Page 33 of Shattered Hate

My absolute favorite.

Daxton reaches forward to retrieve his shot glass when I suddenly step in from behind and shove his shoulder. The force sends his hand scrambling, and the glass slips from his grasp, shattering against the floor with a burst of splintered fragments beneath us. “Oops,” I murmur, steadying myself as I position my body between him and the nearby chair. My waist brushes against his knee in passing, and he slowly looks up, his eyes sparking with an intense and thunderous stare. “My bad forwasting your shot,” I add casually, as if nothing out of the ordinary has occurred.

I bend down to pick up the other shot from the bar, glancing at it before asking, “I’m assuming this is Grady’s?” Without waiting for an answer, I dip my finger into a small bowl of salt. In that charged moment, I fix my gaze on Daxton, deliberately rubbing the salt along my tongue. His eyes follow the slick movement, wide and unspoken with anticipation, as I toss the shot back without swallowing.

My attention shifts briefly as I notice Grady returning and getting close. I repeat the salt-dabbing with my thumb, and almost before Daxton can protest, I forcefully push the salty edge into his mouth. My hand snakes through his hair at the nape, twisting and tugging with precise intent that pulls his head backward. His mouth parts involuntarily in a grimace, but his blown-wide eyes stare up at me as salt lingers on his lips. I lean over him slowly, letting a drizzle of tequila pour into his open mouth. I lock eyes with Grady for a split second and then return my gaze to Daxton; his expression is a chaos of wide-eyed confusion and reluctant submission as he gulps down the tequila.

Fuck, he smells intoxicatingly good. Once the tequila fades from my own lips, I reach for a lemon. Releasing my hold on his hair, I observe Daxton’s eyes widen in surprise yet burn with heat. His eyes, as green as forest leaves, stir something wild in me, sparking a desire to whisk him away right then and there. I let my voice drop to a sultry tone as I tilt my head daringly toward him. His gaze flickers between the intensity of mine, and he gulps nervously.

“Now suck for me,” I command softly, trailing the lemon wedge along his glistening lips that shimmer with the residue of tequila. His lip piercing catches the light. As he partsthem automatically, he obeys without hesitation. “Good boy,” I whisper in approval as he spits the lemon out.

I cast a teasing wink at Grady, who stands rigidly nearby, his eyes ablaze with a mix of suppressed anger and disbelief while his fists clench tightly at his sides. Ruffling Daxton’s hair in a dismissive gesture, I deliberately avoid lingering on his heated gaze, even though every fiber of my mind craves another look.

Turning away, I find Cope, Bray, and Kal quietly struggling to stifle their laughter as they bite their lips. I stride over to them, grabbing my coat casually over my arm. “My work here is done,” I announce with a cool detachment. “Let’s go.”

Chapter seventeen

Daxton

“Ireally don’t want to do the interviews today.” I bury my face into my pillow and muffle a groan. A sudden, light thud lands on my head, and I glance up to see Cope standing over me. He’s in his long basketball shorts, his torso glistening with sweat from his early morning run.

“Come on, get up,” he insists, grabbing another pillow from his bed and launching it at me with a playful grin. “You’re not human. Who the hell goes jogging at five in the morning?” I mutter, reluctantly swinging my legs over the side of the bed and sitting up; my head droops as if it’s too heavy for my neck to support it. I long for the soft cotton of my pillowcase against my cheek again. The temptation to flop back down is overwhelming, but Cope strides over and gently but firmly tugs my hair until I’m sitting upright. I’m too exhausted even to flinch.

I fucking hate Mondays.

Like, who invented Mondays? Sundays and Mondays. They’re the devil’s days. Sunday because you literally have Monday upyour ass screaming “I’m coming,” and then Monday because well—it’s Monday.

“I think I hate you right now, more than Mondays, and that’s saying something,” I mumble, rubbing my eyes.

“Oh, I love you in the mornings,” Cope replies cheerily. “Come on, you’re interviewing the sexiest man on the team first thing.” With reluctance, I force my eyelids open to find Cope striking exaggerated muscle poses. It’s infuriating how large and defined his muscles are.

“I want muscles like that. Maybe in the interview, you can shed some light on how you get them.” I yawn.

“By getting out of bed for a start.” Cope laughs, crossing the room in a few swift strides. He grabs me by the shoulders, steering me toward the bathroom with a playful slap on my butt before shutting the door firmly behind me. “You have ten minutes to get ready,” he calls through the door.

I drag myself to the shower, turn the knob until the water cascades over me, and sink to the tiled floor. The water streams down, warm and soothing, coaxing me into a drowsy trance rather than waking me up. My head lolls back against the wall with a dull thud.

I could totally go back to sleep right here.

“Still can’t believe you fell asleep in the shower,” Cope hisses, eyes wide with disbelief. “I thought you had actually fallen over and were lying there dead or something,” he repeats, shaking his head. The truth is, I did fall asleep in the shower. It’s as if my body finally feels safe and is trying to make up for all thoseyears I barely scraped by with three hours of sleep a night. Now, I’m clocking in a solid eight hours, and the haunting nightmares are gradually fading away. I nearly screamed when I was woken up by what sounded like a bomb going off outside the bathroom door. It was, in fact, Cope nearly knocking the fucking thing off its hinges. I had, in fact, fallen asleep for twenty minutes.

“I was just relaxing my eyes,” I deadpan, trying to downplay the incident.

“You relaxed your eyes for the whole damn night,” Cope says, crossing his arms. “No more locking the bathroom doors. I can’t trust you anymore.” I throw my head back and laugh, the sound echoing as we stride into the locker room.

“You’ve lost it.” I chuckle, shaking my head. At that moment, Jennings ambles over, curiosity etched on his face.

“Share the joke,” Jennings prompts, and Cope launches into the story of my shower nap. Jennings nods in agreement with Cope, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“If my roommate pulled that stunt, I wouldn’t trust them either,” he says, glancing at me sideways. I roll my eyes. “You hockey players are so dramatic,” I mutter, the corner of my mouth twitching.

Just as Cope begins recounting the story to another player—Smithson, I think, though I’m not entirely sure—Trayton, Kal, and Brayden saunter into the locker room. Kal catches my eye, nodding with a small, tight-lipped smile.

“Daxton.” Brayden grins as he heads to his locker. I’m too stunned to immediately respond to Brayden or return Kal’s smile, standing there in disbelief.

Am I in the twilight zone?

“Hi,” I say as Brayden finally arrives at his locker, the metallic clang echoing in the room. Trayton doesn’t even glance my way, too absorbed in his routine as he strides to his own locker and begins peeling off his gear. Good, because after that stunt hepulled on Saturday, I can’t bring myself to meet his gaze. I’m still annoyed with myself for letting him do that. Everyone begins stripping off their tops. I always feel like an intruder during these moments, awkwardly standing around while the team strips down. It’s like I’m a modern-day Peeping Tom, but Coach insists on my presence here for the project. He believes this is when players are either their most at ease or tightly wound, depending on the timing.

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