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“Yes, Coach?” Iva stands her ground but turns around so she can look at the Coach with an expression that confirms she has not a single thread of regret in her mind.
The way she stands there demands respect. A level of boldness I can’t picture plastered on her face, let alone in her confident physique. Compared to the nerdy girl with her cracked glasses, teary red eyes, and flushed cheeks, this woman in our presence knows exactly how powerful she is on this vast field.
After she displays 50/50 targets hit, I can’t even be mad at her cockiness.
“I want to see you using those long legs properly next week. No more bullshitting,” he sternly declares. “Got it?”
She pouts her lips while Zander snickers.
“I knew he’d catch onto you bluffing.”
“I thought I was doing a good job,” she mutters in return but slowly bobs her head. “Yes, Coach.”
“And apply for the Fighting Club. Female edition. Would love to put that speed to the test in a combative environment,” Coach offers.
That seems to ignite a flame in her eyes, and the bubbling passion suddenly blazing in her eyes makes me wonder where her infatuation with the idea of violence comes from.
Is it from all the crazy shit I did to her, leading the innocent, nerdy orphan to feel the need to learn how to fight?
All of this is making me realize how much I don’t know about Iva.
Despite my obsession with making her cry as kids.
“Yes, Coach. I’ll look into it.”
“Be there,” he prompts and turns his attention across the classroom. “Everyone else, DRILLS! You bunch of show-offslove to talk the talk but are crippled assholes for embarrassing me with your lack of aim!”
Multiple groans encourage Coach’s fury.
“Stop wasting my time! Get moving, or you’ll be doing push-ups all through fourth period!” he orders like an Army Sergeant. “And Jeremy, if you don’t go and take down every damn target sheet before the end of class, you’ll find yourself benched from your little hockey shit.”
“Wh-What?!” Jeremy gasps. “I-I didn’t do shit!”
“Be lucky your punishment isn’t meeting the Angel of Death thanks to a bullet in that empty skull of yours!” Coach snaps. “Now, MOVE IT!”
The man has no choice but to scramble from the furious tone of Coach’s baritone voice, but my attention is back to my two comrades and the woman in their midst.
They’re far away now, the commotion unable to steal their attention from whatever conversation they’re having. I can see Iva’s big smile from the way she’s looking at Ares, then turns her attention to Zander as he lifts his hands up in the sky to make some sort of sign.
I’m sure he’s trying to explain something stupid to her, yet there she is, her cheeks all big, thanks to the wide smile on her face. She ends up putting her hands in both of theirs, before they turn the corner, heading toward the parking lot.
I don’t even know how the three of them are fitting in Ares’s two-seater Ferrari, but the thought makes me growl under my breath.
Before I can think, I’m stomping away from it all.
I don’t give a shit if I fail this portion of the class. My anger is too damn high to care. By the time I realize my surroundings, I’m back in the locker room at the locker that I use for my hockey shit.
Slamming into it makes yet another collection of dents in the fine royal blue shade. Taking a few breaths to calm my out-of-pace breaths, I end up unlocking the locker to grab my skates. Hockey may not be for another hour, but skating on the ice will get some rage out of me.
The sticky note hanging from my top shelf makes me frown—the note is foreign in nature.
No one should know how to get into my locker.
Reaching for the blue sticky note, I notice the little bunny stamp in the bottom right corner, while the cursive words leave me biting my tongue so hard, I feel the metallic spread of blood in my mouth.
“The clock is ticking, Leighton. Are you going to keep playing games, or are you going to claim what’s always been at your fingertips?”
I don’t recognize the writing, so I’m confident it’s not Ares or Zander’s handwriting.
