Brutal Obsession (45)

I start to take my tray, but Amanda reaches out and covers my wrist.

“We got it,” she says.

My gaze lifts again. That’s the worst part. I actually look up and over at Greyson and Paris, who are still locked in an embrace.

But his eyes aren’t closed, and they’re not on her. He’s watching me out of the corner of his eye. We don’t have a conversation. It’s not like the movies where I can know what the fuck he’s thinking from his eyes, across the room, while he makes out with another girl.

Fuck no.

All I can hope is that I translate my anger.

This isn’t over. I thought I was doing the right thing by telling him I didn’t have a part in it. I’ve been continually pushed into the dirt by him, over and over and over.

No more.

This is the straw that breaks my back.

I won’t be that person who caves to pressure. No fucking way. Under the right circumstances, pressure can turn coal into a diamond—and that’s exactly what I’ll become.

Tougher than he could ever imagine. Stronger, too.

I take one last look at Willow and mouth an apology. My phone is safe in my jacket pocket, and I take a deep breath. No one makes a noise as I stride toward the exit.

I don’t know if they can feel my energy. How I’ve accepted that this is happening, and while it’s so far from okay it isn’t funny… I can handle it.

But then someone claps. I wonder if it’s Willow, spitting mad at Greyson and cheering me on the way she can. It’s contagious, though. The whole dining hall just saw a spectacle they weren’t expecting, and now they’re picking me over him.

They nod at me.

I nod back.

More clapping. It follows me out the door. Not everyone, of course. Not the people who think, for some crazy reason, that I’m the one coming between Greyson and Paris, or Greyson and hockey. It takes me by surprise that people support me at all. He’s the hotshot, he’s the one who’s going to bring the school a hockey championship.

But I’m the one who’s been here longer.

Maybe that matters to some of them.

I make it all the way outside before I let my expression drop.





19





GREYSON





I step into my hockey coach’s office with Knox at my back. Coach Roake has a newspaper folded on the edge of his desk. My face is creased on the page, my eyes dark on the thin paper. Coach is reclined with his arms folded behind his head. His face is perfectly stoic.

“Sit,” he orders.

Knox, as captain, took it upon himself to come with me. But he must see something in our coach’s face that I miss, because he hesitates at the door.

I take the chair and twist around, my eyebrow lifting at Knox. I jerk my chin, and he steps back, shutting the door on the way out. When I face forward again, Coach hasn’t moved.

“I spoke to your old coach,” he says.

My chest tightens, but I try not to let my expression change. So far, we’ve gotten along. I’m not one to ruffle feathers if the person is useful to me. I keep things smooth with my father, with the school administration, with the man sitting in front of me… they can all do something for me.

They’re all relevant to my success.

But now, I wonder if I’ve made a mistake. If I should’ve done more to get on his good side instead of just letting my talent pave the way. Buttered him up with the charm that exhausts me.

He sighs and drops his arms, bracing them on the desk. “The Brickell one and your high school coach,” he clarifies.

Shit.

“And?” I ball my fists, squeezing hard. There’s not much I care about, but hockey is absolutely one of them. Plus, I’ve got no fucking idea what Coach Marzden from Emery-Rose Elite would say. Maybe he’d sing my praises… or he’d throw me under the bus. He’s a fickle guy.

My Brickell coach, though? Asshole material. Especially since there were no charges filed, and I got dumped over a newspaper article. He blamed it on the administration in general, but I know better. He preferred a spotless team. The players were angels with clean records, and here I was with the accusation of drunk driving and reckless endangerment hanging over my head.

With a sudden burst of fear, I realize that this could be headed in that direction, too.

And then where would I be?

Roake sighs. “Let me put you out of your misery.”

“Please do.” I sit back and brace for the worst.

“This is an embarrassment.” He picks up the newspaper and tosses it at me.

I don’t move to catch it. The newspaper hits my chest, sliding into my lap. I ignore the garish distortion of my face. The online article was pulled, and print copies were retracted—but that did nothing for the people who had already had copies delivered.

And clearly, print newspaper isn’t a dying breed.

“You’re kicking me off the team.” I have to say it before he does, and I rise from my seat. “I understand. This sort of publicity—”

“Get your ass back in that fucking chair,” Coach snaps. “I’m not kicking you off the team. But this sort of thing cannot go unchecked. They’re accusing you of a lot. Your only saving grace is that article is an opinion piece that the paper decided to fucking put in front of everyone’s faces.”