The guy’s nice, sure, but he’s also too soft for her. She’d barrel over him within a week of dating. A pit forms in my stomach.
Are they dating?
And if they are, did he take Austin’s bet at practice the other day? Did anyone take his bet? Is she a bet? Is Burrows only with her so he can pop her cherry and win some cash? The guy’s here on scholarship and doesn’t have much money, especially after his knee surgery. Would he cross the line with Blake?
He wouldn’t.
Would he?
The questions roll around in my brain, one after the other until I feel like I need to hit something. Namely someone from the hockey team.
“Theo?” Blake murmurs, cutting through my fury with her soft voice and worried expression.
If she wasn’t here, she wouldn’t be messing with my head. If she wasn’t here, she wouldn’t be making me question things. If she wasn’t here, I wouldn’t be jealous of Burrows or Tukani or even a fucking freshman who’s had zero time on the ice this year.
I grit my teeth but drop her hand. “You need to leave.”
Her bright green eyes harden with contempt, her worry twisting into frustration. “And you need to keep your nose out of my business.”
I shouldn’t be surprised she isn’t willing to listen. She’s never been willing to listen. But if she wants to push me, fine. I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty. Not tonight. Not when it comes to her.
I hold her glare for another second, then grab her wrist again and drag her toward the front of the bar. My adrenaline and frustration are like gasoline on the precarious situation, but I shove aside the tiny voice of reason telling me this is a bad idea and I’m about to cross a line I shouldn’t.
Too bad I don’t give a damn.
“What are you doing?” Blake demands as she races to keep up with me so she doesn’t fall on her ass. The girl has long legs, but they aren’t long enough to keep up with my lengthy stride. Not when I’m this pissed off.
“Sammie!” I bellow at the top of my lungs as we turn the corner into the main area. The music is still thumping from the stage, but Sammie’s head snaps toward me from behind the bar.
Apparently, she heard me.
With a white dishrag in one hand, and an empty glass in the other, she says, “I’m sorry. Is it polite to yell at your bartender?”
“This girl’s under twenty-one.”
“What the hell?” Blake screeches, punching my chest and wrenching her opposite arm away from me.
I rub at the sore spot. It’ll definitely be bruised tomorrow. Ignoring her outburst, I repeat, “She’s under twenty-one.”
Sammie almost looks apologetic as she turns to Blake, her lips pulled into a thin line. “How’d you get in here?”
“He’s lying,” she argues. “And I walked through the door like every other customer––”
“She has a fake ID,” I interrupt.
Blake glares at me, the look almost branding me with its heat, but she doesn’t say a word. She can’t anymore. She doesn’t have a leg to stand on.
She knows it.
Sammie knows it.
And I know it too.
I also know I was right. I’ve crossed a line. I’ve pissed her off––more than ever. But I’m too angry to care. She needs to get out of here. To go home. To get away from me and from every other player on the team, including Burrows. It’s for her own good. It’s for my sanity. It’s for my friendship with Colt. It’s for a lot of things. I need to remember that.
With a frown, Sammie outstretches her hand toward Blake with her palm facing up. “Can I see your ID again, miss?”
“There a problem?” Burrows asks as he approaches Blake from the dance floor. But she doesn’t answer him. She’s too busy imagining all the ways she’s going to kill me for this.
I don’t know why, but it makes me feel better. That she’s ignoring him. That she’s too busy looking at me instead, even if it’s because I pissed her off.
Guess what, Baby Thorne. You pissed me off too.
The menacing scowl on her face could make a damn lion cower in fear as she stares at me. But I don’t meet her gaze no matter how much I feel it burning against my cheek. I turn around and head toward the exit without a backward glance.
“Fuck you, Theo!” Blake yells as she watches me go.
I keep my head down and ignore her, shoving the door open. It bounces off the rough red brick outside, and I hang my head as I walk back to my car before remembering why I showed up at SeaBird in the first place.
Pulling out my cell, I send a quick message to Colt.
Me: Going home. Headache. We’ll talk later.
His response is almost instant.
Colt: Way to piss her off, then ditch her. She’s gonna kill you.
Without bothering to reply, I slide into my car, toss my phone onto the passenger seat, and rest my head against the headrest, defeated.
Colt’s right. She’s gonna be the death of me. But what he doesn’t know is she’s been killing me for years.
Long before tonight.
Why would my future be any different?
10
THEO
“Dude, what the hell?” Burrows demands as he stalks into the weight room. It’s late morning, and most of the team hasn’t arrived at the rink yet. But I got here early and have been kicking my own ass in here for the past twenty minutes.
When the angry words echo through the otherwise silent gym, I set the weights back into their place and sit up on the bench press, stretching my already tired muscles over my head as I watch Burrows’ approach.
Apparently, the last twelve hours wasn’t enough time to calm him down after the shitstorm at SeaBird.
Twisting my baseball hat backwards, I stare at Burrows with a bored expression. “There a problem, man?”
“Why’d you have Blake and me thrown out of SeaBird?”
I laugh, dryly. “I didn’t get you thrown out––”
“I invited Blake. You really think I was just gonna let her catch a ride home with a stranger or something?”
My annoyance spikes. I don’t know if it’s because I feel guilty that it wasn’t me who drove her home, or if it’s because he was a nice enough guy to make sure she got home safely, or if it’s because he got some extra time with her when I didn’t. None of it even matters. I don’t want time with her. What I want is distance. But the girl won’t go away.
“You in on the bet, Burrows?” I blurt out, my voice sharp and unyielding as I voice the question that’s been on a constant loop since I saw them at SeaBird last night.
He pulls back, and his eyebrows pinch. “Excuse me?”
“I wanna know. Are you in on the bet with Austin, Tukani, and everyone else?”
“I liked Blake before––”
“So you are,” I surmise, but it doesn’t make me feel any better. If anything, it only frustrates me more.
At least the bastard has the decency to look sheepish as he squeezes the back of his neck and mutters, “It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, it does.”