Damon’s POV
This bloody coach was at it again.
The disgusting old bastard had been making unwanted advances toward some of the younger players since the beginning of the winter semester. Ever since he went ahead and fixed those hidden cameras inside the locker room under the cheap guise of gathering "team evidence," we all knew exactly what he was up to. Especially considering the sick fuck loved staying late just to watch his players change while he jerked off to the private surveillance footage.
Honestly, no one on the team really cared enough to stop him. In our world, as long as a coach keeps his distance and keeps winning games, you look the other way. We didn’t give a damn what he did in his spare time, so long as he didn’t try to force us into doing something we didn’t want to do.
But today, the pathetic piece of shit crossed a terminal line.
He had no right to put his filthy hand on Micah. He had absolutely zero right to try and lure my sweet little reporter into his private office with those sleazy, whispered promises. Just closing my eyes and imagining the dreadful things that fat bastard wanted to do to Micah in the dark was enough to send a wave of pure, homicidal nausea rolling through my stomach. It made me want to end his pathetic life immediately.
And looking around the ice, I quickly realized I wasn’t the only one feeling the sudden urge to commit a felony. Noah was standing right beside me. I had already sworn to myself that I would never cooperate with Noah Miller on anything for the rest of my life, but I could literally feel the raw, murderous intent radiating off the captain the exact second Micah shook the coach’s hand.
It was hilarious, really. It was like Noah was silently warning the entire world that nobody was allowed to touch his precious little brother. Well, I wasn’t planning on listening to that warning anytime soon—Micah was mine to play with—but right now, the coach was a mutual problem.
I stood back, watching with a twisted smirk as Noah skated over to the benches where the rest of the team was lingering. He made a short, commanding announcement, his voice entirely flat as he told everyone to clear out of the arena and return tomorrow morning for regular training.
The guys didn’t hesitate for a second.
"Yes, captain!"
"See you tomorrow, captain!"
Noah stood perfectly still in the center of the rink, waiting in complete silence for the massive arena to empty out. He stood there like an executioner, watching the final few players change into their street clothes and walk through the exit doors.
The moment the heavy double doors clicked shut and the building fell entirely dead, Noah turned around on his blades and locked his icy blue eyes directly onto mine.
"I told everyone to leave," he stated coldly.
"Why? So you can kill him all by yourself?" I asked, a dark laugh bubbling up in my throat as I skated closer to him. Noah didn’t say a single word to deny it. I narrowed my eyes, my playful demeanor vanishing into something sharp and dangerous. "I’m not letting you do this alone, Miller. That fucker shouldn’t have laid a single finger on Micah."
"Suit yourself," Noah muttered.
He skated right past me, heading toward the locker room. I followed closely behind, watching as Noah walked straight over to his locker and pulled out his cell phone.
He dialed a number, held the phone to his ear for three seconds, and spoke in a flat, chilling command. "Disconnect the whole cameras in the university."
He disconnected the call immediately, not even waiting around for a response from whoever was on the other end of the line. I stared up at the small security camera mounted on the locker room wall, watching with genuine fascination as the tiny, blinking red light suddenly went dark.
"Oh my," I purred, leaning against the bench. "Spooky. Who exactly are you working for, captain?"
Noah completely ignored me. He took out one of his backup skating shoes, running his thumb over the steel blade to check the edge. He frowned slightly. The metal was sharp, but it clearly wasn’t sharp enough for the specific type of butchery he had in mind tonight.
I smirked, opening my own locker right opposite his. I reached inside, pulled out my own premium skate, and held it out toward him. "Here," I said, my voice dripping with dark amusement. "Use mine. It’s freshly honed."
Noah stared at the weapon for a beat, clearly loathing the idea of accepting a favor from me, but he knew my blades were superior. He snatched the skate out of my hand without a word and slammed his locker door shut with a loud, metallic bang.
We walked down the narrow, dimly lit hallway leading to the athletic department offices. Noah stopped directly in front of the head coach’s door and gave a firm, rhythmic knock.
"Mmm..." the coach’s voice responded from inside, a breathless, disgustingly heavy sound that made him sound like he was already moaning in anticipation. "Who is it?"
Noah cut his eyes toward me, giving me a strict, warning glare that silently told me not to do anything stupid to ruin the surprise. I raised an eyebrow, genuinely wondering what he thought I was going to do.
Then, Noah did something completely unhinged. He tilted his head, completely softening his deep, authoritative voice, dropping the pitch until he sounded exactly like a fragile, submissive boy.
"It’s me, Micah Miller," Noah called out through the wood.
I instantly pressed my palm flat over my mouth, my shoulders shaking violently as a wild, dark laugh threatened to spill right out of me. The absolute absurdity of our terrifying campus saint perfectly imitating his innocent little brother was the most entertaining thing I had ever witnessed.
Inside the office, the coach’s voice instantly lit up with sick excitement. "Oh! Micah, dear. Come right in. The door is wide open."
Noah shot one final, deadly glare at me before grabbing the handle and stepping inside. I took a deep, agonizing breath to force myself to stop laughing before I finally followed him into the room.
The sight waiting for me inside was entirely gruesome, and Noah hadn’t wasted a single fraction of a second.
The heavy leather office chair was violently tilted back. The coach was pinned flat against it, his eyes bulging out of his skull as he tried to scream—but the sound was completely muffled because Noah had brutally shoved a thick stack of athletic department documents straight down the man’s throat. The paper was already turning a dark, wet crimson from the saliva and bile choking him.
On top of the wooden desk, five freshly severed fingers were twitching weakly, leaking a massive puddle of thick, hot blood onto the glass top.
Noah stood over the convulsing man, his icy blue eyes completely dead as he stared down at his victim. It was like he could read every single shred of terror flashing across the coach’s sweating face.
"You’re probably wondering why I’m doing this to you, coach," Noah murmured softly, his tone almost pleasant.
The poor man nodded his head frantically, tears of pure agony and desperate pleading streaming down his fat cheeks as his body shuddered from the horrific pain of his mutilated hand.
"Those specific hands touched Micah," Noah explained, his voice dropping into a flat, venomous whisper. "No one is allowed to lay their hands on him."
The coach squeezed his eyes shut, crying out behind the blood-soaked documents as he shook his head back and forth, begging for mercy with his eyes. But Noah didn’t care about a single plea.
He lifted my razor-sharp skate blade into the air, caught the light, and sliced it hard across the coach’s throat.
The thick skin parted like butter. A massive torrent of dark, boiling blood fountained out of the wound instantly, splattering across the desk and soaking the front of Noah’s shirt. The coach immediately began coughing violently, but the air only caught in his severed windpipe, creating a horrific, wet gurgling sound as he suffocated from the inside out. Hot crimson spray painted the glass windows behind the desk. The man’s heavy chest heaved in a frantic, desperate rhythm, his eyes rolling completely to the back of his head until only the stark whites were showing.
His massive body gave one final, violent tremor against the leather chair, and then his muscles went entirely slack. The wet, suffocating gurgling stopped completely. He stopped breathing.
Noah casually stepped back from the corpse, wiping a stray drop of blood off his cheek. He turned his head and stared dead at me.
I didn’t even blink. I stood leaning against the doorframe, a slow, wicked grin spreading across my face. I wasn’t scared of Noah Miller in the slightest. After all, this was officially the second time I had watched our beloved campus captain end a human life.