Page 30 of Shattered Hate

“No, just Trayton, and even then, I’m not convinced,” he counters. So much for avoiding his gaze; my head swivels to face him so quickly I half expect to hear a crack.

“Not convinced?” I repeat in amazement, my voice rising. “How much convincing do you need to know that guy thinks of me as nothing more than dirt on his shoe?” I laugh bitterly. “The feeling’s mutual too,” I agree, lifting my chin defiantly. I don’t care that Cope is Trayton’s friend. I want him to understand the depth of my resentment. “Scum, remember?”

Cope chuckles, that smirk making its usual appearance in the last few minutes. “Sewer, remember?” He laughs. “Solid comeback, by the way. A few of the boys were talking about that for a week.”

“Yeah, well, he needs to know I’m not the same person I was last year; he’s not going to bully me the way he used to.”

“Good for you. But even though I don’t know you that well, I think I see you already, Dax. You’re not a horrible person. I can tell you’re not into all this drama with Trayton and don’t enjoy throwing insults around,” Cope says, with his arms crossed. I shrug, trying to look unaffected. It’s true—I’d do anything for a peaceful life where Trayton just walked by without a word, maybe a nod at most. But that’s not going to happen because he’s holding on to a misunderstanding that’s blown out of proportion. I made a promise to Bex to keep that secret locked away, and there’s no way I’m explaining things to Trayton or even Cope, not when it would mean betraying the one person who stood by me when everything went dark.

“It is what it is,” I reply, my voice flat.

“Mmm, well, you should step out of this room and see how many people actually like you. Come to the bar with us?” Cope suggests, a hint of a friendly smile on his lips.

“When?” I ask, curious.

Cope picks up his phone from the nightstand, the screen casting a soft glow on his face. “In about an hour. We’re heading to Brewtap, but if you don’t have ID, I can tell them to meet us at Pythons. Tray’s brother can get you in.”

“Brother?” I frown, confusion knitting my brows. Since when did Trayton have a brother?

Cope nods, “Yeah, half bro, they’re not exactly close, but he helps Tray out by letting people in without IDs. He’s on security there.”

“Oh, I didn’t know that,” I say, the new information settling in.

“So, do you have ID?” Cope asks, raising an eyebrow.

I relax my shoulders and roll my eyes. “Do you really have to ask? Me and Bex spent most of our time in bars.” The words slip out before I can catch them. I usually avoid talking about the past with Bex, worried about how people might judge me. But when I look at Cope, he doesn’t even flinch.

“Well then, get ready,” he says with a wide grin, dropping his towel casually. I quickly avert my gaze to the wall, my cheeks flushing. What is it with hockey guys always being so casual about nudity?

“I can’t come,” I say, my eyes stubbornly fixed on the wall. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Cope turn to face me.

“Trayton won’t cause trouble; I’ll make sure of it,” he assures me, his voice firm and reassuring.

“It’s not that,” I murmur defensively, though I know it really isn’t. Despite my reluctance to spend an evening in a bar with Trayton, there’s something comforting about Cope’s determined effort to include me. After years of feeling invisible, it’s a welcome surprise to have someone want to be around me—something I haven’t experienced since Bex, the one person who always made me feel seen. I clear my throat and nervously scratch the back of my neck as I fumble for words. “I… erm…” I begin, my voice faltering under the weight of the moment. “Havea date,” I finally reveal. A surge of heat rushes through my body, and I feel my cheeks ignite under the intense gaze of Cope, who’s caught a glimpse of my flushed face from the corner of his eye. I make a mental note to search for some kind of cosmetic fix—maybe face injections—to keep my skin from turning beet red; it’s starting to feel downright ridiculous.

Before I can lose myself in anxious thoughts, Cope ambles into view. He strides over to my bed, casually throwing himself onto its end. His eyes sparkle like mischievous sequins, and his grin widens in a way that instantly melts away some of my tension. “Do tell,” he urges, leaning forward so that his gaze locks onto mine, pushing me to share details I’m not entirely ready to admit.

“Just a date,” I reply, trying to sound nonchalant.

But Cope isn’t one to let simple answers go unchallenged. He fires off questions like a rapid volley: “Name, age, favorite hockey team?” His tone wavers between genuine curiosity and playful tease. When I hesitate, he interjects with a theatrically smug, “It best be Devil Hawks,” before teasingly correcting himself with a wink. “Oh, wait—does he go to Hawksview?” His banter leaves me momentarily stunned, my eyes widening in amused disbelief.

“You’re like a fucking girl.” I laugh out loud, the sound of humor mingling with relief in the space between us. And as we both dissolve into shared laughter, a warmth floods my chest, a stripped-down, genuine joy I haven’t felt in a long time.

Once the laughter subsides, Cope’s tone shifts to something more serious. “Hey, I need to know if he’s worth your time,” he presses, his smile softening into genuine concern.

“And supporting the Devil Hawks really figures into that?” I tease, arching an eyebrow in playful skepticism.

“Uh, duh,” he replies with an exaggerated girlish lilt, standing up, pushing his hip out, and planting his hand on it. I bite my lip,trying to stifle another bout of laughter, but we both break down again. Soon our chuckles fade, leaving us with a moment of quietness. Leaning in, Cope asks, “No, but seriously, Dax. Who is he?”

I exhale slowly, grounding myself before saying, “Some guy, Mike. I don’t really know much about him. That’s what tonight is for.”

Cope scrunches his face in that delightfully teasing expression, his eyes crinkling with a mischievous glint. “Where are you meeting him?” His tone switches back to curiosity.

“All right, Dad,” I joke, though the familiar banter does little to mask the underlying anticipation.

“No, seriously. There are some weirdos these days,” he warns with a half-smile, half-serious tone that only deepens his concern.

“Just grabbing a drink at City Sip,” I explain, trying to sound more confident than I feel.

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