Page 41 of Sticks and Stones (Shadow Valley U)
She hurries off to where-fucking-ever, and I head to the arena for hockey practice. The cold air is a welcome distraction as soon as I walk into the building. The locker room smells like old sweat and cleaning solution, but it brings a smile to my face, nonetheless.
There’s nowhere I’d rather be than on the ice.
…Except for today.
Today, my thoughts are pulled toward Wren and that fucking kiss. And the lacrosse jackasses trying to get her to move intotheirhouse.
“Foster!”
Someone crashes into me.
I grunt under the impact, losing my footing and going down hard. We’re not in full pads today, and an elbow to my gut drives the wind from my lungs.
It takes me a moment to realize it’s Grant. Our enforcer and D-man. He’s thick as shit, and his weight keeping me pinned to the ice does nothing but enrage me. I slam my fist into his side, and he lets out anoof.
“Get off,” I growl.
He jumps up and tosses his stick down, glaring at me. “What’s your fucking problem?”
“I don’t have a problem.” I leap to my feet and drop my stick, too. It’s either get rid of it or bash him over the head—and then I’d be in deep shit.
“Yes, you do. You look awful. You’re playing like shit.”
“I’m fine,” I insist. “You’re just a moron who doesn’t know how to skate.”
“You skated intome!” he yells. “Jesus, man, we’re on the same team.”
I roll my eyes.
“What’s the problem here?” Coach barks, skating to a halt between us. His gaze bounces from Grant to me. “Foster? Marvin?”
Sometimes I forget that Grant has a terrible last name.
“Sorry, Coach,” we both utter.
He shakes his head. “Not good enough. You’re both done for the day. Get off my ice.”
I open my mouth to protest, but Grant grabs my arm and drags me with him. Evan pushes my stick into my chest, and I catch it on reflex.
The whole team is staring.
Grant sighs as soon as we’re in the locker room, and he makes quick work getting out of his gear. While I just…sit there.
“Speak,” he demands. “The circles under your eyes are dark enough to convince me you’ve been punched in the nose. Why are you falling apart?”
I grit my teeth.
It’s not in my nature to talk. Especially not about feelings. Dad used to say that emotions are dangerous. Let them leak out all over the place, and I’ll have nothing left for hockey.
Okay, he didn’t say the last part. My coach when I was fourteen said it, probably in an effort to stop me from picking fights with guys twice my size. He wanted my anger on the ice, and that was exactly what he got.
He used to call me Stone-Cold Killer. I’d smile at the time, but somehow it morphed into my whole fucking personality. Cold in every aspect—except when I’m around Wren. Then, it seems like I’m burning up on the inside.
“I haven’t actually been sleeping.” The words are out before I can stop them.
Grant goes still.
“I’ve been sitting outside Wren’s room every night.”