“Yeah, existing.” I watch her face fall as I say it, and I know I’m a fucking dick. I should take it back. Part of me wants to, but I don’t. I skate away, toward the bench, preparing to leave the ice.
Charlotte skates over to Eli, who wraps an arm around her shoulder.
Anders looks pissed as he skates to me and fists my shirt. “You don’t have to like her, talk to her, acknowledge her. But you won’t treat her like fucking shit. What’s wrong with you, Martel?” He throws out my last name, and I swallow. Anders usually has his temper in control, but right now, he looks even more pissed than he did last night.
“You might be okay throwing away your future for a piece of ass, but I’m not.” Wrong fucking thing to say.
I don’t expect his swing. So when his fist hits my cheek, I nearly fall backwards. But years of brawling on the ice has prepared me for this moment. He fists my shirt, and I fist his as we hit each other. I don’t hit as hard as I can, and I don’t think Anders is either, but they aren’t gentle punches either. I taste the metallic tang of blood in my mouth. It spurs me to hit him harder, right beneath his left eye. He groans, and we both tumble onto the cold, hard ice.
There’s a feminine sounding gasp, and then Eli is pulling us apart and cursing.
“The fuck is wrong with you two?”
Anders and I get to our feet. I spit the blood out on the ice and look to my left. Charlotte looks horrified as she takes in mine and Anders’ appearance.
She coddles the blond Alpha, cradling his face and asking him if he’s okay. I spit another patch of blood on the ice, staining the perfectly white and blue color. It’s what I do,I ruin things.At least that’s what I’ve always been told. I’ve always been a disappointment, never good enough. Not until I found hockey.
Eli fists me by the shirt, and I let him as he pulls me to the corner of the lake.
“Mikael, what the fuck?”
“He started it.”
“Did he?” He arches an eyebrow, calling me on my bullshit. “Listen, man, if you can’t handle this, I can get you a ride back to Boston.”
I meet his gaze. I’ve been hurt a lot in my life, but Eli telling me to leave is one that cuts deep. He’s better than any family I’ve had. He may not be seeing this all clearly for what it is. But I can’t fault him.
“I don’t need to go.”
“You need to at least be cordial, and stop being such a fucking dick.”
I nod my head, wanting to say something snarky about leaving his precious little Omega alone. “Promise me we will still take training seriously.”
“I promise. But you also need to understand that Anders and I are pursuing this. We have a scent match, man. What are you doing?” He looks genuinely concerned, and I shake my head.
“Eli, you have so much natural talent, you’re going to give that up for an Omega?”
“I’m not sure why you think we need to choose?”
“You’re so naïve, Eli.” I say, skating away, not looking back, and not making amends with Anders or speaking to Charlotte.
I’ve held myself in my room for a few hours, hoping that Anders has calmed down, but in my self-reflection, I’ve only grown more pissed off.
I mean, I get it. She’s attractive and smells good. But that’s all it fucking takes to keep their eyes off the prize? Everything we’ve worked for?
Being hungry wins out over my sulking, and I head down to the kitchen. I’m surprised by the sizzle of a griddle, and I almost think about turning back and going to my room, but it smells too fucking good.
When I enter the open concept kitchen and living room, Charlotte is in the kitchen, and Anders and Eli are fussing over her. I roll my eyes.
“You don’t have to cook for us,” Anders says.
“I love cooking, and it’s just grilled cheese and tomato soup. Will you sit down?”
Anders and Eli comply and sit down at the island. When Anders’ gaze meets mine, he gives me a glare, but looks away. There’s a nice, little, purple bruise beneath his left eye. He should fucking know better. I want a grilled cheese, but I’m sure as fuck not going to ask her to make me one. So I open the fridge door and peer in, hoping that there’s something easy for me to grab.
“Would you like one?” Her voice is calm, no malice or anger toward me. My initial response is to shake my head no. She doesn’t let me answer as she hands me a plate with a bowl of soup and the most gourmet looking grilled cheese I’ve ever seen in my life.
I blink at her and hold the plate in my hand. “The polite thing to say is thank you.” She adds a little sass to the end of thank you, and I hate to admit that I like it.
