Page 40 of Shattered Hate

“What the fuck?” Cope roars. “Did you at least get his full name or the name of the company he works for? I swear, I’m going to ruin that prick. Mark my words, Dax. He’s not getting away with this.”

I laugh without humor, shaking my head in disbelief. “You won’t do anything. It’s the least I deserve.” I prop myself up before standing. “Just drop it.”

Cope’s expression twists in frustration as he grabs my shoulder. “What you deserve? What the fuck are you talking about?”

Sighing, I realize I can’t be bothered having this conversation with him. He’d never understand. “Nothing. Just ignore me. Heobviously just changed his mind. It’s okay. I’m over it.” I fake a yawn and stretch theatrically. “I’m going to wash up, then I need to head out. I’ll catch you later.” I offer him a tight-lipped smile, knowing full well that he has planned a run with Kal this morning, and I plan to hide in the bathroom long enough for him to leave me be.

I lie sprawled on the ice, staring up at the shadowy ceiling of the deserted rink. The lock on the door barely resisted when I picked it open—it wasn’t my first time breaking into somewhere. The cold seeps through my jacket, biting into my spine as I lie here, lost in thought.

In the short time since I arrived, my mind has been racing. Did I really have any genuine feelings for Ashton? I doubt it. It wasn’t just because he ditched me; something deeper inside me recognized that truth. It felt like I was searching for something hard to pin down, something I knew I might never grasp.

Love.

In the past, having a boyfriend wasn’t even an option, and now that I have my freedom, I want to dive into every experience life can offer. But some things, like love, feel out of reach for certain people—maybe for me too. I wonder if love will ever be in my cards. I doubt it.

And then there was Bex. It always circled back to Bex. How could I move forward happily when he couldn’t? He had been my beacon when my world turned pitch-black, a guiding light through the tangled tunnels of my mind. He reached out to me when life’s waves threatened to drag me down.

But where was I when the tide turned against him?

I was in my bed, sketching mindlessly, as usual. He was struggling, drowning, and I was nowhere to be found. I left him to face it alone.

Tears slip down my cheeks, their warmth unexpectedly comforting against the chill of the ice beneath me.

My back and legs are numb, but I don’t want to move. I can’t. My limbs feel as heavy as lead, and the warm tears against my ice-cold cheeks continue to fall silently. My phone rings somewhere in the distance. Its persistent buzz barely registers as I zone out, fixated on the wispy cloud of steam escaping my lips in the frigid air.

“It’s not good for you to lie out here for too long, you know.” The familiar voice cuts through the silence, and I laugh, a hollow sound, because somehow, he always seems to appear, and I know it’s all Bex’s doing. I stay still, not even acknowledging him with a word. Then I hear the slide of footsteps on the slippery ice, and the dim light is blocked as Trayton’s face appears above me.

“Daxton,” he says, and there’s almost a softness in his voice that I rarely hear. Maybe I’m dreaming. Or maybe I’m dead. That could be it. “Daxton.” Trayton bends down, his hands gripping my shoulders firmly, giving me a jolt that snaps me back to reality. I blink, then blink again. I’m not dead. I’m not dreaming. Trayton is here, his hands on my shoulders, his expression genuinely worried. And my back really stings, like a thousand tiny needles poking at my skin.

“I’m cold,” I manage to say, my voice shaky as my teeth begin to chatter uncontrollably. I take a deep inhale of the ice-cold air, feeling it burn my lungs.

“Jesus Christ,” Trayton mutters, rubbing his hands down his sweatpants. I frown, puzzled by his lack of hockey gear, then remember it’s Sunday. That’s why I came here, thinking no one would be around.

“Stand for me,” Trayton commands as he pulls on my shoulders. His hands wrap around my arms, and he drags me up. My feet slip on the icy ground a few times, but Trayton holds onto me tightly, steadying me. He reaches my arm around his shoulders, then snakes his around my waist, guiding me toward the side. As soon as we pass through the gate, he lowers me onto the bench and stands there, frowning at me. He scratches his head, looking at me like I’m the most complicated puzzle he’s ever faced, uncertain where to begin piecing me back together.

“I’m fine. Thanks,” I manage to say, though shivers ripple through me like tiny earthquakes. Trayton sighs, his breath visible in the cold air, and drops his hands, letting them smack against his thighs with a dull thud. He pulls off his sweatshirt, the fabric rustling, and tosses it at me.

“Put that on,” he mumbles, his gaze fixed on the distant bleachers rather than on me. The chill in the air is biting, so I don’t argue. I pull the sweatshirt over my head, the soft material brushing against my skin. The scent of him drowning me. It has a hood, and as the embarrassment of my predicament settles like heavy fog, I tug it up as well. The scent of Trayton’s cologne envelops me, a heady mix of cedar and citrus, and I can’t help but sink into it. He smells incredible. Like an expensive aftershave you’d follow a stranger around just to catch another whiff of.

“What the hell were you doing?” he asks, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that is strangely reassuring. This is the version of him I know—direct, almost confrontational—not the one who would rescue me from a freezing fate.

I’m surprised he didn’t leave me out there. “Just needed some time,” I mumble, unsure of how to explain my actions.

“Some time? Lying on the damn ice?” His features are etched with suspicion.

“I didn’t realize I was out there that long,” I admit, dropping my head, the heat of embarrassment creeping up my neck.

“Who takes time out lying on ice?” he questions again, skeptical. “Like a damn starfish?”

“Me, I guess,” I reply, my gaze glued to a stain on the concrete floor, determined to stare at it until Trayton leaves.

“Next time, go to a park and lie on the grass,” he snaps before turning away. He kicks off his sneakers, the sound echoing in the rink, and pulls on his skates. I remain silent, watching as he glides onto the ice. A hockey stick and puck appear in his hands, seemingly out of nowhere, and he begins to skate. He tears up the ice and down again, his movements gaining speed with each pass. My eyes struggle to keep up with his fluid motion. He’s a ball of energy and precision.

His speed is something so impressive—a blur of motion that leaves me questioning how anyone can ever hope to catch him during a game. Every time he rockets past, the bitter cold slices at me like a thousand tiny blades.

Without any warning, Trayton screeches to a stop just ahead of me, his skates sending up a spray of ice chips. He fixes me with an unwavering stare that sends my heart pounding, my body rigid with hesitation. Instinctively, I begin taking off the sweatshirt, assuming this is why he’s looking at me.

“Keep it on,” he commands, low and steady. I freeze for a heartbeat, then reluctantly lower my arms, tugging at the sleeve as an uneasy knot forms in my stomach under that unblinking gaze.

---