I should have listened to everyone when they told me to be careful, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. Because even when I was pretending to hate him, I was enthralled by Hendrix. Something about him or the way he looked at me made me unable to think straight. I lost every bit of willpower to that man, and I’m not even sure when or how it happened.
I don’t know him that well, and yet … he consumed every part of me.
Hendrix has this weird power over me. A power that makes me do things I normally wouldn’t do and feel things I never have. I barely know him, yet I feel like I know him better than most of the world does.
In the midst of him breaking my heart, I almost missed that he said he’d been to juvie, and now, I’m wondering if my dad knew that all along, and that’s why he’s been so obsessed with us not being together.
It doesn’t matter now anyway. He said what he needed to say, and I can move on with my life and pretend that none of this ever happened.
And that’s exactly what I’m going to do—after I sit here and listen to some sad music and cry for just a little while longer. Because what I’m realizing is … this is the first time I’ve felt true heartache from a boy. And if this is what it feels like to have your heart broken, I never want to feel it again.
TWENTY-TWO
HENDRIX
A douchebag onthe other team checks me with his stick for what must be the fifth time tonight. This time, it fucking hurts so bad that I have to fight back a yelp.
The type of anger that got me kicked out of the last college I played for spreads throughout my body, fueling every cell with rage, just like it used to. I know I’m seconds from losing it, and this time, what the fuck do I have to be better for?
“Cross-check me one more fucking time, and I swear to God, you’ll have to be carried out of here by your team,” I growl, smashing my body against my opponent, who has made it his mission the entire game to play fucking dirty. “Try me because I’m telling you, tonight is not the fucking night.”
“Hunt, enough,” Cash says, coming out of the crease and skating up next to us during a time-out. “You’re our best defensemen out here. Quit getting caught up in the bullshit.”
“Listen to your boyfriend,” the motherfucker coos, bumping his shoulder against me.
It’s not that big of a deal. Hockey is made up of trash talk, but because I’m so fucking wound up tonight, that’s all it takes for me to see red.
Grabbing ahold of his jersey, I punch him in the gut and shove him down onto the ice, bringing my fist up to land another blow, but a set of arms yanks me up, pulling me backward.
“Cut the fucking shit, Hunt!” Cash screams in my ear just as Jameson comes to my other side to grab my free arm.
“He’s right, Hunt. You’ve got to fucking chill out,” Jameson says. “I can tell something’s bothering you tonight, man. But don’t blow our chance to win this game just because you’ve got shit going on. We all have shit going on.”
“Not like this,” I mutter, pulling in a shaky breath. “But fine. I’m fucking good. Just let fucking go of me,” I growl, pulling away, and thankfully, they both listen.
The referee skates over, pointing to me before calling out to the officials and sending my ass straight to the sin bin. And truth be told, a part of me wishes he had just sent me the fuck home because for the first time in my life … I don’t want to be on the fucking ice.
With Jamesonin the other bed beside mine, snoring, I stare at the ceiling. I know I acted like a fucking tool tonight during that game. I played selfishly. I’m a defenseman. It’s expected that I get mouthy and play rough, but tonight, it was so far beyond that.
There’s a faint knock on the door, and I debate not even seeing who it is—knowing it’s probably either some puck bunny,one who found out the team is staying here for the night before our next game against New Hampshire tomorrow, or it’s one of my teammates fucking off.
“Hunt, I know you’re in there,” Coach Huff says, and I grimace, assuming he’s about to make me feel like an even bigger disappointment than I already do.
“Be right there,” I call, less than enthused before sliding off the bed.
When I get to the door, I swing it open and expect a certain look I’m used to getting to be waiting for me. But instead, Coach gives me a slight nod.
“How’s it going?” he asks, and when I shrug and half mutter a response, he jerks his chin toward the hallway. “Let’s go for a walk. I hear they’ve got cookies twenty-four/seven in the lobby.”
I don’t tell him that the last thing I want right now is a cookie; instead, I nod before putting my sneakers on and walking into the hallway.
As we slowly trudge along, I stuff my hands into my pockets.
“I’m sorry, Coach,” I murmur, too ashamed to look at him. “I know I acted like a fucking moron earlier.”
He’s silent before patting my shoulder a few times. “Your actions wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain blonde goalie, would they?”
When I glance at him, he gives me the smallest grin.
