Page 44 of Shattered Hate

Screw him.

I lift my chin defiantly, ensuring my gaze locks onto his firmly. Those piercing, fucked-up bluey-green eyes, like shards of ice, have the power to make anyone tremble with vulnerability. Yet I refuse to give in.

No. No. I despise him and those damn eyes.

“I’m not a hockey player,” I grit out through clenched teeth, rising to my feet and forcing Trayton to stumble back a few steps. Determination fuels my movements as I close the gap between us, ensuring my words are delivered with unshakable certainty.

“So, if I decide to fuck the rival,” I whisper, my lips brushing against his ear, “I will.”

Chapter twenty-two

Trayton

Irun my fingers along the intricate lines etched into my skin, tracing the tattoo on my arm. Each stroke feels like a ghostly whisper of the needle that once pressed into my flesh, held steady by a pair of firm hands. I remember the sensation of my arm being gripped, the slight pressure as he leaned over me, carefully rubbing at the ink.

If I want to fuck the rival, I will.

To hell with him. Grady’s one of their weakest players anyway. Trust Daxton to pick the dud of the team.

Who does he think he is, really? He’s supposed to be on our side. Coach made it clear: You’re part of the team, and that means you don’t mess around with the rivals.

Prick.

Kal finally got his act together and hooked up with a girl after we hit the bar. Maybe now we’ll have the old Kal back. Without all his whining over some girl he’s never going to see again. Not that I’d ever say that to his face—I like my face the way it is.

I glance down at my tattoo, a swirl of art I genuinely love. Yet, I can’t stand knowing it was him, Daxton, who inked it onto my skin. He designed it, and I hate that. I want to look at my tattoo and feel joy, but every glance reminds me of his face. I rise from my chair, pacing the confines of my room. Why do I let this jerk get under my skin so much? Why can’t I stop thinking about him?

The memory of seeing him sprawled on the ice, tears streaming down his cheeks, stirs something deep within me. A crack in my resolve. Suddenly, I wanted to be kind, and that was new—I’d never wanted to be kind to Daxton Rivers. I wanted to see him smile, to be the reason behind that smile. But why?

When he finally did smile, it took my breath away for a moment, his expression reminding me so vividly of someone from my past. I couldn’t let myself drift back to those days, to connect Daxton with those long-buried emotions. But still, he has a nice smile—a really fucking nice smile.

And he blushes a lot, which, I hate to admit, makes my heart race. There’s something irresistible about the way his cheeks turn crimson, especially when I’m the one causing it.

He’s still a complete prick though.

That’s exactly what he is, and I can’t stand him. I despise Daxton Rivers. I repeat it like a mantra, my fingers trailing over my arm, the surface now smooth, the scabs long gone. But then a thought pierces through my mind.

Oh, my mind is twisted, but how I revel in its madness.

I rummage through a chaotic drawer, my go-to spot for random items, until I finally grasp it. Daxton’s business card. His number is printed on it. Excitement rushes through me as I dial the digits into my phone, eager to send a text.

Me:

I need you to get to my dorm ASAP. It’s an emergency. My tattoo doesn’t look right.

I sit back, a smirk spreading across my face when the message is read almost immediately. Grady must be dull company tonight.

Quiet Boy:

What do you mean it doesn’t look right? Send me a picture.

Damn. I didn’t expect him to ask for a picture.

Me:

My camera is broken. You need to get here.

I glance down at my flawless tattoo and can’t help but chuckle. Oh, Daxton, I’m about to ruin your evening.

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