When he got close to you, did you notice anything special? Like a mark or a tattoo?
Kane
Just give me something, and I’ll find out who the fuck dared to trespass on our property.
Either show up and keep me company or stop yapping like bored housewives.
Itoss my phone onto the bench in the Vipers’ locker room and finish taping my hands.
Yeah, yeah—I’m the world’s biggest liar for keeping the entire forest clusterfuck to myself. But seriously, what was I supposed to say?
“Hey, Kane, Jude. So the masked intruder was totally Marcus Osborn, and I let him beat the shit out of me, because, surprise, I guess I’m into that. Also, fun bonus, I’m ninety-nine percent sure I got hard. Any thoughts?”
Yeah. No.
I’d rather tie a noose around my own neck and hang from the rafters like a festive little corpse, thanks.
My method of coping is choosing to believe that the entire thing didn’thappen.See?It works.
Nothingdramatic.
Just anormalday likealldays.
Kane and Jude are just being over the top with the whole “you lost your mind” thing. They’re the ones who overreacted by knocking me out, the fuckers. I was just going to block Osborn’s exit and hunt him the fuck down.
They’re the reason I couldn’t proceed with my plans, so if they want to blame anyone, they should start with themselves.
But honestly? Maybe chasing Osborn wasn’t my brightest moment after what happened under that tree.
I definitely shouldn’t want to feel like that again.
Letting myself unravel, allowing someone to handle me like I’m not a human but a problem to be solved—yeah, something has to be deeply, fundamentally wrong with me.
Andsurprise, it is. Ask Dr. Duret or Dr. Fenwick. They’ve probably got matching PowerPoints about me.
But the thing is…in that moment, something inside me just snapped open and came undone. With the taste of copper in my mouth, pain in my ribs, my brain buzzing like a busted neon sign—and instead of shutting down, I…loosened up. Let go.
I know, I know. It’s pretty fucked up. If there were awards for psychological disasters, I’d sweep the entire ceremony.
But the truth is idiotically simple—I only ever feel like I exist when I’m being hurt.
When the pain registers, adrenaline fires. A hit, a crash, a bruise, and suddenly, I’m back in my body again instead of floating ten feet above it like a malfunctioning ghost.
It makes me feel alive.
That’s why I love hockey. The impacts, the slamming into the boards, the speed—it puts me back together for a second.
It’s the only time I’m not trapped in my head, not lost in static, or wrestling whatever impulse decided to ruin my day.
On the ice, things make sense when focus sets in, and chaos fizzles out.
I pick a target, annoy the shit out of them, score, win.
Boom.Life formula achieved.
Except for that godforsaken Wolves game when a certainassholeturned the tables on me.
Said asshole also started texting me right after that night in the forest.
