Page 49 of Shattered Hate

“You haven’t been picking up my calls or your father’s,” he remarks with an unsettling cheerfulness that makes my skin crawl.

“I’ve been busy with school,” I respond, grateful for the long sleeves of my sweater that hide the evidence of my anxious nail-picking.

“It takes what, a few minutes to have a conversation with me or your father?” His tone is suddenly sharp, like the edge of a knife. This is Marley—unpredictable and volatile, a chameleon of moods. One moment calm, the next a storm; you never quite know where you stand with him.

“Like I said, I’ve been busy,” I repeat, trying to keep my voice steady. But before I can process what’s happening, Marley’s hand clamps my head. My head whips forward, crashing into the dashboard with a sickening thud. A white-hot pain explodes across my face, and I feel warm blood trickling from my nose. Dazed, I blink against the blur of tears, realizing with a jolt the reality of what just happened.

Marley leans in close, a venomous whisper in my ear. “Don’t talk down to me, Daxton. I will ruin your fucking life just like that,” he sneers, snapping his fingers with a sharp crack to drive home his threat. I focus on breathing through my mouth, the metallic taste of blood pooling, and nod in mute agreement, my mind a whirlwind of fear and submission.

“Now get out, and don’t get blood anywhere in my car.” His voice is cold and sharp. I don’t need a second invitation. I fling the door open and scramble out as fast as I can. “Oh, and Daxton, when I call, you answer.” He throws another order my way just as I slam the door and break into a run back toward campus. Each step sends a fresh jolt of pain through my face, and I can feel the warm trickle of blood seeping through my sweatshirt. The closer I get to campus, the more the pain intensifies, but I can’t slow down. I need to reach the safetyof my dorm, the one place where I might be able to catch my breath.

As I sprint through the iron gates, the sky starts to lighten. My mind races as I consider what to do next—I have to clean myself up before anyone, especially campus security, sees me. The thought of explaining this mess makes my stomach churn. If the truth gets out, it’ll reach the coach, and then the dean will get involved. That’s the last thing I need.

I hurry into the communal restrooms, my heart pounding in my chest. I splash cold water on my face, trying to wash away the blood and the shame. My gray sweatshirt, now stained and ruined, is a lost cause. I peel it off and toss it into the trash without a second thought. My nose throbs painfully, and I dab it carefully with a wad of tissue.

This isn’t the first time Marley has pulled something like this, and deep down, I’ve always known it wouldn’t be the last. As I finish cleaning up, I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My face is a patchwork of already-blooming bruises, and my eyes are shadowed with fatigue and worry. I wince at the sight. My left eye is already bruising, and a deep-purple bruise is already spreading across my cheekbone. “Damn it,” I mutter under my breath, trying to think of a plausible story. I could say I tripped and fell—that might work. Or maybe I got jumped on my way home last night. No, no, Cope would never buy that. He’s like a hound on a scent when it comes to me. He’d probably demand security footage from every shop and bar I passed.

Maybe I could say I was out for a walk. It was dark, and I didn’t notice the curb. That might sound believable. Or I could text Cope, telling him I’ve got a pile of work to catch up on. With all the energy I’ve been pouring into my art project, that excuse is a good one. I could hide away in the library all day. But then there’s tonight to worry about. Damn it. And I have Brayden’s interview today. I can’t cancel on him; it’s too important. Iexhale deeply, bracing myself. With one last look at my battered face in the mirror, I head out the door, ready to face the music.

Chapter twenty-four

Daxton

“Trayton King, you’re fucking dead,” Cope shouts, his voice echoing off the metal lockers. As soon as I stepped into the room, there he was, sitting on the edge of his bed with his phone clutched tightly in his hands. The moment our eyes locked, his expression twisted into one of pure rage, like a storm brewing behind his eyes. He leaped up, demanding answers with a relentless barrage of questions. I stuck to my story about tripping on a curb, but he pressed harder, wanting to know the street and why there wasn’t a streetlight. His interrogation was relentless, and he knew my shaky answers would eventually trip me up.

And they did. I fumbled, saying I fell while walking away from campus when I’d earlier claimed it happened on my way back. My head pounded like a drum, each beat syncing with the chaos unraveling around me. All I craved was the comfort of my bed, but Cope had other plans. He had a theory cemented in his mind from the start—even during his intense questioning—that Trayton was responsible for it. I joked that if hockey didn’t work out, Cope would make a damn good detective, but now his relentless hunt seemed less amusing.

He refused to listen when I insisted Trayton wasn’t involved. He dismissed my pleas not to confront him, ignoring every word I uttered. And now here we are, in the locker room, where Kal is struggling to restrain Cope, and Brayden has his hands full, holding back a bewildered and justifiably pissed-off Trayton.

“I haven’t fucking touched Daxton. What are you talking about?” Trayton shouts, confused and angry. Becketts, another team player, has his arms wrapped around Cope to help Kal as they both struggle to keep him from lunging forward. Trayton’s denial isn’t entirely true, but we will ignore that.

I step into the room, and the chatter instantly dies as all eyes widen and a collective gasp fills the air. “It wasn’t Trayton, I told you,” I yell, pushing my way in front of Cope, who is practically vibrating with anger—his face red and his fists clenched in fury. “I swear on everything, it wasn’t him, Cope,” I plead, trying to stay steady despite the chaos. Cope’s eyes never leave me, and gradually, his rigid stance slumps into one of utter defeat. I take a quick, regretful glance at Trayton, and with a soft, almost inaudible sorry, I notice that his eyes have ignited with an intensity far worse than before.

“Who the fuck did that to you?” he demands, frowning as confusion mixes with irritation.

I answer in a low, pained voice, “I fell.”

“Bullshit!” both Trayton and Cope roar out in unison. I let out a heavy sigh while massaging my eyebrow, the movement sending a sharp, shooting pain through my nose.

Before any more words can be exchanged, the door crashes open, and Coach storms out of his office. His booming voice cuts through the tension, “What the fuck is going on in here?” His fierce gaze lands on me as he barks, “King, Rivers, office now.”

Almost immediately, Trayton shouts defensively, “It wasn’t me! For fuck’s sake!” As we trudge toward the office, Trayton abruptly seizes my arm. His grip is desperate and rough as he hisses, “I don’t care what you tell Coach, but you’re going to tell me who did this to you. If it’s Grady, he’s dead.” His simmering anger is palpable as he flings open the office door.

Inside, I launch into an explanation, “Look, it wasn’t Trayton. It wasn’t anyone—I was out on my morning walk and didn’t see the curb. I fell.”

“Bullshit,” Coach snaps immediately.

Trayton quickly adds his own frustrated input. “That’s what I said.” Coach fixes Trayton with a piercing, disapproving look that forces Trayton to raise his hands in reluctant surrender. “Coach, it was not me, I swear. I’d at least do it where you couldn’t see it,” Trayton stammers.

I want to come back with a sharp remark about my throat, but I bite my tongue.

“King,” Coach growls.

Feeling increasingly frustrated, I vent, “What is it with everyone today? Can’t people just believe me? I fell—that’s all there is to it!” My frustration simmers beneath the surface, though I hold it in because the truth isn’t something anyone needs to know.

After scrutinizing me for a long, tense moment, Coach finally concedes, “Fine. But any more marks on you, Rivers, and I’ll be getting the dean involved.” I merely nod in agreement.

As Trayton and I leave the office, he pulls me aside into the shadows, away from prying eyes.

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