Page 10 of Shattered Hate

“That’s it!” Dean Miller’s hand slams down on Coach’s desk with a resounding thud. “Trayton, if you don’t cut this high school crap, you’re off the team. Kiss those scouts goodbye.” I gape at him, then turn my eyes to Coach.

“Coach.” I croak the words, and I have to admit, Coach looks just as taken back as me. But he schools it as he raises his chin and keeps his eyes on the dean.

“Daxton, you can kiss all of this goodbye—your dorm, your final grade, everything—if you don’t comply.” Daxton huffs, his jaw tensing to the point of breaking. His glare shifts from the dean to me, pure hatred flashing in his eyes.

“Fine.” I grind my teeth, but then I take another look at his face. The raw hatred radiates from him, and I can’t help but find satisfaction in it. With a broad smile, I stand up, pushing my chair back, and stare down at Daxton before flashing him a wink.

“Oh,sofine by me.” As I leave Coach’s office, my smile widens, thinking of all the hell I’m going to bring to this guy.

A little while later, I hear many choice words from Kal while I get changed into my gear, telling me to sort myself out. Daxton exits the office with Dean Miller and Coach.

“Everyone.” Coach’s deep voice booms through the locker room. I steel my shoulders, taking a deep breath before I turn around and have the misfortune of facing the trash that entered this room. “Listen up.” Everyone gives Coach their attention. “This is Daxton Rivers; he is doing his art project on ‘The Art of Ice Hockey.’ This is great for the university and will give people a clearer understanding that it’s not just a puck and a bunch of bloodthirsty guys in skates with some sticks.” In that moment, I see Daxton roll his eyes because I can guarantee that is exactly what he probably thinks hockey is. “Daxton will be watching closely at how you play, your moves, your skills. He’ll capturethis through various mediums, such as photography, sketches, or even written pieces. He’ll get the information for his writing from interviews with you. Daxton’s project will be a multimedia collage and will be posted on the Hawksview’s website when completed.”

“He must be good,” Kal mutters.

“He is,” Brayden whispers. “Bex always went on about his drawings.”

Of course he fucking did.

“You will treat Daxton with respect. A waiver will be available for you to sign tomorrow before training. This is for your approval for photography and interviews.” Coach claps his hands. “Any questions?”

“I do.” I raise my hand.

“Shock,” Coach mutters. “Go on.”

“What are the conditions if you don’t sign the waiver?” I ask because if there’s a way I don’t have to do this, then they can all kiss my ass. I don’t want that trash uttering any words to me or taking any of my pictures.

Coach stares at me with a bored expression. “You don’t play,” Coach deadpans.

“Wait, but—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Kal says, gripping the back of my neck and squeezing as tight as he can, causing me to bend in half and move my head to one side from the pain.

“Ouch!” I whine.

“Thank you, Kal,” Coach says. “Any more questions?”

Immediately, everyone goes quiet and mumbles their nos. “Perfect.” Coach beams. I flip Kal off before moving my gaze to everyone. Some people know who Daxton is, who his family is, and they look at him like the piece of scum he is, but some don’t, or they don’t care and look at him with curiosity. By this timenext week, I will make sure everyone on this team hates him and will make this whole fucking project his living nightmare.

Chapter six

Daxton

Everything inside me screams to open my eyes, but I can’t. Something heavy presses down on me, pinning me in place. I try to move, but my limbs are paralyzed. An overbearing smell invades my senses—the acrid stench of smoke mixed with cheap whiskey. My stomach churns violently. It’s him. It’s my father.

I squirm, desperation clawing at my insides. “Please. Stop.”

His voice, rough and commanding, cuts through the haze. “You will be coming home, Daxton. You’re not fucking staying here. You’re coming home to where you belong. Have you got that?”

Rough hands seize me, shaking me. “Daxton.”

“I’ll go. I’ll come home,” I whisper, my voice trembling with fear.

“Daxton.” The voice persists, dragging me back to consciousness. I finally open my eyes, bracing myself to see his face looming over me, his fingers digging into my arms. Butwhen I open my eyes, it’s not my father. It’s Cope. I glance around, disoriented. My bedside lamp casts a soft glow.

I’m in my dorm. My dad isn’t here. I don’t have to go back to the trailer.

My eyes drift back to Cope. His brows are furrowed, and worry is etched in his eyes as they flicker between mine.

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