“Shut the fuck up,” I mutter, but it comes out too low and tight. They laugh harder, because that’s what guys do—they poke the bear to see if it bites.
Jax grins, unfazed. “Come on, man. Don’t get pissy. Hale’s not even my type, but I can admit he’s fine as hell. Those eyes? The hair? He’s like a vampire that owns a yacht.”
Johnny barks out a laugh. “Right? Dude’s hands look like he could strangle you or paint your portrait.”
“Too bad he’s with Thorn,” Jax adds with a smirk.
I don’t realize how hard my jaw is clenched until it aches. I shove my gear into my bag with enough force to make the zipper protest.
“He’s not with Thorn,” I say finally.
Both of them blink.
Johnny leans forward, grinning. “Uh-huh. You sure sound like you’d know.”
I give him a look sharp enough to cut glass. “You think Hale would date someone from his own team? Please. Guy’s allergic to fun. And Thorn’s basically a priest.”
Jax laughs. “So what, you’re jealous?”
My laugh is pure venom. “Of Thorn? Please. He couldn’t keep up if he tried.”
They hoot like it’s a victory. The noise bounces off the tile, filling the room. I’m already halfway to the exit before Locke yells at us to stretch before we tear something. I ignore him. I need air.
The corridor outside the locker room is empty, echoing with the hum of refrigeration units. The air smells like cold metal and victory banners. I lean against the wall, dig my phone out of my pocket, and stare at the screen.
Nothing from Alaric.
No response to my message, no half-asleep text, not even a seen-notification. But when I open his page, I notice the faint green dot next to his name. He’s online. He’sthere.
And apparently, according to the Wolves’ gossip mill, out dating Thorn.
Something hot and ugly coils low in my gut.
I tell myself it’s pride. That it’s about the rivalry, the headlines, the game. But the lie tastes sour even before it hits mytongue. It’s not pride. It’s possession. He shouldn’t be out with Thorn. He shouldn’t be smiling at anyone else. He shouldn’t be giving that part of himself to some golden retriever of a man who thinks a goodnight kiss is the same thing as desire.
I open our thread.
I type:Don’t go out with Thorn again.
My thumb hovers. I delete it. Type again.You can do better than him.
Delete.He’s not your type.
Delete.
The silence of the corridor presses close. From the rink, I hear the muffled sound of pucks hitting boards, of Locke yelling drills, of life continuing like it’s not currently grinding my nerves to dust.
Screw it. I type it clean this time, no preamble, no smiley faces, no soften-the-edges charm.
Magnus:Don’t go out with Thorn again.
I stare at it for a long second before I hit send. It looks too bare. Too controlling. Too real.
I don’t add anything else.
I pocket the phone before I can change my mind.
The drive home is short, but it feels endless. The city blurs past in streaks of gray and blue. Every red light is a test of patience I fail. My body’s a mess of contradictions—aching, wired, empty. The hangover’s fading, replaced by something worse: awareness. Every flicker of thought circles the same orbit. The taste of whiskey. The sound of his voice. The text I just sent sitting in his inbox like a fuse.
