Page 135 of These Wicked Hearts

A genuine smile splits his face. “That sounds like a great idea. It’s about time you enjoy the success you’ve earned.” Earned.

It’s an innocent statement, but he knows what he’s doing. I stare at him, and I know in this moment I’m fucking done. I won’t let him put his hands on me again. I won’t let him dictate my life anymore. I’m not his plaything.

I’m done surviving.

THIRTY-TWO

Atlas

The puck bounces off my stick for the third time in about ten minutes. “Atlas!” Coach barks. “Try again, but this time let’s not act like it’s our first day on ice, huh!?”

Prick. A couple of guys laugh under their breath as blood rushes to my ears. I have to remind myself I’m in a no-contact jersey, and that means I can’t contact my own fist with their faces. Which is a shame. I’ve never been a violent man outside a hockey game, but damn do I want to hit something.

“Again!” Coach Grady barks.

We come to the center, and Knox resets to the blue line. I’ve tried ignoring the looks he’s giving me. I’m trying to shut everything out. I don’t want to be here. Part of me wanted to fake some symptoms so I could go home and just fucking sleep.

The thing is, I know myself, and I wouldn’t be sleeping. I’d be at a bar right now trying to chase away the pain in my gut.

“Nobody important.”

How am I this fucking bad at reading people? I feel like I’m going insane. These last couple of weeks—hell, months—have been different. They felt different, right? Am I just that stupid? Had my fun? Fuck him. Who the hell was that man this morning?

For a split second I thought I saw fear on Gage’s face. I didn’t want to leave him there, but it was clear I was dismissed. I’d served my purpose. Fuck, I’m so stupid.

Shoulders tight under my practice jersey, I try and focus. I’m just lucky no one’s allowed to hurt me, because I’m sure quite a few of them want to. Everything just feels wrong. Heavy, like I’m wading through sludge. My brain is taking a minute to react, and it has nothing to do with the concussion.

I keep playing this morning back, trying to make some sense of it.

“Nobody important.”

Then why did he make me feel like I was? Why go through all this? Why even come home with me?

Knox passes the puck to me, and I react too late, missing the pass. “Fuck,” I hiss.

I skate harder after the puck, trying to use all the pain and anger inside me. I’ve played through a broken rib, pulled muscles, and one time a fractured cheekbone after a loose puck hit me right in the face. One time I even played through food poisoning. Zero stars, do not recommend. I did it, though. This, I can’t.

“Again,” Coach grits out so hard I’m surprised his teeth don’t crack. Our whole team gets back into formation. I feel eyes on me and see Knox watching me. I try to ignore the mix of annoyance and concern in his green eyes.

The whistle blows. Pass, pass, shoot. I catch the puck. I go through the motions, just wanting this to end. I’m not allowed to play these next two home games. The doctor wants me to take a couple more days, but I am to show up at practices and morning skates.

If coach could void my contract, I know he would right now. If he has his way, I’ll be shipped off to whatever team will have me, far, far away from him.

And right now, I’d let him.

I drop down on the bench by my cubby, ready to go home.

“Bad night?” I look up and see Rome sitting down carefully beside me, a water bottle in his hand.

“I’m fine.”

Rome nods slowly. “Usually when people are fine, they don’t spend the entire practice glaring at their teammates or looking like they’ve never seen a hockey stick before.”

I huff, shaking my head. “Dick.”

“What’s going on with you?” I ignore him, grabbing my shoes and slipping them on. “Silent game. Real mature.”

“I just don’t want to talk about it, okay.”