Wicked Games (Fallen Royals Book 2)

Amelie smirks at me from her table at lunch. She came in late, her gaze finding me and lingering. Riley is at our table, down at the end with Eli and Liam. Liam is doing the work of entertaining both of them, while Theo sits across from me in silence.

They all know I’m in no mood to be nice.

My bad mood isn’t infectious, but it sure does stink. That’s what Theo told me approximately ten minutes ago while I waited for Margo to return to sanity. And by sanity, I mean to stop this fucking avoidance bullshit.

Riley is here, which leaves me clueless to Margo’s whereabouts. Riley’s phone chimes, and my head automatically turns.

She glances from Eli to me, then frowns.

“What is it?” I snap.

She flinches.

I snatch her phone away.

Margo: Robert took me home.

I growl under my breath and slide her phone back.

“Dude,” Eli says. “Not cool.”

“What’s not fucking cool is this cat-and-mouse game Margo’s playing.” I stand, my attention tripping over Amelie again. Her lips are curled in a shit-eating grin—which means she’s probably up to something.

I head toward her.

She stands and meets me halfway, running her finger down my chest.

I grab her wrist, squeezing hard enough to send a message. Don’t fucking touch me.

“You like using girls?” There’s a slight shake to her voice. “I told her where the text came from.”

The text… the only text of consequence would be the one Savannah sent me about Ian and her. And even then, it came far too late for me to protect her.

I should’ve told Margo that, but I decided to keep it to myself. I keep a lot of things close to the vest—sue me.

Whatever Sav wanted to imply by telling me Margo and Ian were absconding to the woods, her message wasn’t received. Ian and Margo aren’t having some affair—I never would’ve assumed that. And he hurt her. I’m inclined to break his jaw just thinking about it, but hockey is on the line.

Still, I drop Amelie’s arm like burning coal. “Are you trying to make your life miserable?”

Savannah isn’t at the cheerleaders’ table. While her supposed best friend throws her under the bus, she’s nowhere to be found.

Interesting.

“I had to,” Amelie argues. “She’s finally standing up to you⁠—”

“You know nothing,” I growl.

Margo standing up to me—my blood runs hot. Hotter anyway. I couldn’t have possibly predicted that I would like her fire. But damn it, I do. She ignores me? It’s only going to make me hold on to her harder. She fights me? I’ll fight back dirtier.

I brush past Amelie, more than done with this conversation.

“Where are you going?” she calls after me.

She and I both know the text about Margo and Ian didn’t originate with Savannah. Whatever games they’re playing, I can do better.

And so can Margo.

I’m halfway down the hall when Coach Marzden steps out. He takes one look at me and scowls.

“Asher. Come with me.”

I gnash my teeth. Worst fucking timing. But I follow him to his office, especially if it means I’ll get back on the ice sooner.

He’s allowed me—no, required me—to attend practices. I’m the captain. I have an example to set. But games, I’m not allowed anywhere near the rink. Not until my suspension is up.

“Sit.” Coach takes hockey seriously. His whole career rides on it. If one of us screws up, we’re out. It’s how it’s always been. He sits across from me, leaning his elbows on the desk. It’s covered in papers, but he doesn’t seem to care. The whole office is organized chaos.

“You’re slipping,” he tells me.

I stare at him, unsure of how to answer. On one hand, I’ve already slipped pretty far. On the other, I’ve made sure to stay out of trouble since my fight with Ian.

“Margo Wolfe,” he says.

I stiffen. “What about her?”

“Is she going to fuck with your head? You’ve never gotten into a fight with your teammate before, and I know how tensions can soar around a pretty girl. Teenagers are brutal, but you’re not just a teenager. You’re the captain.”

School royalty.

That weight sits heavy on my shoulders at all times. I can’t exist without being reminded of the eyes on me. Not just fellow students. Teachers. Parents. Everyone.

“You’re not telling me anything new.” I lean back. Fuck Coach and thinking this sport gives him free rein over my life. Over what I do with Margo. “Wolfe isn’t a problem.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Oh? So, you weren’t about to skip class. Maybe go see the girl who was just checked out of school by her foster father?”

He knows too much. But still—whose business is it if I want to leave?

“No one fucking cares, Coach.”

He lunges across the desk and grabs my shirt collar, jerking me up. “Don’t play that game with me.”

I glance down at his fingers curled in the fabric at my throat.

We clash sometimes. He’s one of the original hockey royalty—the original asshole who ruled Emery-Rose when he was a student. The team has long acknowledged that he has a temper to match his infamy.

This, however, is nothing.

“Fine,” I grit out. “Wolfe and I are in a relationship. But she’s not a problem.”

“I need smooth sailing from you,” Coach says. “From now until graduation. Impress the scouts, and it’s your choice of schools, right?”

He releases me, and I slowly retake my seat. He does the same. I adjust my shirt while he watches.

“Where are you applying?”

I lift one shoulder. “Mom wants me to go for Harvard.”

He snorts. “And?”

“And it’s an option.” I’m not set on it. Boston. It seems so far away.

“Deadlines are approaching,” he says. “You toured schools over the summer, got an idea of some you’d go to if college hockey doesn’t work out.”

“Have you been talking to my mother?” My anger is waking up again. How dare she call my coach? “Is that what prompted this whole fucking thing?”

He rolls his eyes.

“Coach.”

“Cool it, Caleb. I can see the smoke coming out of your ears.”

“Because she⁠—”

“Loves you?”

No.

Because she’s worse than Uncle when it comes to twisting the world into her own masterpiece. No one else’s opinions matter.

“What’d she say?”

“She wants you to apply for Harvard,” he says. “Early decision.”

I cough.

“Fuck, no.” That would lock me into it if I got in—and there’s a high chance someone would donate in the Asher name, and suddenly I’d be hiking my ass up to Cambridge, Massachusetts.

“Make a list,” he orders, standing. “I want to see where you’re thinking of going, and I’ll do my best to get some recruits to your games. Once you’re back on the roster, of course.”

I stand, too. I know a dismissal when I hear one.

I don’t wait for him to roll out the red carpet and usher me out. He closes the door behind me, and I duck into the locker room down the hall. There’s a door in the back, much like the girls’. I unhook the alarm and shove the door open.

So fucking done.

Of course my mother wants to micromanage where I go to school. It’s not just hockey that’s a concern. In fact, they’d be thrilled if I didn’t play hockey. They think I should focus on business classes. Double major in two fancy degrees, then go on to get my master’s in business.

All of it to prepare me to take over the family business, but even that wouldn’t happen until years of working under my uncle.

It’s stupid.

I can’t speak out against it, though. Not to anyone except my coach and friends… and maybe, eventually, Margo.

I get in my car and speed back to my house. Not Eli’s, because his parents would absolutely question me being home too early. Mine. I go through the house, ignoring the drab, dust-coated interior, and unlock the glass door that leads to the patio. There’s a path down to the guest house, which was built a moderate distance away from the main house.

Goosebumps rise on my skin the closer I get. I unlock the door to Margo’s old home and turn on a light. We rarely came in here as kids. I think her mom preferred the luxury of the main house—or the solitude after we were gone. Either way, most of my memories of Margo are either at school, in the backyard, or in my house.

Before Margo returned, I hadn’t been in here in years.

Now, I examine it with a new light.

Her parents’ room is a wreck. I crack that door, taking in the broken furniture, the scattered clothes and glass, bits of wood. The air is stale and a little sour.

This place doesn’t affect me like it does Margo. But then again, I don’t have visceral memories. My imagery comes from stories Keith Wolfe spun on the stand while he begged for a not guilty verdict. The trial ended abruptly, after two weeks, with a plea agreement between parties.

It’s not what he deserved—but the prison time made the deal worth it. Especially when my uncle told me he could’ve gotten off completely free.

Margo’s father’s lies encompassed all of us. Me, my parents, Margo, her mother.

She doesn’t know—but she might begin to unravel it. She’s digging. Trying to remember.

I go into Margo’s old room. It feels like it’s been frozen in time. Unlike her parents’ room, which a tornado went through and then was abandoned, a ten-year-old Margo could’ve raced in behind me and I wouldn’t question it.

I close the door and touch the scratches in the painted wood. Long gouges, about waist-high on me. A thousand of them.

What would make a ten-year-old that desperate to get out?

Old blood has dried to a dark brown. Broken nails… a cut? I don’t ever remember her being injured like that, so when did this happen?

On the dresser is what I came for: the bracelet Margo refuses to wear. I palm it, holding it tightly for a moment before sliding it into my pocket. Half of me wants to march back to her room and superglue the latch—then she really would be stuck with it.

It’s not a bad idea.

I did what I wanted to do: I broke her. Getting caught wasn’t part of the plan, and neither was her memory issue. I expected her to know exactly what her parents did. I expected meekness, and instead was met with fire.

It’s thrown a dazzling wrench into my plan.

We belong together.

I lost her once. I’ll be damned if I’ll lose her again.