Page 74 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter

“Bear almost raped you tonight.” His gaze presses in on me. It hurts worse than a bruise. “Did you sit there like a good little girl while he tied your hands? Did you want him to fuck you?”

“Shut up.”

He holds out a plate. Taunting, offering…

“Make me."

I swing the bat.

It knocks the plate out of his hand, sending it crashing against the wall. I stare at it, shocked at myself. I could’ve broken his damn fingers. But he nods encouragingly, giving me a ‘come on’ hand motion.

“More,” he demands.

I smash the vases first. Flowers and water mix with the glass, the water immediately dripping down the bare counters.

He picks up a crowbar and drives it into the stack of plates closest to him. The crash is satisfying. I grin. I attack the picture frames next. They just have stock photos in them, which reminds me of home. The way everything was so superficial.

You didn’t tell anyone I took a little trip, did you, baby? It’s only for a few days; if they knew they might take you away.

You don’t want to go live with your father, right?

It was a guilt trip.

I drop the bat and pick out a plate, throwing it against the wall. Oliver hands me another one. And another.

Why do I even want to find my mother?

Your father is getting remarried, baby, she said to me when I was fifteen. I told him he couldn’t replace us. But if he’s more distant…

Why am I thinking about her?

Why am I only thinking about the bad stuff?

I was mad at Oliver for tossing me in a fucking trunk and trying to get me to admit something I know nothing about. He’s testing loyalty I don’t have or want. But somehow, that anger has been consumed by the stuff I’ve been battling to keep buried.

Maybe I’m the most upset at myself for letting all of this happen. For every moment in my life where I had a choice, and I took the wrong option.

We move on to glasses. He joins me, cracking a few. Ceramic mugs. A light fixture sitting on the table, coasters I sweep off the counter and smash with the curved end of a crowbar until it’s practically dust. I bring it down on the bottom of the upper cabinets, cracking the wood. Over and over again until my muscles tremble.

I don’t realize I’m crying until there’s nothing left to break but myself.

“Good,” he says.

I drop the crowbar. It clatters against the glass and ceramic that litter the floor. He helps me pick a path to the door. At the shelving in the hall, I take off the hat and glasses, untie the apron, and hang it on the hook.

I run my hands through my hair and down my face.

“I’m going to say goodbye,” he says quietly. “You can go out into the lobby, just wait for me there.”

I walk out without a backward glance. Standing in the center of the room, which is so warm and alive compared to the cold, sterile rage room we were in.

The hollow sensation in my chest is new. New and strange. I rub at my sternum. When Oliver doesn’t immediately appear, I drift toward the far wall.

There are groups of smiling people in the middle of different rage rooms. Some are bigger, some small and simple like the one we were in. There’s a huge room that a large party stands in the center of that even has a few cars parked in the open space.

Why do they seem happy, though?

I keep moving along the wall, taking in the smiles and finding myself slipping into numbness.