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Chapter 27
My shoulder hits the boards again and a sharp pain radiates throughout my entire side, starting in my shoulder blade and not easing up until it reaches the top of my ass crack. I adjust my right glove and grip the black tape on my stick harder in an attempt to collect myself from the hit I just received. I inhale, push the blades of my skates into the ice, and continue playing the most energy-consuming game of fucking chase ever.
The Winnipeg ThunderJackets are kicking our ass with their mediocre-at-best roster. We've only lost to these pricks a handful of times but we're a broken team right now. We haven't been able to recognize our sticks from our skates for almost an entire three periods and the scoreboard shows it.
Eight to nothing.
Zilch.
Nada.
Fucking zero.
I had a feeling our game would be off tonight and probably for the next few games but I was still way off. We're missing Oakley–which honestly shouldn't have been such a big deal considering we were playing alright without him last season–but it goes further than that. I haven’t been myself either. I haven't been able to keep my hits clean—when I can even finish one—and I've tripped up enough players that our coach threatened to bench me the rest of the third if I didn't get my head out of my ass.
The threat did nothing.
The hit I just received was payment for the dirty one I laid on their first line centerman earlier, before I spent the last two minutes in the penalty box—my fourth time tonight warming that damn seat. I guess having my ass handed to me during a fight that I could have easily won wasn't sufficient enough for the ThunderJ's defence.
I barely even made it to the game tonight. I spent last night with Braden at some dingy bar watching him suck tequila shots out of some girl's belly button before he ditched me to get laid. I knew that going out was the last thing I needed but alcohol always helped me forget, and I needed to forget about Gracie for one fucking night. But no matter how many glasses of whiskey I drank or cigarettes I smoked, I couldn’t erase the image of the shattered look in her eyes when she left me standing frozen in my kitchen yesterday. I hadn’t even had a chance to form a reply before she had grabbed her stuff from my room and bolted out the front door. My comforter was even still wrapped around her shoulders.
"Bateman!" The rugged voice of our royally pissed-off coach hits me when I swing my leg up and over the boards and join the rest of my team on the bench. I ignore him, grab my water bottle, and squeeze it to send the cold water all over my face instead.
A hand grips my shoulder and roughly spins me around. The move has the somewhat dormant pain in my side roaring back to life and my top lip peels back. I narrow my eyes at Coach and snarl, "Don't fucking touch me, Jack. If you want to bench me, then bench me. I'm fucking done out there anyway. The deeply etched frown lines in Jackson Talon's face sink deeper into his forehead as he digests my blatant disrespect. I shove past him and head towards the dressing room before he has a chance to tell me to get the fuck off his bench. I don't trust myself enough not to say anything else without risking getting myself thrown from the team.
My hair's still damp and I haven't changed from my ironed slacks and white button-down when I step out of the elevator just footsteps from Gracie's apartment. I can only assume that she's alone now. Honestly, it wouldn't surprise me if I found Jessica's cold corpse hanging from their balcony. Death by ruthless insults and a criminal death stare, anyone? I shake my head and clear my throat before knocking on the door and almost shitting myself with the fear of really losing the only person who ever really gave a damn about me and who I found myself caring for just as much.
My heart stills in my chest when I hear the only laugh to ever give me an annoying tickle in my stomach. I hear it a second time as it slides under the door and slithers up my body. My curiosity becomes laced with a strong feeling of jealousy. Maybe Ava came over to comfort her? Fuck, it better be Ava.
The door is pulled open and electric blue eyes meet mine, making me swallow and my Adam's apple bob. My skin flares and my fingers itch to reach across the threshold and touch her, to remind her that she's mine and that won't be changing anytime soon. But I shove my hand in the pocket of my dress pants and offer her a small smile. "Hey," I say, not a hint of confidence in my voice.
"What are you doing here?" she sighs, shoulders sagging like there's a fifty-pound weight on them that she can't hold up anymore. One hand rests on her hip while the other doesn't let go of its iron tight grip on the door. I bite my tongue to keep my groan behind my teeth when I drag my gaze along her body, my eyes becoming hooded.
There's nothing more than a baggy Vancouver Warriors t-shirt hanging off her one shoulder and a pair of tiny boxer shorts riding high on her hip bones. I suddenly remember the laughter from when I arrived and my eyes narrow, pinning her in place. "Who else is here?" My voice is strong, unwavering, making it clear that she shouldn't try to lie to me. "Who's seen you dressed like this? You're half-naked."
My hands form fists at my sides and I shove my way past her into the grossly extravagant apartment. She scoffs loudly behind me, clearly pissed off, but I don't give a shit. I round the corner separating the entrance from the massive living room and kitchen before my vision goes red. My knuckles burn with the urge to use them when a lanky, less than six-foot, blonde polo-wearing fuckboy looks at me with wide eyes tainted with underwear-wetting fear.
"Who. The fuck. Are you?" I snarl, straightening my back and tilting my head. I slowly inch to where he stands by the fridge like a lion who just caught the scent of his prey. A lion who hasn't eaten in days, starving for the taste of blood.
The trust fund daddy's boy blinks in response, his eyes saucers and his mouth gaping open. My brow arches and I take a few more steps towards him, the muscles in my biceps tightens, getting ready for a fight.
"That's Cody," Gracie rushes, trying to save his ass. I whip my head in her direction and attempt to wipe the sheer aggression from my features because I don’t want to scare her. "He's my neighbour."
"That's cool. Why is he here? In your kitchen? When you're wearing the same amount of clothes you do when you make coffee every morning after I fuck your brains out?"
A soft gasp falls from her lips. The accusation behind her eyes is as clear as day and I only shrug carelessly in response.
Tyler," she growls, a flush crawling up her face.
"Yes?"
"Uh, I think I'm going to go, Gracie." Cody fumbles for his words and fear flashes across his face. He attempts to rush past me but I shoot my arm out and place my palm firmly on his chest. He halts in place, frozen.
My neck cords as I tighten my jaw and tower over him. I let him writhe in my anger as it wraps around us in a tense bubble, daring to suffocate us both. His shaky breaths make my lips twitch at the corners as they beg to lift in an arrogant smirk. My next words have him gaping up at me.
"I never want to see you near her again," I snarl just loud enough for him to hear me. A familiar throb appears in my temple—the telltale sign that I'm struggling to hold back my anger. My fingernails poke holes in my palms and stain the tanned skin with red as I click my tongue. "If you see her in the lobby, turn around. If she's in the elevator when the doors open, wait for the next one. If you can see her wherever you are, close your fucking eyes. But I don't want to find you so much as breathing the same air as her again unless you want to spend the remainder of your days in a fucking wheelchair. Got it, Cody?"
He gulps and nods his head a few too many times before blinking at the hand that's still shoved against his chest.
