Page 71 of Shattered Hate

“I’ll put you in the hospital, you piece of fucking shit!” I scream. Grady raises his hands weakly to cover his face, barely even attempting to fight back.

“Tray,” I hear Daxton call again as I feel arms tug at my jersey, but I shove them off hard, pulling back my aching fists and smashing them into Grady’s face once more.

I only catch a glimpse of his face—smeared with blood, with rivulets sinking into the ice—before Kal, Bray, and Cope yank me up off my feet. My helmet has gone in the chaos. Even as I’m hauled away, my eyes remain fixed on the gruesome scene, and I spit angrily at him. “I damn well dare you to say that again,” I growl.

“Trayton, snap out of it,” Bray hisses, his hand gently cradling my face. “Breathe,” he commands, his frantic, wide eyes locked on mine. I gulp in deep breaths, focusing solely on Brayden’s expression.

“Dax,” I murmur. His eyes soften, and he nods silently, urging.

“Come on.” He guides me off the ice, wrapping one arm over my shoulder as we weave through the chaos of shouting and screaming. I barely register the surrounding voices as I search for Daxton.

When we pass through the locker room doors, my eyes immediately scan the area until I spot him: his head tilted back, a tissue pressed against his nose, with Coach on his knees in front of him, tilting his chin upward. Enraged again, I storm toward him, seething with the thought of turning back onto that rink to make every single person who even glanced his way pay. Without thinking, I step next to Coach and shove his hand aside. “Give me the name,” I demand between ragged breaths.

Daxton rolls his eyes. “This is the least of my worries. You screwed up, Tray.”

“Yeah, you did—get in my office right now,” Coach booms into my ear.

“When I find out who hurt him, I’m going to come after them and tear them apart.” I don’t bother to look at Coach as I fix my gaze on Daxton.

“It doesn’t matter, Tray, jus—”

Coach cuts him off. “You,” Coach roars beside me. “It was you who hurt him—office, now!” He gestures behind him, and my stomach drops with a cold dread as I turn back to Daxton.

“Who hurt you, Dax?”

“You hurt me the most.”The echoes of those words from the hotel haunt my mind. It’s true—I keep hurting him. But how the hell do I stop?

“I’m so sorry,” I croak, my head hanging low as I follow Coach to his office, desperate for a way to make it stop.

Chapter thirty-six

Daxton

Isit in the locker room, waiting for Trayton to appear. He didn’t intend to hurt me—I know that—even though Coach insisted it was deliberate, and judging by the way he’s tearing into him through the thin door, Coach truly believes it was on purpose. I know it wasn’t. I shouldn’t have stepped onto the ice while everyone was fighting; the entire team was throwing punches. Sure, TV teams might have an occasional scrap, but every single player was in the brawl, like animals in a wild park. I pulled Trayton, who was on top of Mike, from behind. Isn’t it a rule in a fight that you shouldn’t grab someone from behind? When someone’s caught up in rage, they won’t register a feeble grip from the back. Still, I heard Trayton’s actions fractured Mike’s jaw and broke his nose. That’s not going to go down well.

I let out a huff, tossing the tissue Coach shoved up my nose as I entered the locker room. Everyone’s here, waiting—some sporting nasty bruises and cut hands, while Brayden nurses a cut lip. In the midst of it all, everyone’s eyes are fixed on the floor.“How much trouble will he get in?” I mumble to anyone who’ll listen.

“I don’t think Grady’s the problem—it’s you. Coach and the dean already warned Tray,” Kal says.

I let out a resigned sigh. “What are the odds Coach will believe me when I say it was an accident?” I mutter.

Kal chuckles lightly. “Good luck with that.” My shoulders slump in defeat. If they don’t take me seriously, I might withhold my project. The dean’s been enthusiastic ever since I explained how I wanted to present it.

We sit in silence until I notice something old and rustic on the floor. I lean in, squinting to see it better. “Don’t,” Brayden warns just as I reach down to pick it up. Holding the coin in my hand, I look toward Brayden with a frown. “It’s Tray’s,” he explains. “It must’ve fallen when he threw his helmet into his locker. No one’s supposed to touch the coin.” He winces as he continues.

“Why?” I ask, my brow furrowing as I turn the coin in my hand. Then everything around me comes to a halt. My breath catches as I stare at the coin in my hand. I study the words etched on it: Fuck Yes and Fuck No.

Kal murmurs softly beside me, “No one really knows what it means.”

Without thinking, a smile creeps onto my lips, and I whisper, “It means whatever he wants it to mean.”

“What did you just say?” Trayton’s voice slices through the silence, halting me in my tracks as my eyes flick to him—I hadn’t noticed he was there.

“I-I-” I stutter, unsure of what to say next.

“Can you repeat that?” he demands, his wide, frantic eyes searching my face, each second deepening the realization as his gaze lingers. “Daxton,” he utters urgently. At that moment, the coin falls from my hand, and I take off running. His hand brushes against me in a futile attempt to grab hold, but I fleefrom the locker room as if my very life depends on it. For all those years, he hadn’t known it was me; I had purposely kept my face hidden, too ashamed of the black eyes and cuts I carried from constant beatings.

“Daxton!” Trayton’s voice roars down the corridor as I continue to run. I don’t stop running until I finally bolt through the door of my dorm, not even five minutes later. Anxiety gnawing at me while I wonder how to face him and what words to offer. My mind races, and I find myself rummaging under my bed for my sketch pad. I flip to the page containing the tattoo design he requested—the one I promised I’d get to but never had time for. I actually completed it that very night after he explained all the details, still not believing that he wanted a drawing of the lighthouse. When I read the notes and saw a lighthouse, everything in me lit up, but then I convinced myself it could just be a nostalgic reference to his childhood. It didn’t have anything to do with me. Now, as I study the drawing, it hits me that our nights together might have held more meaning for him than I ever imagined—especially the stars. We loved the stars. Every detail was there: the bright-red door with its conspicuous hole, the uneven brickwork at the top, and the broken railing. I had drawn it with the deep-seated knowledge that I could never truly give it to him. He would know as soon as he saw the drawing. And then he would eventually wonder why I never returned—even though the truth was, I did return, only to find him gone.

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