‘Where do I want the blade to go?’
‘Wherever makes you feel better.’ He plants a slow kiss against the curve of my shoulder and squeezes my waist once. Then he moves back and gives me the room I need.
I fixate the painted circles until they blur into Nevin’s face. The caption. #SpeakingMyTruth. The months I spent shrinking myself to fit his world, to become furniture.
I thrust my arm and let go. The axe rotates once, twice, and bites into the wood in a spray of splinters. Not the bullseye, but close.
‘Good form,’ Scottie says.
I heave the steel again. Harder this time. But muscle memory is a bitch. Dancers spend decades to forge their bodies into tools of perfection. My limbs want to extend, to point. But I force my muscles to revolt. I don’t want grace. I want impact. Nobody tells you that a tear-down is almost as physical and a million times more cathartic.
Each strike strips away a layer. The apologies I never owed. The flinches that became reflex. The mornings I woke up counting his breaths to gauge the mood. The nights I lay still as stone because movement might wake him and waking him might mean…
The blade buries itself an inch deep. My shoulder burns and my palm is sore. I don’t care. I’m cackling like an unhinged bog witch. It pours out of me, graceless and ridiculous. I hurl the next one with a primal scream.
Who knew that the best way to get over your ex is with an axe?
‘I hope your next jobby is a hedgehog!’ I yell at the target. The axe hits high and left. Close enough.
I turn to Scottie. The look on his face steals whatever breath I have left. It’s as far from pity or embarrassment as it can get. He looks…proud?
‘That’s it,’ he says. ‘That’s my girl.’
His girl.
I like the sound of that.
We throw until my arm gives out. Then we sit on a bench with fizzy juice and a basket of chips for lunch on the table, and I feel lighter than I have in years. The adrenaline sparks bright and clean in my veins. Not the fearful kind for a change – the healthy, happy, and alive kind. And it’s infinitely times a thousand better.
‘So I was thinking… We can fight him.’ My mouth outruns my common sense. ‘I know it won’t be easy, but?—’
‘Ava.’
‘I have evidence. Texts. Voicemails. Pictures. We can?—’
‘Ava!’ The urgency in his voice stops me cold. Scottie is staring at his phone. His complexion has gone grey.
‘What?’ The blood drains from my face. ‘What is it?’
Without answering, he turns it toward me. A voicemail icon. Coach Wallace. Five missed calls. One text from the Team Manager:
Where the HELL are you? Call me NOW.
* * *
He presses play. The coach’s voice, clipped and furious, fills the space between us.
‘Kerr. You were supposed to be at MacKenzie’s this morning. The sponsors are asking questions. The press is asking questions. Apparently there are rumours about—’ a pause, something muffled ‘—violence. I don’t know what the hell is going on, but until I get answers, you’re on ice. Suspended. Pending investigation. Don’t show your face at the training ground. Keep your mouth shut with the media. Don’t do a bloody thing until I tell you.’
The message ends. Scottie stares at the black screen. The colour hasn’t returned to his cheeks.
Suspended.
The word tears through me. Suspension means no training. Not even stadium access. And no match bonuses. It means his income is frozen, his reputation under the microscope, his livelihood balanced on the whims of sponsors and PR managers who don’t know the truth.
And it’s my fault.
He decked Nevin for me. Took me to Oban. He chose me over the event, over showing up, shaking hands, playing the game. He chose me, and now he’s paying for it.
