Brutal Obsession (46)
I shift. “That’s—”
“And that Violet girl. Is she involved?”
“If she says she is, she’s lying.” I shrug. “I don’t know where they found her, to be frank, and they’ve exaggerated our relationship.”
“What is your relationship?” Roake narrows his eyes.
“I slept with her once.” I shake my head, aiming for rueful. “Maybe she talked to the journalist who came sniffing around, or maybe they paid her. I don’t know.”
If I keep saying it, I’m going to believe it. There is a small part of me that does believe Violet would do something like this. That she’d go to an extreme to get back at me. Another part knows that she’s just as caught up in this as I am.
But it still doesn’t lessen my anger.
It’s why I let Paris maul me in the dining hall. Because my fucking feelings were hurt, and making her hurt eases some of it. Like pushing on a bruise until she cries out, or insulting her, or reminding her that she’ll never dance again.
“Well, perhaps that’s our solution,” my coach says slowly, chewing over his words.
I straighten. “What is?”
He eyes me. “Your father called me, you know. Said that I’d be blameless to let you go. But to me, that just means you’re guilty. Are you?”
“No.” Another lie.
They’re stacking up, but what the fuck do I care? It’s either lie and stay where I am or tell the truth and reinvent myself at a new school. The truth won’t get me into the NHL. The truth has done nothing for me.
“Okay.” Roake nods. “You’re going to meet with the hockey team’s publicist and put together a statement. I want this handled.”
Relief hits me. He’s not forcing me out. “Done.”
“And we’ll need a statement from Violet, too. Just to cover our bases.”
I wonder how I’m going to make that happen. Can she lie to a publicist? Would she even? That’s not part of the NDA. That’s not part of anything except maybe her good nature.
But—let’s be honest. After my stunt with Paris?
Not fucking likely.
“Thanks, Coach.”
“You’re welcome. Now get out, I’ve got work to do.”
I finally take the paper and fold it under my arm. I consider the ways I can twist Violet to do my bidding and say what I want her to say.
Pressure. Like lifting her arm behind her back, torquing her shoulder, and getting her to twist the way I wanted.
Just like that… but more.
20
VIOLET
Every day, I keep up the ruse of my routine. I go to class. I eat with Willow and some other girls from the dance team—ones who’ve sided with me since Paris declared war. I study in the library, watch movies on the couch at night. I dodge questions about the article, doing my best to ignore the accusing glares.
Willow eventually brought to my attention that someone had made copies of the article and posted them on a blog. Everyone wanted to know what Greyson and I were doing together, and they blamed me for the smear campaign.
How does that happen?
How do they see a single photo of us together, not even together-together, and pin the blame for his actions on me?
They can’t blame their star hockey player. Not when he’s going to help carry the team to a championship…
It doesn’t matter that they sided with me after the cafeteria incident. It doesn’t seem to matter that there’s no hard evidence against me either. What Greyson wants, Greyson gets.
And he got the whole school to loathe me.
I don’t see Greyson for days.
I don’t talk to Paris. She’s been absent from campus, eating lunch or dinner at what I have to assume are off hours. Not avoiding me, probably, but planning her next attack. She’s always been one to hold grudges. I’ve seen her lash out at others, but I didn’t think I’d be on the receiving end.
After Willow goes to sleep, I sneak away to a local gym. Their monthly membership fee wasn’t too hard to swing, and it’s better than potentially repeating what happened in the CPU gym. Sneaking out also affords me the ability to not explain myself.
A week passes. My leg constantly aches, but it isn’t the muscles. And I can’t do anything about nerve pain. Still, I force myself to believe it can be willed away. Mind over matter.
Now, it’s Wednesday.
I load ice into the bathtub. Willow is at class, and my body is screaming at me. Muscles I forgot existed now make themselves known. Once the tub is full, I set a five-minute timer and step into it.
The water is cold enough to take my breath away.
I grip the edge of the clawfoot tub and then let it go, putting my arms under the water. I sink down until my chin barely brushes the surface. It takes me a few seconds to regulate my breathing.
“Relax,” I say. I close my eyes and remind myself why I’m doing this.
It’s a peculiar sort of drive, because I’ve spent the last six months convincing myself that my future will be different than what I had always dreamed. But suddenly someone has shoved it back in my face, and I’m desperate. I want to take it. I want to hold it to my chest and defend it with every fiber of my being.