Page 67 of Make Me Mean It

His furious blue eyes lock onto mine. “Get it together, or get off the fucking ice,” he barks.

For one hot, stupid moment, I want to hit him.

The urge flashes through me so quickly my hands ball into fists, fingers flexing inside my gloves.

I shrug out of his grip, my skin crawling where he grabbed me.

A clatter from the stands cuts through the tension before either of us can make this worse.

My head snaps towards it.

Connor is frozen halfway down the stairs, one hand still curled around the railing, his wide eyes moving between Marcus and me before stopping on my face.

His eyes settle on mine, and all the anger I had aimed at Marcus twists.

He’s standing there with those wide blue eyes fixed on me, all fucking innocent when less than twenty-four hours ago he had his tongue in my mouth.

My teeth grind together.

No.

Fuck that.

I tear my attention away from Connor and force it back onto Marcus, but the ice already feels secondary, my concentration split between the game in front of me and the pair of blue eyes I can still feel from the stands.

Fuck it. I’m done.

I lift my hands in mock surrender and skate backwards towards the bench.

“You got it, Captain,” I call dryly. “I’m out.”

Marcus watches me go, his scowl loosening as his eyes move over my face, searching now instead of challenging.

I turn before he can say anything and swing myself over the barrier in one smooth movement, landing on the rubber flooring. The shift from ice to solid ground jars up through my legs as I grab my water bottle.

And the second I turn away from Marcus, I look straight back at Connor.

Our eyes catch across the rink, his expression giving me absolutely nothing while mine feels far too exposed. One look at him and I can feel the kiss all over again, the memory sitting hot against my mouth.

He’d grabbed me with a certainty that had left me too fucking stunned to do anything except take it.

My heart pounds against my ribs.

I tip the bottle back and drink until I have to breathe, cold water filling my mouth, chasing away a taste that isn’t even there anymore.

I slam the bottle onto the bench, the plastic buckling beneath my hand before I rip off my gloves and throw them down with the rest of my shit.

I drop onto the bench and lean over my skates, fumbling with the knot until the lace slips straight out of my grip.

“Fuck’s sake.”

I grab it again, jamming a finger beneath the knot and wrenching it loose.

The skates come off rough, and I kick them both aside, shoving them into my bag. My hands keep moving even when there’s nothing for them to do, fingers drumming against my thigh.

I lean back against the bench, shoulders hitting the wood, breathing harder than I should be considering I’ve barely done anything out there.

My water bottle ends up back in my hands, tossed from one to the other in a restless rhythm that gives my fingers something to do besides curl into fists.