Page 32 of Shattered Hate

Kal rolls his eyes and hands me a napkin. “Clean up your mess, drama queen.”

I snatch the napkin and start wiping up the beer, glaring at Kal. “I’m not being dramatic. You’re being ridiculous.”

“Sure, sure,” Bray says, sliding back onto his stool. “Because you totally don’t obsess over everything Daxton does or says.”

“I don’t obsess,” I mutter, screwing up the wet napkin. “I just think he’s an asshole, and I like to point it out.”

Cope snorts. “Yeah, every five minutes.”

I open my mouth to argue, but Kal cuts me off. “Let’s change the subject before Tray has another outburst. How about we play some pool?”

“Sounds good to me,” Bray says, standing up.

I roll my eyes but follow the guys to the pool table, secretly grateful for the distraction. As Kal racks up the balls, I lean against the wall, trying to push thoughts of Daxton out of my mind.

“Teams or every man for himself?” Cope asks, chalking his cue.

“Teams,” Bray says quickly. “Me and Tray against you two.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “Since when are we a team?”

Bray grins. “Since I decided I want to win. You’re the best player here.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” I say, unable to hide my smirk. “Fine, let’s crush these losers.”

As we start playing, I feel myself relaxing, the earlier tension melting away. Bray and I fall into an easy rhythm, calling shots and trading high fives.

After a few rounds, Cope’s phone buzzes with a notification, and a smirk spreads across his face as he glances at the screen. He taps out a quick reply, his fingers dancing over the keys. “Daxton and his date are on their way here,” he announces, grinning as his eyes lock onto mine with a spark of excitement.

I chuckle, imagining the worst possible scenario. “I bet it’s going to be some geek or something. Can’t wait to see who this is,” I say, full of sarcasm. We saunter over to the bar, ordering another round of drinks. The clinking of glasses and the murmur of the crowd fill the air as Cope’s voice cuts through the noise. “There he is.”

“You’re fucking kidding me,” Kal groans, disbelieving. Annoyed with their earlier teasing, I stubbornly refuse to turn around. I don’t care about Daxton’s date or his personal choices. Not one bit.

“You’re going to want to see this,” Bray murmurs, his voice close to my ear.

“You lot are more bothered than me about who Daxton’s on a dat—”

“Mike Grady,” Kal whispers, the name barely audible but packed with shock.

“WHAT?” I exclaim, my eyes widening in disbelief. Not the guy from Arctic Bears. I whirl around on my bar stool, my gaze locking onto Mike, who stands there with a self-satisfied grin, eyes flicking to Cope. He, meanwhile, has drawn Daxton aside, and Daxton’s eyes dart between Cope and Mike, confusion etched on his face. Cope’s hands move animatedly, gesturing toward Mike, and I can only hope he’s telling Daxton to end thedate immediately. We don’t date rivals. Cope lets out a deep, exasperated huff as he fixes a look of utter disgust on Grady’s face, his eyes narrowing like knives while he steps back with deliberate disdain. At that very moment, Daxton shuffles over to Mike with a sheepish, apologetic grin, his eyes darting around as if searching for reassurance, and together, they begin drifting toward the far end of the cluttered bar. My gaze snaps toward Cope, and I fling my hands wide in silent frustration.

Cope shakes his head slowly, sending one final, ice-cold glare that could have been meant for Grady or even Daxton—perhaps a spark of recognition that he’s a real dick. Without a word, he strides over. Lowering his voice to a murmur barely louder than a hiss. “I can’t tell him who he can and can’t date.” Kal nods in return. Bray’s eyes smolder with anger, mirroring the fury bubbling within me.

“Fuck that, I will,” I snarl as I start to leap from my chair, but Cope’s firm hand and Kal’s steady grip land squarely on my shoulders, pinning me back into the seat.

“Leave him,” Cope growls, his tone low and threatening. “It’s one date.”

My inner voice screams as I mutter, “He’s a fucking rival. We don’t date rivals, Cope. It’s the golden rule.” Every word drips from my mouth with simmering venom.

Cope simply downs the beer I had just bought, giving the bartender a sharp wave for another, as if dismissing my protest. I slam my own beer in one go, lifting two fingers to the bartender. My eyes track down the bar—Mike has his back turned, but Daxton can’t seem to escape my glare. He keeps glancing up with a nervous gulp every time our eyes meet, and I hope my stare is making him squirm.

After we basically down our second beers, Cope says, “Come on, let’s go.” He tugs at my shoulder, and I grit my teeth, reluctantly tearing my gaze away from Daxton. “Let me go tothe toilet quick,” I insist, rising and confidently walking toward the restroom—even though that means passing by Daxton and Grady. The closer I get, the more Daxton’s eyes widen as they lock onto mine; he seems to brace himself for an explosion of words that never comes. Steeling my shoulders and knowing Grady can’t see me coming from behind, I deliver a swift, heavy knock that hits him square on.

“Fuck,” Grady hisses as his drink splatters across his chest, his startled face twisting in pain. A smirk tugs at my lips as I continue toward the mirrored doorway of the toilets. Once done, I wash my hands. In the reflection of the mirror, Grady appears with a smug chuckle. “King,” he drawls, mocking me. I barely spare him a glance. “You know Daxton, right?” he asks, casually tossing his thumb over his shoulder. “He’s been going on about that Hawksview art project he’s doing. Cute,” he adds in a patronizing tone, shrugging his shoulders as if the comment were a compliment. I close the gap between us until our noses almost touch.

“I’ll look forward to making you cry on the ice like we did last year, you little bitch,” I snarl before shoving him hard enough to send him reeling, then storm out of the toilets. Outside, as I begin walking back, I see Daxton being served two shots—each accompanied by a bowl of salt and a wedge of lemon.

Tequila.

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