My hands gripped his neck as I threw him up against the wall. “I might have been poor growing up, but how happy is all that money making you? Because, to me, you look pretty fucking miserable.”
His eyes zeroed in on me, and I could hear the teeth grinding in his mouth as he clenched his jaw. He shoved me off and said, “Get your stick and meet me by the car. We’re playing at the park we passed last night. Mommy and Hank won’t want to see what I have in store for you.”
I grabbed the bags and blurted out, “All right, asshole, let’s do this. Give me five minutes to get my gear.”
“Mommy won’t give you more chores to do?” he asked.
I stopped before entering the cellar and said, “I’m sure I can squeeze in a slaughter before I have to help her cook your welcome dinner.”
“Such big talk for a good boy. We’ll see whose blood lands on the pavement. Get your shit, bitch.”
“Dick,” I threw back.
“Pussy,” he quipped, then blew me a kiss and winked.
I am going to fucking kill him.
Chapter 8
Rafael
The scorching June sun shimmered off the pavement as Cody set up his net. I skated around the old basketball court, weeds overgrown at the sides, warming up my legs. The pavement was rough, and I braced myself for what would surely be a painful brawl. I predicted blood: scraped knees, bruised ribs, maybe a busted lip. It wasn’t about kicking his ass anymore. It was about pride. Cody said shit I didn’t even know he could think up. Beneath that good boy exterior hid a worthy adversary capable of stabbing me in the heart with his words. I couldn’t deny that I admired it just a tad.Little fucker.
He skated toward me and tossed the puck at the free-throw line. “You ready?”
I snickered and said, “Areyouready?”
“Damn, you’re hellbent on cliched one-liners today, aren’t you?”
“I merely asked a question, Golden Boy. Yeah, I’m fuckin’ ready. Let’s do this.”
We lowered our bodies into a ready stance and stared into each other’s eyes. Cody’s blown-out pupils swallowed his chocolate brown irises. The contrast between his dark eyes and fair complexion made him look like a demon—a deadly demon.
But I’m deadlier.
“On three,” I said.
He nodded, then we counted to three, slapping our sticks together with each count. At three, we collided like two speeding freight trains hitting head-on. He shoulder-checked me as we battled for the puck, and I pushed back with a vengeance. I knew it would be nothing but a continuous scrap, and I was ready for it. Hungry for it. I’d wanted to rough up this little shit all day.
He played low and hard and maneuvered under me to get the puck. He snagged it, but I checked him from behind, sending him falling.
“What the fuck!” he yelled out.
I took the puck to the goal and scored. “No refs. We’re playing street hockey. Can you take it?”
His eyes bored into me as he rose to his feet. “I grew up on this shit,” he replied. “You wanna play dirty? Let’s go.”
“The Golden Boy is getting messy. I like to see it.”
We approached the free-throw line and got in a ready stance.
“Don’t call me that,” he whispered. His breath hit my face, warming my already sweltering cheeks.
“I’ll call you whatever I want,” I whispered back.
“Not if I have anything to say about it.” I didn’t think his eyes could look more vicious than before, but they somehow morphed into black lasers piercing me with a heated fury that excited me more than a gram of coke.
“On three,” I said.
