In his mouth.
He doesn’t get to say her name. He doesn’t even get to think it.
And then the final straw—
A split-second uninvited flash:
Rylan leaning in close. His mouth near her ear. His hands bracketing her body. Her going rigid just like that, shoulders creeping up toward her ears—
No.
Red slices across my vision.
The towel drops.
The ritual shatters.
I’m moving before I even register the decision.
Four steps. That’s all it takes.
My knee clips my stick as I lunge; it clatters to the floor, forgotten.
Rylan is still grinning when I grab the front of his jersey and slam him into the bank of metal lockers.
The impact is a deafeningCLANGthat silences the entire room. A moment frozen in time.
Someone kills the music mid-beat.
Laughter dies.
The echo of metal hangs in the air, heavy with tension.
His head hits the locker.
Good.
He gasps, eyes wild, feet dangling an inch off the floor.
I pin him there, my forearm pressed hard against his throat, cutting off his air. The rage is a clean, white-hot fire, burning everything else away.
It feels good.
It feels right.
This is control.
“Say her name again,” I hiss, my voice a dangerous whisper.
Rylan claws at my arm, face turning a dark, ugly red. He can’t breathe.
“Reid! What the fuck!”
“Let him go, man!”
Hands are on me, yanking at my shoulders, my arms.
I shrug them off. Flies.
