Parker slides up beside me at the edge of the dog pile, giving me the‘don’t you fucking dare’eyes. I grip my stick tighter and my jaw trembles from the force of my bite around my mouth guard, but I take a breath and stay still, not because I’m tired of being the guy they believe I am, but because I know exactly what this costs me if I move. I don’t just risk my career, I risk the way Chloe sees me, and the guy she thinks I am. The guy I don’t get to be if I step in there.
So, I grip my stick again and force myself to stay back,because just getting this close is already so fucking stupid. All it would take is one wrong move…one wrong look, and every camera phone in this place would catch it.
After what feels like minutes but is likely only seconds, Silas shoves a guy off him and gets his feet under him. Parker reaches out a hand, helping to steady him, and before Silas has caught his breath, some asshole gets a hold of Parker, and slams him down on the ice.
The Gale looks up at me with a grin pulling slow and stupid on his face. It’s both pride and a taunt. It’s a smile that says,“Watch me hurt your family because you can’t do shit about it.”
This is a guy who assumes my reputation is stronger than my backbone, and that’s a bold move, considering I was just going to break his nose, but now I’m going to knock every fucking tooth out of that mouth of his. I grab a fist full of his jersey, yanking him up to my eye level. Somewhere, someone is yelling my name, but it’s drowned out by the roar between my ears and followed by the wet crack of bone.
I register the blood dripping over the Gales’s lips and down his chin, but it doesn’t stop me from drawing my arm back again. Before I can swing, Noah crashes into my side, driving us back toward the boards as the refs finally wedge themselves between the chaos.
“Mav! Chill. Hey—Mav!”
Noah’s hand is on my head, trying to catch my attention, and it’s only when I see Parker get to his knees and realize he’s okay, that I come back down.
“We’re good, buddy,” Noah pants. “We’re good. Come on.”
A trail of blood follows me as I skate back to the bench and clench my fist tighter. I’ve never fought out of anger before. But right now, when my skates leave the ice for potentially the last time, I’ve never wanted to beat myself up more.
My knuckles are red and swollen, but other than a cut down the middle one, there’s nothing else to show for potentially having just thrown my entire life away.
I knock on Chloe’s apartment door with my left hand, not wanting to look at the reminder of my fuck up any longer. Truthfully, I wanted to pull a Noah Kingston after that debacle and spend the rest of the night hiding in the showers, but after the way I left things with Chloe last night, there wasn’t a chance in hell I could blow her off today.
Chloe opens the door in an oversized black SAMCRO T-shirt with blue plaid pajama shorts peaking out of the bottom, and her signature sweet smile. “Hi,” she says a notch above a whisper. She leans against the front door, holding it out of the way for me, and her soft lavender scent calms me down when I walk past her. “How was the game?”
My back goes rigid. Thank God, she can’t see my face as I clear the small kitchen and make my way to the living room.
“Good. How’s the prep going?” I ask, turning the attention back on her.
“My tutoring session ran a little late, and I just got home.” She nods toward her laptop propped on a stack of coffee table books, then tucks one leg under herself as she settles on the couch beside me. “I was just about to check the highlights from the game.”
I try to swallow, but it’s too dry, and panic begins clawing at my throat.
“Did you win?”
“Uhh—yeah.” I clear my throat and slide my bruised hand under my legs. “Yeah we won. Two to one.”
I can feel Chloe’s gaze on the side of my face. The side of my neck heats, and I run my other hand along the skin there, playing it off as muscle fatigue. I keep my eyes on anything and everything that’s not her. The fuzzy pink rug, themirrored mushroom on top of her vintage TV console, even the plant hanging from the bay window that is in desperate need of some water holds my attention.
“Do you want to practice your interview on me?” I ask at the same time she says, “About last night?—”
I genuinely offered to help with her interview, but I can’t lie and say last night hasn’t consumed every waking moment until about an hour ago.
Silence stretches between us. Normally, the quiet moments don’t bother me, but tonight, it’s crawling across my skin as she sits there trying to read the thing I’m desperately attempting to hide from her.
I can’t take it anymore. I open my mouth to say something but her phone chimes, and I practically jump out of my skin at the sound.
She glances toward the sound, then back to me. One eye brow lifts as a small crease forms between her brows. I drag in a breath and tear my gaze away from her. Her hand lifts before she sets it back down in her lap.
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” I say a little too quickly.
“I can tell something’s bothering you.”
“How?”
“You’re acting different.”
