Page 74 of Make Me Mean It

Unfortunately for both of us, I’m not everyone else.

“Don’t fucking look at me like that.” I step closer, throwing my hands out between us. “He blindsided me when I didn’t even have the puck. What was I supposed to do, thank him for it?”

Marcus’s eyes leave mine, dropping between us to where my fists are clenched, blood dripping between my fingers where they’re twitching with the urge to swing.

His eyes lift to mine, hardening. “I really don’t recommend it,” he growls, low.

I stare at him, still pissed enough that some stupid part of me wants to ask or what? Just to see what he’ll do.

Probably put me on my ass.

Which would be fucking embarrassing considering I’ve already spent enough time there today.

I blow a breath through my nose and force my hands open, the torn skin across my knuckles pulling painfully as my fingers straighten.

“Bullshit,” I mutter, taking a step back before either of us gets the chance to find out.

Marcus’s hand comes down heavily on my shoulder before sliding around the back of my neck. “Come on,” he sighs.

He squeezes my nape, knocking his forehead against mine, and fuck him, some of the tension finally gives beneath it.

“You’re smarter than this,” he says quietly. “Get your head on straight.”

My jaw works around everything I want to say.

That’s becoming everyone’s favourite line lately.

Get your head straight. Get it together. Focus.

As if I haven’t fucking tried.

I blow out a breath and give him a reluctant nod. “Still bullshit.”

Marcus chuckles, letting me go. “Get off my damn ice, Knox.”

I flip him off over my shoulder and skate towards the bench, blood thick against my tongue, my cheek throbbing with every beat of my pulse and my ribs bitching each time I breathe.

I should feel better. Instead, I feel far from it.

The fight burned through some of the anger, but not enough. There’s still too much of it tearing around under my skin when I step off the ice, nowhere for it to go now that Davey’s being dragged in the opposite direction.

By the time I shove through the locker-room door, I’m wound tighter than I was before I threw the first punch.

My fist hits the locker.

The bang cracks through the empty room, metal caving beneath my knuckles, pain exploding through my already throbbing hand and shooting all the way up my arm.

“Fuck.”

I rip my fist back, blood streaking across the dent.

I stare at it, breathing hard through my nose while fresh blood gathers across my split knuckles and drips from my fingers.

I should be thinking about my hand.

Or Davey.

Or Marcus throwing me off the fucking ice.

Instead, blue eyes flash through my head.