Page 171 of Revenge Puck

How I walked in on her brother and Bailey; how filled with fury I was. The thoughts going through my mind, none of which I’m proud of. Confess all my transgressions and hope she sees the irony in it—that the thing I meant to use as leverage became the only thing I actually care about.

I’ll tell her that somewhere between our teasing texts and the late-night conversations—between the first kiss and the sex and way she says my name—and how she makes me feel…

The way I make her feel.

Everything changed.

Christ, I honestly don’t have a fucking clue what I’ll do if she?—

No.

She won’t tell me to piss off.

Not Juliette, she’s way too caring.

She loves me, I can see it in her eyes.

She’ll be hurt. Maybeembarrassed.

But she’ll hear me out.

Because what we have isn’t fake.

You need to tell her all this before someone else does…

My knee bounces as I pull my socks up, and damned if I don’t have to rest a hand on my thigh to make it stop. Then I grab my tape, start wrapping my stick tighter than necessary because…Jesus, what the hell is my problem?

The locker-room door swings open, and I don’t glance up. It’s that time of day where bodies are filtering in before practice. We all have a job to do, and everyone here takes it seriously.

Head bent, I fuss with the knot of my left skate, tightening the laces until they bite into my fingers. Pull harder than necessary, like if I can cinch everything down tight enough, I’ll keep the rest of my life from unraveling.

I set my foot up on the bench and study the blade.

There’s a new nick along the edge.

I run my thumb carefully along the steel, testing the sharpness. It’s fine. Serviceable, but not perfect.

I should get them sharpened.

I set my skate back on the floor, tapping my phone screen like maybe it needs encouragement.

“Get a fucking grip,” I lecture myself. “She’s working.”

A pair of legs stops in front of me, blocking my view of the floor. Athletic pants. Well-worn sneakers.

I raise my eyes.

“Bishop.”

Storm.

He doesn’t look like his easy-going self. There’s no grin. Hands stuffed in his pockets, already rocking back on his heels.

He looks… uneasy.

Like he has to take a massive shit.

“Hey.” I give him a slight smile, continuing to fiddle with my skate. “What’s up?”