Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 128356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128356 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Hockey has always tamed the raging demons inside me and given me a venting outlet. I’ve been into impact sports since I was young because I could feel the aggression fading away with each blow.
Crunching bones, delivering punches, and sporting bruises all over.
Violence.
A way to fucking feel.
Of all of the sports I tried, hockey is the one that came out on top, and it turns out that I have an innate talent, according to all the hotshot coaches I’ve had. They tried to tame that talent, sculpt it into some boring technical prowess like with Kane and Preston, who I dragged into this, but, really, my unhinged side is what makes Callahan #71.
The beast Callahan.
The ‘watch out for your career if you’re up against him’ Callahan.
The league’s raging bull Callahan.
A fireball. A violent monster.
A goddamn lunatic.
It doesn’t matter what they call me, and it’s not like I love the box. If anything, it irritates me to just sit still instead of being in the midst of the fast-paced action.
I usually get sent to the box multiple times during one game, and sometimes, the coach has to pull me off the rink so I don’t risk misconduct.
This time around, though, I was only in the box once.
And it was due to a very specific reason.
While I was hydrating and looking at the screens showing some of the crowd, I caught a glimpse of someone I never thought I’d see at a hockey game, let alone a Vipers game.
Violet.
The camera was more focused on Dahlia since everyone and their uncle knows she’s Kane’s girl. She’s wearing his jersey and has his number, 19, written on her cheek.
But it wasn’t her that made me pause with the bottle halfway to my mouth. It was Violet standing beside her, looking a bit spooked by the chaos. She’s wearing a Graystone Ridge sweatshirt that’s not too tight but also not that loose either.
What is…Violet doing here?
I know she must’ve been dragged to the game by Dahlia, but I heard Dahlia ask her the other time, and she vehemently refused. She also refused when I asked her to come over a week ago.
What changed?
Violet shifted slightly, pushing her glasses up her nose, touching her wrist a bit as she watched the game.
No.
Violet wasn’t really following the action like everyone else.
Was she looking at the penalty box?
The camera went back to the game before I could make sure, but I’m certain she wasn’t focused on the team like the rest of the crowd.
I could be reading too much into it, but ever since I was released from the penalty box, I have never gone back in.
Because how the fuck could she watch me if I was stuck in a useless cage?
Not that I’m sure she came here to watch me per se.
I’m fully aware she despises the idea of sports or anything of the sort. But as I skate back to defense, cleanly checking the Knights’ center, I can’t help but think maybe Violet truly is here for me.
Even though it hasn’t been long since the first time I fucked her, it feels like forever ago.
Like I’ve been fucking Violet my whole goddamn life. Like she fucking exists for me.
I’ve had my fair share of sex, but none of it compares to the way my whole being resurrects the moment I touch Violet. It’s damning and electrifying, and I didn’t stop that first time.
Couldn’t stop.
Maybe it’s because I’d wanted to fuck her for a long time, maybe it’s because I couldn’t get enough of the throaty erotic noises she released or how she tentatively touched me.
Whatever the reason, I shouldn’t have blurted everything out about my mother the next morning.
I still don’t know why I did that.
It wasn’t so she’d apologize or feel guilty. In reality, I don’t think I ever meant to kill Violet Winters like I have the other targets.
Maybe I would’ve if I hadn’t met her first and she hadn’t given me her umbrella and a protein bar. Or maybe I would’ve still seen the true Violet and decided not to hurt her either way.
Sometimes, I think my rage toward her, my inability to stay away, and all the fucking bad habits I developed because of her are just my mind’s way of rebelling against the logic that I should kill her for not saving Mom.
And maybe I should.
But I won’t.
Not because I can’t, but because I don’t want to.
Not when I’m goddamn addicted to her.
Her rose scent, her abundant smiles, her beautiful grace, and her irrevocably kind nature.
But mostly, it’s the way she submits to me, how she looks at me with hooded eyes, and how she traces her fingers along my tattoos as if she wants to memorize them.
Especially the barren tree tattoo. I’ll catch her looking at it and my scars whenever I’m naked. Which is most of the time when I’m in her company.