Page 221 of Skate the Line

I swallow two more gulps of wine.

“You’re wrong,” I argue.

All the reasons why Rhodes and I are wrong for each other are scattered all around me. But the more I drink with my best friend on the floor of her apartment, the hazier they become.

My heart stings, even with the buzz of alcohol in my system.

I feel empty.

Like everything is just wrong.

I may be physically in Washington, but every other part of me is back in Chicago.

A tear crests over my cheek.

Ruby eventually pulls me over to her, and I rest my head against her lap and cry.

It’s eerily similar to when I showed up at this exact apartment with a busted lip and fear wrecking my nervous system.

Only, this time, I’m not afraid.

I’m devastated.

Sixty-Five

RHODES

Emory seethes from beside me.“You’re lucky you’re not in fucking handcuffs.”

He paces back and forth in front of the trainer's room as I get my face stitched up. My knuckles are swollen, but most of my aggression is on hold from the staggering events that led to this moment.

We lost the game.

I was ejected for leaving the bench to fight.

It helped matters that Tarvo threw the first punch, but I did pull him onto the ice, so I think I’m still fucked. But what does everyone expect?

Even Kane, who has a heart the size of a piece of gravel, got a few hits in. He loves a good fight, but I know why he was the first to come to my aid.

He’s the one who got Tarvo thrown out of the game, pleading with the refs and explaining why I went ballistic.

It’s all very hush-hush, but the team is aware of my reason for attacking Tarvo. According to Malaki, a few of the men from theother team backed Kane up too. We may be enemies on the ice, but when it comes to something like this, we’re neutral.

You just don’t fuck with another man’s girl, and you most definitely don’t do what Tarvo did.

According to the rest of Mel’s text—that I just so happened to ignore before attacking Tarvo—there wasn’t a formal investigation because charges were never pressed.

I’m not sure why she didn’t press charges, but I know Sunny, and I’ve seen the fear on her face.

He’s guilty.

“Let me see the report,” Emory says.

I grind my jaw. It’s sore.

I try not to wince with the last touches on my stitches. When I’m finished, I toss my phone to Emory with the report on the screen.

His forehead furrows, and then it furrows some more.

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