Page 2 of Make Me Mean It

I wave him off vaguely, already regretting everything about this conversation, and rake a hand through my hair.

“Be ready in ten,” he calls, heading for the door.

“Twenty,” I argue into the couch, half muffled.

“Make it five.”

“Asshole.”

“I heard that.”

“You were supposed to.”

The door swings open again a second later, followed by the rapid drum of Marcus’s hands against the frame.

“Hustle.”

I jerk upright on instinct, heart kicking hard against my ribs, years of early practices and coaches barking orders burned so deep into muscle memory that even half-dead and hungover I still move like I’m about to be punished for not doing it fast enough.

For a split second, I’m not on a couch anymore. I’m on the ice, waiting for a whistle that never comes.

Then it clicks.

Marcus. Not a coach. Not a drill. Just Marcus being an asshole.

The adrenaline drops out from under me almost as quickly as it hit, leaving me shaky and light-headed, my stomach rolling, and I have to swallow against the rush of nausea.

“You fucking prick,” I snap, glaring towards the doorway.

Marcus loses it. Actually doubles over laughing in the doorway, like he’s just witnessed the funniest thing in the world, tears already forming at the corners of his eyes.

“Glad you’re enjoying yourself,” I grumble, shoving up from the couch.

“Oh, I am.”

“Hope you choke.”

Judging by the way he fucking wheezes, I might actually get my wish.

I shove my feet into my battered Vans without bothering with the laces, tucking them under my feet, and follow him out, already questioning every decision that led me here.

Marcus goes quiet beside me. I make it a few steps before I glance over, catching him looking me up and down, a barely contained smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“This is gonna go well.”

That makes me pause because, yeah, I don’t like the sound of that. “What?”

He hesitates, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “You don’t wanna change?”

I glance down at myself, trying to work out what his problem is. Okay, I’m still wearing the same clothes from last night, but we’re moving boxes, not going to fucking dinner.

I’ve looked worse. Probably.

“Since when are you precious?” I scoff, raking a hand through my hair and regretting it when naturally, it falls right back into my eyes. “No, I’m not changing just to move boxes.”

Marcus lets out a low whistle, looking me over one more time before that half-smile creeps back in. And whatever he’s finding so entertaining, I’m clearly missing it.

I’ve known Marcus long enough to know that look usually means something’s about to become my problem.