I snorted. “Must be a tough life.”
“Must be easy, deciding you already know everything about me.”
His wool coat was dark with melted snow, shoulders dusted white. Behind him, a streetlamp buzzed and flickered.
“I know your jacket probably costs more than a month’s rent,” I said. “What else do I need to know?”
“That I’m standing in a snowstorm getting lectured by a guy who thinks being poor gives him the moral high ground over me.”
I took a step toward him. “Careful.”
“Or what?” Karter stepped closer, chin tilted up to hold my gaze. The streetlamp caught the hazel in his eyes, turning them almost green. “You’ll shove me into another locker? Dump my gear on the floor? I’ve got news for you, Zotov. I’m still here.”
The wind shoved against my back, and the cold burned in my lungs. Every reason I had to hate him was right there: the coat, the name, the easy way he stood his ground like he’d never once worried about losing.
“For the first time in my whole life, I wanted to be somewhere where my name didn’t really matter,” Karter said, his voice turning raw. “But you’re so busy being the victim of my supposed legacy.”
“Fuck you. I’m not playing the victim.”
“You are.” He held his ground, snow catching in his hair. “And you’re too blind to see I’m trying to burn the same bridge you are.”
The edge in his voice shut me up. Every rehearsed argument I had lined up completely evaporated.
Standing there in the falling snow, the image I’d built of the younger Johnston started to fracture. He wasn’t some arrogant rich kid playing tourist. He was just trying to survive his own bullshit.
And it pissed me off.
Hating him for his trust fund had been easy. Now, my best excuse to keep him at a distance was gone.
I didn’t have an answer for him. So instead of trying to fake one, I turned away from the wind and started walking.
He fell into step beside me as we covered the last few blocks without another word.
Chapter 5 - Karter
The dark bruising peeking out from under the black athletic support tape around my wrist was Aleksey’s fault, which probably explained why he couldn’t stop sneaking glances at my hand.
We sat across from each other in the library sub-basement, breathing in recycled air that smelled of old paper. My only goal for the three o’clock hour was to get through chemistry without throwing a punch.
Normally, keeping the peace was easy. I’d done it my whole life. But sitting across from Aleksey, the air in my lungs tightened. I tried to pretend to study, and the silence was tense, filled with the memory of his hand pinning my wrist to this exact table three days ago.
Aleksey’s eyes tracked my taped wrist as if it personally offended him.
“If you’re done admiring the athletic tape,” I said, sliding the textbook toward him, “page twenty-two.”
“I didn’t know they sold guilt at the campus trainer’s office.”
“They don’t. They give it out for free. But tutoring’s mandatory. You’re welcome.”
There was a beat of silence as his lips thinned. “I didn’t mean to grab you that hard,” Aleksey finally said.
“That was almost an apology.”
“It’s not.” His voice was flat, but not hostile.
I tapped the open page. “Then let’s get through the chapter.”
A few days ago, Coach Corby had called me into his office after morning skate, and he hadn’t wasted time on small talk.
