Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
Unexpected Problem
I’m bored. Come entertain me?
Me
I’m not your fucking clown.
Not a clown, no, but definitely pure entertainment. Also, hi, are you done ignoring me?
I was just checking to see if you were dead, which obviously, you’re not. What a sad day for humanity.
You’re highly amusing, did you know that?
Yeah. You’ve told me that twice now.
You’re counting?
And you’re drooling.
Guilty as charged. I could eat you whole and still be starving for more.
You can try, Hannibal. I’m indigestible.
I believe you’re highly digestible, especially after what happened in the forest. You’re obviously not as unaffected by me as you like to think. It probably took you by surprise to be so turned on by the guy you hate and look down upon as a “peasant.” It’s why you returned the bike and ignored me, no? To prove that I mean nothing.
This motherfucking piece of shit is way too perceptive for his own good.
How do I fuck him up with his own ego until he chokes on it and dies?
I’m going to block you.
And take away my favorite new fixation? Don’t do that. In return, I’ll give you a chance to get back at me.
I’m not falling for that.
I mean it. We’ll have a one-on-one game. Just you and me.
Why?
Because you obviously still have unresolved feelings for me, and this could fix it.
I have NO feelings for you.
If you say so.
I do NOT.
I believe you. No need for caps.
You truly are entertaining.
Pay me for brightening your boring life.
I don’t have much money, but I can pay you with something else.
Who’s the whore now?
I can be that for you. Anyway, back to the one-on-one. Are we on? It’d be a nice workout before tomorrow’s games. I could use some last-minute practice.
You’re doing this for practice? Don’t you have any friends on the Wolves you can practice with? So sad.
Yeah. I’m so lonely. See you at the Wolves’ arena?
I’m not coming to that shithole.
Then I’ll come find you, baby.
This was a bad idea.
Like…Olympic-level bad.
I have no clue what I was thinking when I didn’t immediately refuse to let Osborn come here, but clearly, my brain cells were not in attendance, because now, it’s too late.
He’s here. The motherfucker.
Black compression shirt glued to him like it’s legally required to act as his second skin, stretched over broad shoulders and a wide chest. No pads except the elbow ones. And when he glides toward me, his shirt rides up just enough to flash the line of his abs.
And I’m absolutely, totally, definitely not looking at that or doing anything else equally deranged.
Nope. Not me.
“Fancy rink,” he drawls in that aggravating, provocative way he speaks, not studying his surroundings as his words suggest, and, instead, fully focused on me.
He’s sporting bruises from when I punched him in the forest. Not as dark as mine, but they’re there, little souvenirs from that whole disaster.
And he just…keeps watching me. Intently. Unblinking. Like he’s trying to snap my entire existence straight into his brain.
The longer he stares, the tighter something coils inside me, winding around my lungs until breathing becomes strained.
I’m starting to think I despise his eyes. Those dark grays that look like smoke mixed with night. Even under the bright rink lights, they remain unreadable and infuriatingly mysterious.
Actually, no—I’ve decided. I hate them. They’re officially on my shit list, right under his smug little smirks and that rough, deep voice that sounds like gravel having an orgasm.
Oh, and his physique. Loathe it. Absolutely, violently loathe it.
He’s all muscle and precision—annoyingly efficient. Even when he pretends he doesn’t care, he’s coiled and controlled.
Even his breathing looks disciplined.
What kind of psychopath breathes on purpose like that?
Someone like Julian and Marcus fucking Osborn, apparently.
“The press would have a field day if they could snap a picture of this moment.” He’s circling me, stick and helmet in hand. “Osborn versus Armstrong. The league’s beast and prince come face to face.”
“Beast.” I scoff. “Ridiculous.”
“You wearing a Vipers jersey for our one-on-one is what’s ridiculous.” He stops in front of me, his voice turning cold. “Lose it.”
“Why? Afraid it’ll blind you with all its glory?”
“I just don’t want the reminder that you’re supposed to be my enemy.”
“Oh no, we can’t have that. Wouldn’t want to ruin your warm, fuzzy feelings for me.”
“Warm, no. Fuzzy, maybe.”
I slam my stick against his chest, chomping down on that uncomfortable, painful feeling rising in my chest. “Stop flirting.”
“Was I?”
“Yes, you were, and I’m telling you it won’t work.”
“Don’t go breaking my heart.”
“You’d need to have one in the first place.”
“Ouch.” He smiles, amusement rolling off him in waves. No clue why he finds these exchanges entertaining when all I get is a migraine and the urge to bash his head in.
“Will you remove it?” He reaches out. “Or do you need my help?”
I glide back before he touches me.
He remains still but narrows his eyes the slightest bit, as if he’s cracking me open and attempting to see inside me.