Page 8 of Shattered Hate

“Don’t start?” I laugh, throwing my head back.

Bray groans. “You telling Tray not to start is like waving Vin Diesel’s ass in Tray’s face and telling him he can’t bite it. He’s gonna fucking bite it.”

“Daxton fucking Rivers is staying in the fucking dorms? In my teammate’s room? How? Why?” I demand, my eyes boringinto Kal. I know exactly why he went rigid—because he fucking knows. His dad is the highest on the board at this uni. I can guarantee it was his dad who gave the approval for it.

“I will talk to you like an adult when you calm the fuck down,” Kal grits out.

“How can you be okay with this, Bray?” I turn my attention to Brayden, whose eyes soften.

“You know it’s not his fault, Tray.”

“It’s his family’s, which makes it his. He didn’t stop them, Bray. He sat right beside them and joined in whatever fuckery they were up to. He has Bexley’s blood on his hands just as much as his low-life father and uncle.” I spit the words out, each one laced with bitterness.

Brayden flinches. “Hey, shut the fuck up and sit down,” Kal says. “I won’t hesitate to drop-kick your ass if you carry on.”

“I don’t get how you can all be okay with this.” I throw my hands up in exasperation. “He’s the scum of the earth.”

“Look,” Brayden begins, but he’s interrupted by Coach.

“Trayton, please tell me why you can’t ever keep that fucking trap shut. Not even for five fucking minutes.” He groans. “What are you moaning about now?”

“The piece of scum that is Daxton fucking Rivers, that’s who.”

“Trayton,” Coach barks, “I need you to come—”

“If I’m a piece of scum, then you’re the whole fucking sewer.” Everything inside me freezes—even my breathing. I turn slowly on my heels, facing the one person I despise most on this earth. The one face that makes my fists itch to connect every time I catch a glimpse of it around campus.

Daxton Rivers glares back at me with a hatred so intense it could burn through steel. Gone is the quivering mess who cried beneath my blows last year. Gone is the guy with the permanently sad face, the one who wouldn’t say boo to a ghost. Now, Daxton Rivers vibrates with rage, his eyes flashing withmurderous intent. His jet-black hair, now shorter, sweeps off his head in a near-perfect style, yet still looks like he’s run his fingers through it, with the loose strands hanging over his eyes. His bright-green eyes, edged with darkness, that remind me of a viper, lock onto me. New tattoos peek out from under his oversize sweater, dark, black swirls wrapping around his neck. He’s like some brooding avenging angel. Pft. More like devil.

“What did you just say, Quiet Boy?” I snarl, my voice low and menacing. “Trayton, Daxton.” Dean Miller, who stands beside Daxton, gestures toward Coach’s office. “Office, now!” he bellows, his voice echoing through the locker room. A sinister smile spreads across my face. Whatever I just saw in Daxton’s eyes has slightly dampened my anger. All I can think about now is the thrill of ruining this guy and making him regret ever stepping foot in Hawksview University.

Chapter four

Daxton

“Daxton, I know there have been issues with some of the players on the hockey team, but Coach Denny is going to straighten it out. It will be fine. We really think you can do this school and yourself justice with this project,” Mr. Jenkins says in his annoyingly calm voice, which grates on my nerves when I’m feeling like this. I don’t want to be spoken to like a child who’s gone ape shit and is now being coddled by one of those gentle parents who just can’t accept they have a little shit for a kid.

“I’m not doing it,” I growl, feeling my temper rise. He’s not fucking listening. “I hate hockey—like, hate it. And I hate one of the players—you of all people know this—and the feeling is fucking mutual.” I don’t even care that I’m swearing in front of a teacher right now. Mr. Jenkins winces before sighing, a small smile playing on his lips, and I swear to God, if he uses that calming voice one more time, I’ll blow a fucking gasket and probably get myself put right back in that damn trailer. But rightnow, that seems preferable. “And let’s not forget, he’s one of the star players.” My voice escalates as I slam my fist on the table, and I’m not done, even when Mr. Jenkins clutches his chest and steps back a couple of paces. Usually, this would instantly make me feel bad. I know what it’s like to be around people who constantly lose their temper with you, but I’ve held in too much and let way too many people walk over me. “Not only do you want me to put emotion and story into this,” I say, staring Mr. Jenkins straight in the eye, noting his continuous blinking that betrays his nervousness around me, “you want me to get up close and personal, follow the fucking guys around like a lost puppy, do interviews with them, draw them in play? Do you even hear yourself right now? You know everything that went down last year.” My breath comes out choppy from the sheer panic that filters through me. I can’t lose this scholarship, but I can’t do what they’re asking. What they need me to fucking do to keep this scholarship.

“I believe in you, Daxton.” That’s all Mr. Jenkins says before giving me a tight smile and walking off. Is he fucking serious?

“I believe in you, Daxton.” I mimic a kid’s voice. “Is that all you have to say?” My anger increases again as I follow after him. “How can I put emotion and story into something I can’t stand? You need a connection when doing something like this. You need to have a love for it,” I remind Mr. Jenkins. “What about my street art? I can go to the homeless shelter, speak with the people there. I can go to the recovery centers and speak with recovering alcoholics and drug addicts? That’s something I’m interested in; that’s something I can create a story out of and put a shit ton of emotion into. You know I can.” Mr. Jenkins stops and turns slowly, releasing a deep sigh. “Please,” I beg him. “Please, sir. Anything but this. Anything.”

“It’s set, Daxton. It’s what Dean Miller and I have agreed. I’m sorry.” With those words, Mr. Jenkins disappears. Angerconsumes me, and I pick up the nearest object, flinging it across the room, then watch it crash into someone’s art hanging on the wall. Right now, I don’t give a shit.

Right now, all I need is to let go.

Calm. Slow. Peaceful.

Everything feels lighter, like a warm, fuzzy blanket wrapping around me. My thoughts slow down, drifting like lazy clouds in a summer sky. Nothing bothers me, and everything that once felt like a looming storm now seems distant and insignificant. This is what I needed—what I had craved. I needed to let go, to escape the weight of my worries. I promised myself when I left that place that I would never smoke weed again. I was determined to leave all that behind, but after today, I had no choice. I couldn’t calm myself down naturally; the anxiety gnawing at my insides was too much to bear. I had to turn to drugs instead.

Not surprisingly, it wasn’t hard to get.

It’s only the first day, and I’ve already ruined it.

I turn, shifting my position to lay my head at the foot of the bed. I drag my pillow with me. As I lay my head down, I find myself staring up at the picture I drew for Bex. A wave of emotion surges through me, my chest begins to heave, and suddenly, a laugh bursts out, raw and uncontrollable. “You fucker.” I laugh, voice trembling. “This is all you. I know it is.” This has Bexley written all over it. “If you’re listening, just know I won’t come and see you anymore until you fix this,” I say, forcing a smile despite the tears threatening to spill. Deep down, I know it’s not true. I will always go to his graveside until my lastdying breath. Sitting up with a sigh, I quickly wipe the tear away. This won’t do. I can’t give up just based on what Mr. Jenkins said; I need to see Dean Miller.

I stand outside the dean’s office, my heart pounding in my chest. The hallway is eerily quiet. The only sound is the ticking of the clock on the wall. I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. This is it. I have to make the dean understand how much I don’t want to do the project.

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