Page 32
In this chapter, Armstrong seems to be very colorful with his macabrethoughts, and maybe thatâs not healthy or... Continue reading Chapter 32 of "Tempting Venom" for the full story!
Armstrong seems to be very colorful with his macabrethoughts, and maybe thatâs not healthy or safe, but Iâd like to see what else he can come up with.
Just one more time.
Thatâs all.
Not very wise. I know.
But something about Preston ArmstrongâŚ
I zoom in on his face, and a fierce jolt surges through me, lighting every nerve.
Now, this is interesting.
Itâd be hilarious if I didnât find this morbid attention Iâm giving Armstrong a touch disturbing.
He doesnât know it yet, but tonight, he gave me the opening I need to have him exactly where I want him.
After I makesure all my team members have gone home, either alone or with their fuck for the night, I leave the club.
But I donât head back to the house.
I canât.
Itâs one in the morning, and Iâm too wound up to sleep. The drinking didnât help, and neither did acting as the teamâs unpaid manager. Nothingâs dulled my senses enough to make sleep feel possible.
And since I canât pick a fight with random strangersâwell, I can, but itâd be a hassle tonightâI ride my bike to the arena.
Late-night solo skating and drill shots have always grounded me and pulled me back into something resembling reality.
Itâs a quarter past one when I push through the arena doors. The airâs colder here, stale with old sweat and the faint bite of disinfectant.
The lights are half deadâonly a few humming fluorescents left on by some lazy custodian. The rest of the place drowns in shadows. The echo of my boots against the concrete corridor sounds too loud in the silence.
And this feeling of solitude isâŚcomforting.
The coach sometimes calls me a lone wolf, not because Iâm not a team playerâI didnât get the captainâs position for being selfishâbut because he said I shine best when on my own.
Thatâs true.
I always did things on my own when Mom was fighting for her life, working more shifts than humanely possible to keep food on the table.
Itâs not that Dad never gave us money. He did. But she refused to use it, only dipping into it when things got too dire. She saved the rest in a trust fund for me that I also refuse to use, even when I turn twenty-five.
Dad calls it poor-people pride. Itâs not. Mom and I only ever wanted him to be a father, which he barely was. We donât need his money.
The locker roomâs empty. Gear bags line the benches, damp from the earlier game. I drop my keys, run a hand over my face, then stop when I notice my skates are gone and so are all five of my sticks.
A sharp crack like thunder trapped indoors echoes in the air. Then another. And another.
Wood snapping.
I follow it through the corridor, past the equipment cage and the vending machines, until the air changes, turning colder, sharper, cleaner.
My steps slow near the rink when I see whoâs there.
Preston Armstrong.
The Vipers sport jacket and jeans look washed-out under the dim lights, but the skates on his feet are unmistakably mine. Broken sticks litter the ice around him as he drifts in loose circles, a ghost looping the same path.