Page 41 of Lovefool

My brother’s disbelieving gaze rake over my plus-one. “What is Sutton Whittaker doing here?”

Of course he recognizes a Minnesota Mustang. Every hockey fan in Maple Grove would.

“He’s here for moral support,” I say in a clipped tone.

Mr. McDermitt—clearly unfazed by our little reunion—gestures to the two unoccupied seats in front of his desk.

Everything about him is clinical, psychopathically neat. There’s a chill in the room that stiffens my muscles like rigor mortis. I feel so out of place here.

His name tag, engraved in brass, scintillates in the corner of my periphery, and each item on his buffed desk—computer, pencil holder, folders—are arranged with a minimalist mindset, complete with the same distance structured between each object.

This is what I get for teaching Max to stand up for himself. This is what I get for hovering my hand over a stovetop and being surprised when the epidermis on my palm peels away.

“Miss Capitano, your brother got into a fight during lunch today with one of his hockey teammates. Caused quite the ruckus,” Max’s principal informs me, aquiline nose turned up in disapproval.

I take a seat, and Sutton mirrors me. If the situation wasn’t so dire, it would be comical that we look like a couple right now.

I didn’t know Max could even throw a well-formed swing, let alone get into what appears to have been an MMA fight. I should’ve told him we draw the line at violence in our household, but I vaguely remember inciting him to “karate chop them in the balls” if anyone tried to disrespect him. I don’t want to see what the other dude looks like.

“Your brother seems to have forgotten that fighting is forbidden on these grounds and results in an automatic suspension,” his principal snarks.

A full-bodied growl clusters in my throat, and my indignation spikes like a monsoon during rainy season. “Did you even ask Max what happened? Or did you just decide to punish him without cause?”

“I don’t need cause. The evidence speaks for itself. And unlike you, Miss Capitano, I don’t condone violence, no matter what the story is. I haven’t forgotten your time here. You were a nuisance with your protests and unruly attitude. It’s no wonder your brother turned out to be just like you.”

This fucker is lucky there’s a table separating us, otherwise I’d lunge across it and choke the living daylights out of him. Show him what real violence looks like.

Nausea tears at my stomach; my heart is spliced together with sticky disappointment and the overwhelming fear that I should’ve been here to protect my brother.

Max is all I have. He’s the only one who understands me, who’s been by my side through everything. My mom is too caught up in work to care. And Sutton…who knows if Sutton will stick around much longer if he finds out what I’m truly capable of.

I ignore the ancient, keratosis-wart-looking dickwad behind the desk, taking my brother by the hand and bringing him around so he’s standing in front of me.

The cadence of my voice lowers to a whisper. “Max, what really happened?”

His one unswollen, Florentine-blue, tear-filled eye finds mine instantly, and he squeezes my palm in a silent attempt to brace himself for the unsavory truth. I may be keeping it together for his sake, but on the inside, panic blunts my rationale and liquifies my guts.

Relief floods him like the first soothe of a chemical burn under water, and then a shaky confession comes tumbling out without any brakes to manage its velocity.

“Dominic started it. H-he was teasing me. Said I was bringing the team down and was g-gonna be the reason we lost our next game. I tried to ignore him. I tried to brush it off, but then…”

I’m already livid. One, because this pet sperm had the audacity to speak so lowly of my brother. And two, because I can see Dominic’s family through the open door in the room across from us, probably spewing unrightful blame. His parents must have dropped everything to come stand up for him. And all Max has to show for his home life is a big sister who’s already failed at raising him.

God, no parent wants to hear something like this. And yeah, technically I am Max’s parent, albeit a stand-in one.

Sutton is about to see a side of me that I try to keep hidden, but I’m far past pleasantries at this point. This is me burying my composure in a shallow, shallow grave.

“Then what?”

Hypoxia thrusts my heart into overdrive while phosphenes flutter like motes in front of my eyes, and there’s no telling how detrimental my implosion is about to be. My resentment is radioactive. Will I kill everyone in a five-foot radius? Will I auto-ignite the air around me?

A single tear sluices down my brother’s swollen cheek. “Th-then he said o-our family is fucked up. That my mom doesn’t care about me, and that my older sister is psychotic because she let my younger sister die in front of me.”

Fuck.

I came in here trying to uphold this artifice of professionalism, but I don’t care anymore. My temper is incendiary, broiling just under my skin—a paradigm of my lack of critical thinking skills. This just proves what my mother always says to be true, doesn’t it? That I let my anger burn bridges wherever I go.

Max had every reason to retaliate. Hell, if I was here, I would’ve sent that fucking teammate of his to the ICU. Made sure he never played hockey ever again.