Page 1 of Beautiful Venom
1
DAHLIA
Life as I know it has been shattered into tiny, unrecognizable pieces.
The silver lining? I have nothing to lose.
No one to go back to.
Nowhere to call home.
So nothing stops me from pursuing the bloody path I’ve carefully traced.
My fingers tremble against the smooth plastic of the stadium seat as I remain hidden. My muscles burn and my knees shake, creaking from the crouched position I’ve forced myself into for twenty minutes or more.
A blast of icy air envelops me, frosting the beads of sweat coating my temples and upper lip.
The thing is, I’m not supposed to be here.
And I don’t mean in this position per se, but in the whole place.
I certainly wasn’t supposed to set foot in Graystone Ridge or on the campus of Graystone University—also known as GU. Most importantly, I’m not supposed to be sneaking around in their notorious Vipers Arena, home to the school’s prestigious Vipers hockey team that just won a spectacular game.
‘Just’ is metaphorical, because that game ended hours ago and everyone has evacuated the premises.
Except for me.
And the three players below.
Loud thuds fill my ears as the puck checks the boards. The swish of blades on the ice adds a symphony of undiluted violence.
I peek from between the dark blue chairs, holding my breath despite the magnitude of sounds echoing in the arena.
The seating inside Vipers Arena, which has a capacity of over ten thousand, rises steeply, giving a dizzying, vertigo-inducing view of the ice below. I can still hear the roar of the crowd from earlier as if it’s a physical force, reverberating in my chest in a persistent thrum. The clapping and chanting that ricocheted off the walls, rising to a deafening crescendo, was dull compared to the sound of the three players’ fast-paced late-night practice.
Or should I say meeting?
I catch a glimpse of ‘VIPERS’ printed on the boards across from me as the ice gleams under the harsh, blindingly bright lights, casting a bluish tint over the rink. The crisp, biting sound of skates slicing across the ice sends chills through me as I follow the players’ cutthroat maneuvers.
I’ve watched the Vipers dominate the arena countless times during my research, so I can recognize who has the puck without even checking their number.
Some might call this an obsession, and maybe it is, but if it can get me closer to the team, I’ll be a simp. Or a stan. Or whatever correct term means I’m an expert on this bunch of snakes.
I lower my baseball cap over my face, switch my weight from one foot to the other, then rest my clammy forehead on a tiny spot between the two chairs.
The three of them are so fast, so vicious, and so ruthless in their play, they nearly blur together in a sea of sharp glides.
My eyes cross as I attempt to keep up. They’re alternating and playing two against one, probably to improve their flawless attack synergy everyone was singing praises about earlier tonight.
The reason those three play well together is probably because, even after everyone went home, they took to the rink again.
I’ve heard rumors that they often have these late-night ‘meetings’ and had to confirm it myself. Which is why I went to the restroom, stayed there until the place was nearly deserted, then snuck back into the arena and hid behind the chairs in the corner close to the ice but out of the players’ field of vision.
However, I had to be dead silent because this place echoes even the slightest noise.
The three of them come to a halt in the middle of the rink, clacking their sticks together before tossing them onto the ice.
“That was lousy defense.” Number 71, Jude Callahan, is the first to remove his helmet and shakes his soaking-wet black hair before he tosses it back like a dog.
