of white.

My desperate moan cuts through the night as I come in my jeans. But I can't even be embarrassed about it. Not when Beckett suddenly sits up, grabbing his cell phone from the nightstand, his face twisting into pure rage.

He doesn't just toss the phone aside. He flings it across the room. It hits the wall and falls to the floor as he stands up, pacing the room like a caged animal before disappearing from view.

On the floor, the device continues to light up like a damn Christmas tree.

Who the fuck is blowing up his phone like that? But whoever they are, they better back the fuck off.

Because Beckett Harper is mine.

Even if he still doesn't know it . . . yet.