Unloved: Chapter 49

This is wrong.

Do I look all right?

Just keep smiling.

The shower goes cold before I realize how long I’ve been standing in the spray. I shake my head, desperate to clear the demons clinging to me for dear life. But it doesn’t work, not really.

Standing at my dresser for too long, I start to forget what I’m there for.

Matty A loud, banging knock against my door—three in quick succession.

“Freddy?” Bennett’s voice calls. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I gasp.

When he doesn’t respond right away, I’m worried how much my tone has given away exactly how okay I am.

“Practice in fifteen. Be in the car—I’m driving you.”

“I can drive myself—”

I “I’m driving you.” Bennett’s words leave no room for arguing, so I don’t bother responding.

I barely dress for practice before I decide to lie back down.

Just for a few minutes.

I’m late.

Like, nearly twenty minutes late. Which I haven’t done since freshman year. I’m off my game entirely.

I miss a loop on my laces distractedly, cursing beneath my breath.

My goalie won’t look at me as I skate onto the ice, head ducked, embarrassed. Coach Harris doesn’t say anything, only sends me a vastly disapproving look. Which makes me think told him something they shouldn’t have.

It only feeds the anger and self-hatred churning through me.

my I’m at practice—not there, I almost have to remind myself.

I can’t focus. My skating is choppy, shots sloppy and wide. Toren accused me of playing keep-away once, but this time I really am.

Instead, I try to poke the bear—aka Toren Kane.

Toren doesn’t go for it the first few times, even as I wait for his quick clip to my shoulder and shove into the boards once he’s playing defense against me. He’s brutal, but he’s more controlled with the team. Purposefully so.

I don’t want that Kane—I want the asshole who almost ruined Rhys’s career, who nearly killed him.

“Playing nice now, huh?” I chirp, pushing him as he circles me. “I saw the video of your freak-out. The one that got you banned from Harvard—”

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

Toren’s eyes flash, golden flames, as he stops short. “You got something to say?”

“Why? Do you?” I get closer, our bodies so near it looks like we’re whispering game plans, not skirting the edges of a brawl. “Who was it? The guy? Or the redhead—”

Without hesitation, Toren slams me back against the boards and grabs me by the collar.

“Get off it, superstar. You’re on dangerous ground. That’s off-limits.”

He lets me go, starting to skate away—and I’m not sure if it’s because he doesn’t want to fight or because I went too far, though I’m leaning toward the latter.

Either way, I’m too desperate for something to get the gnawing under my skin .

I shove him a little harder as he passes me again, grabbing his collar to be clear in my intentions.

“Hit me,” I snap. Toren’s eyes go a little wide, and a strange smile bleeds across his face.

“Hey,” Rhys calls, ending the play, rushing toward us. He’s been more irritated with Toren since the Harvard game weekend but won’t tell any of us why. “Back off it.”

He’s snapping at Kane, not me, the instigator.

“Fuck off, Koteskiy,” Kane says lazily over his shoulder.

“You wanna fight someone, you can fight with me,” Rhys says, which makes me feel slightly embarrassed knowing the one who wants to fight.

Does it piss Kane off that everyone assumes he’s the one trying to fight? Does he feel the same way I do when people call me a ?

“Yeah?” Kane laughs, mildly distracted by our captain while he keeps ahold of me. “I don’t know, Rhys, seems like you’re all bark and your girlfriend’s all bite.”

Rhys jumps toward us—I’ve almost seen him fight, but the mention of Sadie has him furious, tossing his gloves down.

“Stop,” Bennett snaps, sliding into the fray. He rips off his cage. “Back off—all of you.” He yanks Rhys back, pulling him away. “Go cool off. You too, Kane.”

“Nah.” Toren sneers, finally releasing my jersey and tossing his gloves off. “Our pretty superstar needs this. Right?”

“Let’s go,” I snarl.

“Hurting, huh?” Toren huffs with a Cheshire cat grin.

“Just fucking hit me, asshole.”

“Sure,” Kane smirks, grabbing my collar and jerking me forward. “But it won’t make you feel any better. Trust me.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“I’m serious,” Toren says, jerking me again. “I’ve been doing this for years.”

“And?”

“And what? Still feels like I got shot in the fucking stomach and I’m bleeding out.” He lands a hit square to my abdomen, but I tense, seeing it coming. “It never stops, and it never hurts less.”

And then, Kane lets it go.

I’m an instigator—a great chirper—but I’m not a fighter. I’ve gotten into a few scrapes, but I’m too good of a player to really fight, to risk a suspension or the penalty for it. But this time I want it—to distract from the pain.

But it doesn’t work.

I hit him again, clipping his jaw.

.”

Another one, but it feels slow already, sluggish. I’m panting, sweat pouring down my face.

Flashes of her last night, beautiful and hurting, barrel through my mind. In the backseat of my car, laid out beneath me, streetlights shining over the tanned length of her legs. Her face crumbling, eyes wide like she doesn’t recognize me…

I’m distracted, so much so that Toren hits me hard enough to knock me down, jumping on me quickly like he’ll follow through.

But he stops.

“Whatever you did,” Kane snaps, all the enjoyment from the fight rapidly fading. “Fix it.”

He leaves me lying there, the dark threat of his words hovering over me.