Page 33

“You’re drooling.”

I rear back, away from the voice that snuck up on me in a corner at the Hockey Dorms Halloween party. I’m greeted by the sight of a tall figure in a Ghostface mask and a white button-down. Chuckling, he slides off the mask.

“Don’t you have a summer camp to terrorize?” I snap out, heading away from him.

“Wrong movie,” Toren grumbles, following behind. “And wrong direction—the Ninja Turtles you were so enamored with are back in there—”

“Stop it,” I snap, spinning on my heel toward him and immediately regretting the move as my eyes lock onto the large green man in the kitchen just yards away. He’s turned the opposite way, broad naked shoulders coated meticulously in green body paint and the tie of a blue eye mask half covered in messy brunette curls. He’s so handsome it hurts, even now.

I usually avoid the Hockey Dorms when it comes to parties, because seeing Bennett relaxed or semi-drunk with a little smile on his usually frowning lips ignites an ache that pushes me toward him. That fills me with the false confidence of maybe and what if.

Bennett turns, eyes meeting mine briefly over his shoulder, the blue of them somehow more intense through his mask. My eyes grow as hot as my cheeks, gnawing want like a chasm in my stomach.

Turning away before I can do or say something to make this all worse, I grab the handle of the sliding door and step onto the lantern-lit patio. Toren follows me closely, tucking the mask into the waistband of his pants.

“Poor little Blake,” Toren sneers, grabbing for my wrist and pulling me close. “So in love with a boy who loves her back but she won’t let herself have him. Pathetic.”

“You don’t get it.” I feebly shove at him as he crowds me against the nearest wall, hiding me completely from the view of anyone else outside with us.

“No?” He tilts his head over mine and whispers in my ear. “Self-hatred runs deep, Blake. And mine runs through every vein in my goddamn body. I bleed it.”

I push him, harder this time, but he grabs my wrists to stop me. His hands move, fingers dusting over the strands of my dyed red hair, his golden eyes glazing over like a trance at the auburn color before he startles himself out of it.

“Poison Ivy?” He smirks, scoffing as he runs disinterested eyes over my costume. “Fitting.”

“Fuck you.”

His eyes sparkle. “You wish you could. But that’s some twisted line you won’t cross, right? You don’t want to hurt him; you want to hurt you.”

Like arrows to a target, the words easily find their mark.

“I’m not in love with him. You’re just a psycho.”

Something flashes in his eyes, and he slams a fist against his chest, like stabbing a knife into his heart.

“Yeah?” He laughs, eyes wet. “You’re the one who has what you want within reach, and still, you treat him like shit. But I’m the psycho, right?”

Toren mumbles under his breath, shoving his hand into his pocket and pulling out a sucker. He unwraps it and pushes it between his lips, then presses himself into the wall, perched like the grim reaper watching the party with hate-filled eyes.

Even without the Ghostface mask, even sucking on a grape lollipop, he’s terrifying. Most give him a wide berth as they move through the party, but I see the girls whose gazes linger a little too long. Like they want to see exactly what the bad boy has to offer.

I spend the night avoiding Bennett Reiner.

As much as I hate him for it, Toren is right. I don’t want to hurt Bennett.

I want to hurt me.

Shaking myself from the memory, I open my mouth to respond to Toren.

But Toren has turned away, heading into the roaringly loud locker room. On his entrance, I hear a lull in the excitement before it starts up again, far quieter.

“Miss Blake,” a voice says. I turn to meet the soft gray eyes in Coach Harris’s kind face. He smiles at me, reaching out his hand to shake mine. “Good to have you back. Come on in and let’s chat.”

He leads me into his office, letting me settle in one of the chairs across from his large desk. Trophies line the shelves, and next to them are several photos of him with players of all ages. But mostly, of him with a woman—dark olive skin and almond brown eyes, smiling brightly up at him. His wife, I assume. His office is flooded with photos of her, of them together over decades.

“I’m going to have you shadow me on the days you’re here,” he says. My brow furrows deeply, mouth opening. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah, I just assumed . . . I thought I’d be with one of the assistant coaches.”