Page 136 of These Wicked Hearts

“What the fuck was that out there?”

I look up as Knox marches into the locker room. I want to tell him to fuck off, but I bite my tongue. “Practicing. What the fuck did it look like?”

He recoils like I slapped him. “Atlas.”

“Just leave me alone, alright.”

“What’s going on with you? I haven’t seen you in a week. You haven’t responded to me at all.”

“Nothing.” I cut him off, shoving my jersey into my bag.

“Atlas.” He touches my shoulder as I stand. “If you do dumb shit like what you pulled today, you’re going to be back on concussion watch.”

I shrug his hand off. “Look. I’m sorry, alright. I just need some space. Please.”

The hurt on his face twists into something ugly inside my chest. I can’t deal with it right now. I just want to go home.

Or to a bar. I want a fucking drink.

I’ve been playing back our entire trip this morning, and I can’t make sense of it. What the hell happened? Who the fuck is that guy?

I’ve never seen Gage that cold.

There was nothing in his eyes when he looked at me. I almost told him I loved him. What the fuck is wrong with me? How do I keep ending up here?

Knox shakes his head. “Whatever, man. Fuck me, I guess.” He turns away, out of the locker room, and I fight the urge to go after him. I don’t have the energy.

“Well, that was painful to watch.”

Right. Rome is here. “Fuck off, alright.”

His eyebrows climb his forehead then he laughs. “Yeah, wow. Let’s go get something to eat.”

I tug my hoodie over my head. “I don’t want to eat, Rome. Least of all with you. I just want to go back to my apartment and⁠—”

“Drink?” I freeze. “Is that what you want to do, Atlas?”

“I said fuck off.”

“Sure, but first, let’s get something to eat.” He braces his hands on his knees and stands. “And before you say it, no isn’t an option.”

“I fucking love pizza,” I say around another slice of cheesy goodness. “Whoever invented pizza deserves a soft, tender kiss on the lips.” Fuck, I didn’t realize how hungry I was. I don’t think I’ve eaten at all today.

“Modern pizza was invented in Naples, Italy.” Rome says. “A baker naked Raffaele Esposito made the first modern American pizza in eighteen eighty-nine. Gennaro Lombardi opened the first pizzeria in Manhattan in nineteen oh five.”

I stare at him. “How the fuck do you know that?”

“I studied history in college.”

“You went to college?”

“Got a big ol’ degree and everything.”

I snort. “Asshole.” Rome grins before taking a bite of his own pizza. “What the fuck is with you?”

He freezes with his slice to his lips. “What?”

“You’re like . . .” I wave a hand vaguely. “Not the worst.”