Bitter Sweet Heart (Lies, Hearts & Truths #2)(17)

My dad will 100 percent shit a brick if I get expelled. There will most certainly be lectures. That will suck, but it won’t be nearly as bad as his disappointment—not to mention the highly negative impact it could have on my career if word gets out that I was in the women’s locker room of all places.

I know better than to take risks like that. Even after hours.

For a split second, I entertain what that would look like: an expulsion, or worse, the NHL future I’ve been preparing my whole life for slipping through my fingers.

What would it be like to have a normal life? To not have a dad who’s a hockey legend. To not follow in his footsteps. To not have the pressure. To be like my older brother, Robbie, who’s a brainiac. Or like my younger brother, River, whose mission in life seems to be stewing in a pit of rage and anger he made for himself and hiding who he really is because he thinks . . . I don’t know what he thinks, but he seems pretty determined to be miserable.

And more than my brothers, I wonder what it would be like to be Lavender. Traumatized, yes. Forever changed by what happened to her as a kid, definitely. But strong, resilient, and the most forgiving, compassionate person I’ve ever met.

She’d be so disappointed in me right now if she knew what I’d done tonight. That I hadn’t taken into consideration the impact my actions might have on someone else, especially being where I was.

I open the door to my room and want to turn right back around. It’s a fucking mess. The bed is unmade because I had to rush this morning. Clothes are strewn all over the floor and draped on my chair. It smells ripe in here, like my sheets need to be changed and there’s probably a pair of running shoes that need airing out.

My room seems to match my internal mental state: chaos and filth.

I spend a few minutes cleaning up and then jump into the shower. Despite the cluster of today, as soon as I step under the spray, my body responds by giving me an annoying, persistent hard-on. This is my preferred location for such activities, and my bedroom shower elicits a Pavlov-like response.

Normally, I wouldn’t have a problem taking care of my situation. Most days I fantasize about Professor Sweet telling me she needs to see me after class to discuss extra credit. But tonight, that feels wrong. Instead, I turn the temperature to cold. That does the trick.

I cut the water and nab a towel, drying myself off roughly as I cross to my dresser. I find a pair of clean boxers and some sweatpants, an old T-shirt that used to belong to my dad, and a hoodie. Then I sit my ass down at my computer and try to come up with two thousand more words. I’d start over entirely, but I’ve already got more than half of it done.

It’s closing in on two in the morning by the time I’m finished. I’m sure I’m going to get crap marks on the grammar, but at least I made the word count.

As exhausted as I am, I’m on edge, and my brain won’t shut off. I get in bed and stare up at the ceiling, watching the shadows shift and move as cars pass by slowly, thumping bass. A few hollers come from down the street.

My eyes have adjusted to the dark, and I notice my closet door is closed. I stare at it for a while, debating whether I can handle it being left like that all night. It’s a weird thing. I always keep it ajar. Doesn’t matter if my room is neat or a sty like it is today, or if my closet is overflowing with dirty laundry, I always leave it open a crack. Otherwise it reminds me too much of the past. Of other mistakes I’ve made.

I roll out of bed and amble across to the closet, without tripping on anything this time. Logically, I know the only thing in there are my clothes, my laundry basket, and a few old high school photo albums, but I flick on the light and check to make sure. A flash of memory hits me.

Lavender’s split lip.

River screaming bloody murder.

Kody’s accusing glare.

Dad taking me to his office and yelling so loud he was a sonic boom.

Choking on the guilt.

I flick off the light and pull the door closed.

When I finally fall asleep, it’s not peaceful. I dream I’m locked in a room that gets smaller and smaller, and the door to escape doesn’t have a knob, so all I can do is bang on it until my bones break and pierce the skin. And still, no one saves me from myself.





Six





I’m so Sorry





Maverick





I check Professor Sweet’s office hours first thing in the morning. Luck seems to be on my side since she’s scheduled to be there at nine. I’m crossing my fingers that she’s the kind of professor who shows up early, because I need to deal with this situation.

My palms are sweaty as I make my way to her office on the twelfth floor of the English building. I’m beyond nervous. The nightmares were next-level shitty, and I couldn’t eat breakfast, my stomach a churning mess. I feel like a dick for the way I behaved, and it didn’t occur to me until after I’d gotten home how much I’d probably freaked her out.

I need to know what I’m facing.

I walk down the hall, glancing at the nameplates on the doors until I reach the one that reads Professor Clover Sweet.

It’s ironic that her name happens to be some kind of nature, flowery thing. She could be a character in a Disney movie.

If I believed in signs, I might think it was one.

I can smell her before I see her, which sounds creepy, and maybe it is. But her perfume is distinctive. It’s not floral, as her name would suggest. It’s like . . . cinnamon and something sweet, maybe with a citrusy bite.