Page 45
“Let it go, before they eject you,” Holden says, trying to pull me off the guy. I let him go with a smile directed at Holden.
“His blood is all over the ice,” I say, voice low and calmer than I expected it to be. “I’m getting ejected.”
And I can’t find it in me to care.
Holden’s nostrils flare, eyes intense as he looks up at me. “Toren.”
“Worth it,” I say, tapping the side of his helmet carefully with my glove before gliding backward toward the bench. One of the refs is already there, standing with Harris as LaBlanc fumes at the door, waiting for me.
He’s patient; only the small crinkle of his brow even hints at the fire burning beneath. The burn of his ire is something I know well, seared into every scar on my body and the muscle of my heart.
It isn’t until we’re far into the tunnel, turning into the locker room as he slams a door, that LaBlanc grabs at my collar. It doesn’t matter that I’ve got several inches on him, taller still in my skates, his presence is as suffocating as it was when I wasn’t this big. When I was twelve and gangly and terrified of any adult who raised their voice.
I stay quiet, letting him handle my body as roughly as he wants, before he presses me into the cement wall.
“Fucking brilliant,” he snaps. “What did I fucking say about the fighting?”
“Don’t hit first?”
“Think you’re fucking funny?” He invades my space even closer, until he’s nearly spitting on me. “You talk to me like that again, I’ll hit you so hard you swallow your goddamn teeth.”
His words terrified me once. Before I started sleeping in Lily’s room, I’d lie awake at night and panic over things he’d said to me, scared of the idea that he might do something like that to her.
“Whatever,” I say, low and quiet, as if my stomach isn’t clenched with a fear-filled anticipation.
Patiently and silently, I wait for the blow to come. Only it doesn’t, because the door behind us slams and LaBlanc backs away and smooths his hair back, straightening to his usual cold demeanor.
“What the hell is going on, Tor?”
My eyes shutter closed at Harris’s much softer voice. Somehow, his hurts worse, striking deeper.
I drop my discarded cage to my feet and shake out my sweat-damp black hair.
“Just how it is with me,” I say, my tone biting. “You know that by now.”
LaBlanc looks almost pleased with me now, but Harris closes his eyes and shakes his head.
“LaBlanc, can you make sure the team isn’t screwing me over while I’m in here?”
He nods at Harris and leaves the room to walk back to the bench.
I push off the wall and start to unlace my skates and shuck my pads as Harris takes up my previous position, arms crossed, suit coat tight on his biceps as he moves.
“I can’t deal with this right now,” he says quietly.
My jaw clenches. “Then don’t. I don’t need to be handled. Leave me alone.”
I hate every word, because it sounds like I’m arguing with my dad and not my coach. Like a goddamn child.
“Don’t go anywhere,” he snaps, the Harris calm finally giving way to anger. That I’m used to. That I can deal with—instead of this softness I have no use for. “You’re staying in here until the game is over. You’ll apologize to the team for letting them down. And then you’ll ride home with me; leave your bike here.”
He doesn’t wait for me to respond, before storming back out.
• • •
I don’t wait.
And I can’t decide if my decision to ignore everything Harris asked of me was stupid—or if lying on dark lavender European linen while the shower in the bathroom runs for arguably too long is worse.
