Page 42 of Shattered Hate

“If you come out with me, I swear I’ll never say one more thing about that damn pig,” he insists, trying to tease me. I glance up at him from where I sit cross-legged on my bed, surrounded by the familiar chaos of my things. My sketch pad rests open on my lap, filled with the rough outlines and detailed doodles I worked on during today’s training session.

“You swear you’ll never mention him again?” I ask, raising an eyebrow skeptically. He extends his pinky finger toward me, his expression earnest.

“Okay, we don’t need to do that,” I say, waving a hand dismissively.

“Pinky me right now, Daxton,” Cope demands, his gaze locked on mine with an intensity that only he could muster.

“Don’t ever say that again.” I chuckle, unable to contain my amusement.

Cope’s face crinkles in confusion, his brow furrowing as he tilts his head slightly—a gesture I’ve noticed he makes whenever he’s puzzled. Then I see the moment of clarity hit him. His blue eyes widen in realization, and he shakes his head vigorously. “Yeah, no. I don’t want your pinky anywhere near my ass. I’m good for that,” he says, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. The fact that it took him a solid twenty seconds to catch on sendsme collapsing back onto my pillow, my amusement turning into tears. Cope’s deep, infectious laugh joins mine. “You’ve got a dirty mind, Rivers,” he teases, and when I sit up, still wiping tears from my eyes, I burst into laughter again at the sight of him still holding his pinky up at me.

“Just pinky swear me, you dick.”.

After managing to calm down, the laughter still bubbling just beneath the surface, I finally link my pinky with his.

“I can’t even remember what we’re swearing now,” he admits, scratching the back of his head.

I squint at him, playfully irritated.

“Oh yes, the pig. No more, if you come for a drink.”

I let out a long sigh, thinking that a night out might do me some good, and I could definitely use a break from Cope’s constant chatter about Ashton.

“Okay,” I agree.

Cope beams at me, his face lighting up with triumph as he punches the air. “That’s my boy,” he exclaims, his enthusiasm infectious.

The room is buzzing with energy, filled with people from college, not just those on the hockey team. It’s comforting to know I’m not the odd one out. I found myself chatting with a group of girls who were gushing over my tattoo, their eyes wide with curiosity and admiration. While I’m not one to bask in the spotlight, it felt nice just to have conversation with others.

Suddenly, Trayton interjects loudly, announcing to the girls that I’m gay. Some of them sigh in disappointment and walkaway, leaving Trayton chuckling at the scene. Two of the girls, however, simply shrug, giving me a once-over as if I were a prime steak on display, and one of them says, “I don’t mind.”

I don’t have the energy to explain that, first, I do mind, and second, sexuality isn’t a simple switch that can be flipped on and off. It’s not as simplistic as some might think, and not every “hole is a goal.”

Thankfully, Brayden comes over and gently pulls me away from the awkwardness, for which I am immensely grateful. As I join in other conversations, I begin to feel at ease, almost forgetting that I’m not technically part of the team. Despite not being a hockey player, they always make me feel like I’m one of them and as if I’ve always been on the team. Especially Cope. He just took me under his wing as if it was so natural and just never looked back.

God, I’m so thankful for that guy.

Trayton hasn’t hurled any insults my way yet, which is nothing short of a miracle, but I’ve noticed him shooting daggers at me. It’s as if he’s waiting for the perfect moment to unleash his hateful shit.

I hear Kal grunt, and Trayton spits out some swear words. Brayden’s demeanor shifts instantly; his relaxed features tense up, and a stormy intensity clouds his eyes. I tilt my head to see what has caught their attention—a group of big guys is entering the room. Judging by their size, I’m guessing they are hockey players.

I glance back at my table, and Cope slides into the empty seat next to me, leaning in to whisper, “Arctic Bears.” I frown in confusion, and then realization dawns on me. That’s Mike’s team. Shit. I haven’t texted him back since Trayton decided to invade my mouth that night. Literally.

“Oh, okay. Rivals, right?”

“Yep. Davenport College.” I glance back over my shoulder, catching sight of the group standing by the pool table. They’re smirking, their eyes glinting with a mix of challenge and mischief. I don’t see Mike, thank God. That’s when I shift my gaze back to Brayden.

Quake.

I’m not scared of a fight. I’ve been through my fair share of them, but right now, I’m just enjoying the music and the laughter around me. It would be a shame for all of it to come crashing down.

“What happens now?” I whisper to Cope, so quiet it’s barely audible over the dull roar of conversation. His eyes are fixed on our rivals like he’s calculating them. Before Cope can reply, Kal slams his beer onto the table, the sound echoing around us.

“We treat them as if they’re not here,” he declares. He’s steady and commanding. Everyone’s attention shifts to Kal, and then, with a collective breath, they lift their beers, taking long pulls, though the air is still charged with tension.

Chatter begins again, and soon enough, the group across the room fades into the background like an old song no one wants to hear.

I’ve had four beers, and the liquid courage is making me feel slightly buzzed and more than a little smiley. I’m aware of my surroundings, the way the room spins gently around me. Cope stays close, his presence like a warm blanket, which makes me relax and maybe drink a bit more than I should.

---