Page 51 of Shattered Hate

“What about him?” I ask, doing my best to sound casual as I lean back in my chair. But relaxation is far from what I’m feeling. Why would he bring up Trayton to me now?

“His…” He gestures vaguely in the air, searching for the right word. “Anger, I guess you can call it”—he rolls his eyes, dismissing the notion—“toward you, just ignore it. I know it canbe hard because, well, it’s Trayton. That guy could summon a room to hell with how much he talks, but it’s just that—talk. Very little bite.”

“Well, last year…” I begin, recalling his fists in my face, but Brayden cuts me off.

“He was a very angry person last year, but he’s getting better.” He smirks, a knowing look on his face. “You could say he’s even softening for certain people.” His eyebrow arches suggestively in my direction.

“Not me.” I laugh, shaking my head.

“Uh-huh. Because he hates you, right?” He looks at me like he’s unraveling all the lies I’ve ever told, toying with them like a cat with a ball of yarn.

“You’re his best friend, you would know.”

“Not necessarily. Now Trayton can talk, but he doesn’t talk about his feelings.”

“Well, yeah, he does hate me.A lot.”

“Is that what he told you last night when you were in his dorm?” Brayden’s eyes twinkle with mischief.

I stare at Brayden, my eyes wide with shock. How the hell does he know?

“How?” I frown, confusion and curiosity clashing within me.

“Kal was walking back to his room when he saw you and ducked around the corner.” Brayden’s voice carries a hint of amusement, his eyes twinkling with mischief rather than judgment.

“It was a moment of weakness. It won’t be happening again,” I reply, trying to sound firm, even though there’s a slight waver in my words.

“Sure, sure,” Brayden says, stretching his arms over his head, his grin widening to reveal a set of straight, white teeth. He seems delighted, almost like he’s savoring every second of my discomfort. “Anyway, back to the interview.”

I watch Brayden, his eyes bright and sincere, as he shifts the focus back to our task. The warmth in his smile makes it impossible not to join him in moving on.

“What does hockey mean to you, Brayden?” I ask, adjusting the camera to capture his response.

After thirty minutes, the interview concludes, and I have to admit, Brayden’s words have left a big impression. They were the most heartfelt I’ve recorded so far. Each sentence had so much emotion and determination, drawing me in effortlessly. As he gathers his gear, I begin to pack up the equipment.

“How’s the project coming along?”

“Really good. I’ve been dedicating a lot of time to it, so I probably won’t be here for the next few sessions. I need to hit the library and catch up on some other work,” I explain, feeling the weight of my to-do list.

“I’m really looking forward to seeing it, Dax.” He gives me a friendly slap on the shoulder. “Oh, and you should come out with us more often. It was nice seeing you out and smiling.” His sincerity is palpable, and I can’t help but nod and smile in response. “Even if you were talking to the rivals.” He side-eyes me with a smirk. “Oh, and Bohdi says hi. Well, actually, he said, ‘Can you tell my favorite ex-pupil I said hi?’” Brayden’s smile is infectious, and I find myself grinning.

“Tell Mr. Stiles—I mean Bohdi—that I said hi back. But I think you were definitely his favorite.” I winced as I corrected myself. I arch an eyebrow, and we both break into laughter.

“Catch you later, Dax,” Brayden calls as he heads for the door.

“Bye, Bray.” I turn back to the camera, ready to pack it away, but Bray’s voice stops me once more. He’s at the locker room door, one foot outside, ready to leave.

“Jamie never sucked Trayton’s dick, by the way. Trust me, we would know.” His smile is broad and teasing, and with that, he’s gone. I’m left staring at the door, my cheeks flushing crimson before my mouth spreads into the widest grin I’ve ever worn.

Fuck.

Chapter twenty-five

Trayton

“Tray, I want to talk to you for a minute,” Brayden says as he flops down onto my bed. He leans back, resting his head against the wall, settling in as if preparing for a long conversation.

“What’s up?” I ask, mirroring his position, my back pressing into the cool, hard surface.

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