Page 145 of A Little Jaded
“Morning, Sunshine,” I growl.
“Who the fuck are you?” Drake slurs. His gaze shifts from left to right, and if I had to guess, he’s sporting a massiveheadache and a possible concussion thanks to the baseball bat from earlier.
Good. Let him hurt.
“I think we both know who I am,” I reply. “Not that it matters. What does matter is you understand a few things.”
He laughs and tosses his head back, like I’m the funniest motherfucker in the world. “This is rich. You almost had me, Taylor. Almost. Let me go.”
“Nah, I think you’re gonna stay where you are,” I decide.
“What are you gonna do?” He laughs even harder. “Murder me?”
“To protect the woman I love?” I join in his amusement. “Yeah.”
He lifts his head again and looks me straight in the eye. And just like that, his humor evaporates. “You’re not a murderer, Taylor.” He says it like it’s a fact, but the slight tremor in his voice hints that he might not believe his statement as much as he wants to.
That makes two of us.
“I think you’d be surprised what a wolf is willing to do to protect its mate.” I let my words hang in the air, watching the way his hands tighten into fists and how he tugs at the ropes binding his arms behind his back.
“Look around,” I add, motioning to the thick plastic covering every surface in the room. “Do you really think I’d go through all this work for a bluff?”
He stays quiet, but I don’t miss how he takes in his surroundings or the way it’s eerily quiet. No cars outside. No voices on the other side of the door. Just me and him and a few more wolves.
“Or maybe I am bluffing,” I continue. “Maybe I don’t have it in me to kill you. But do you really think I’d let you walk out of here without guaranteeing Raine’s safety?”
His upper lip curls. “You can’t guarantee shit, Taylor.”
“You know, I think you have a good point. Nothing in life is guaranteed, is it? But I’ll tell you what I do know.” I step toward where he’s tied and slowly circle him. “I know Raine’s the best thing that ever happened to you. I know you had a shit life, and your only ticket out of it is…” I stop in front of him and bend closer. “Do you want to take a guess?”
He glares up at me. “Fuck?—”
“Hockey. Hockey is your only ticket.” Resting one hand on my knee while cradling a baseball bat with my opposite one, I crowd him even further. “You and I are more alike than either of us wants to admit. And I know how much you want it. Your career. The travel. The money. The puck bunnies. The recognition we both know you deserve after all the hard work you’ve put in. Am I right?”
His eyes flash with contempt, but he doesn’t deny it.
“See?” I stand to my full height again and slowly circle him once more. “I told you we’re similar. Here’s the thing. There are benefits to analyzing our similarities. What makes us tick. And I have a feeling you’d really hate to lose your hockey career over a girl who doesn’t want you anymore…even if you’re delusional enough to believe she’d ever voluntarily pick you again. And sure, it’s fun to terrorize her. Makes you feel powerful. Like you’re in control, and fuckers like us love control, don’t we?” I slap my hand against his shoulder. “But losing your hockey career over it?” I smirk behind my mask. “Yeah, I don’t think it’s part of the plan. Am I right?”
“Get to the point, Taylor.”
I dig my fingers into his shoulder. “You’re gonna go to the cops.”
“And why”—he breathes through his wince—“would I do that?”
I scoop my fingers beneath his collarbone, squeezing the tender flesh until he shies away from my grasp, finally givingin and admitting he doesn’t exactly have the upper hand right now. Good. It’s time he understands how shitty his situation really is. Satisfied, I let him go, pat his sore shoulder, then stand to my full height. “Because whether or not we want to admit it, the sports industry cares more about what happens in the game with their players than what they do outside of it.”
His eyes thin, but he stays quiet.
Yeah, the asshole knows I’m right. Not gonna lie, it’s one of the things I hate most about the industry. The reminder of how much they’re willing to sweep under the rug as long as they score wins in the process. And it isn’t only the NHL. It’s basketball and baseball and football. In fact, the last time I checked, it was almost five percent. Five percent of professional athletes had domestic violence charges against them.
“You’re gonna go to the cops. And confess. And serve your time.”
“Not a fucking?—”
“Then,” I continue, “you’ll be released, and you’ll play for the Springfield Titans, like you’ve dreamed of since you were a little kid. Who knows? Since it’s your first offense, you might only be slapped with probation and community service.”
Nostrils flaring, Drake grits out, “And why the fuck would I confess?”