Page 141 of Jaded

Not when Jesse’s watching, judging.

I stagger up, unsteady on my feet, and they laugh.

“What, you want more?” The biggest one looms over me, face spread in a grin. Just past him, Jesse watches. Not interfering: waiting to see how I handle it on my own.

So I do.

I hurl the rock clenched in my fingers. My aim is good—I’ve always been a decent shot—and the ice slams that bully square between the eyes.

He stutters back. “What the fuck.”

He lunges, and I stand my ground with my fists raised, though there’s not a hope in the world I’ll ever win. I won’t back down this time, can’t, don’t care if I get ripped to shreds—

An arm locks around my chest, hauling me back. Attempting to.

Someone digs their fingers into my blood-flecked jersey. Murmurs against my ear. “Hey. Nat! You won it. It’s over.”

Shit.

I’m not seven.

I’m not being beaten half to death.

No, it’s me connecting punches, my opponent bleeding through the dark cloth on his face. I’m the bully here.

Vaguely, I wonder if Jess is here tonight. Watching. Shaking his head, laughing at his pathetic little brother losing his shit out on the ice—

The scent of strawberries and coffee permeates the stink of sweat and the cold crack of ice, and that presence,hispresence, is a sudden shock of cold water on my hot anger. My shoulders collapse, muscles softening, my whole body melding into him.

Reality crashes back in.

The crowd’s roaring. People roaring. Teammates and opponents roaring.

Slowly, the tunnel of my vision widens, giving me a clearer view of the muddled scene. The man on the ice leans onto hands and knees. Bleeding. Someone crouches next to him. The other three stare.

My chest heaves with labored breaths as the anger recedes. The crowd shrieks and cheers and boos and my heart’s still beating fast, fast, fast, like the breath tearing from my lungs, like the adrenaline pumping through my veins.

There’s still an arm around me. “Nat.”

My name on his lips. Soft and sobering, a comfort and a punishment in one tangled breath. My chest clenches tight. I inhale his faint, faded scent under the sharp cold of the ice and sweat-fermented pads.

Olli.

Olli’s arm wraps my chest, his head against mine. “You good, Mouse?”

“No.” I exhale long and slow through my nose, pull in a trail of icy air behind it. My lungs are still going too fast, too shallow.

The rage beats a heavy drum in my blood, ricocheting in my bones, throbbing almost painfully beneath my skin, but it’s ebbing. Slowly. My fists still want to swing, but my head’s in control again.

Do my fingers shake?

I turn to Olli, and I nearly choke on my own breath. He’s masked, but not suited up to skate. He’s here for me. “Why—what—”

“Syd called me,” Olli says, voice quiet. “Your knuckles are bleeding. I think it’s time to get off.”

It’s only then I discover the blood on my hand, dripping down. No pain, just blood. Slowly dripping. Pat pat pat, drop drop drop. Leaving tiny red blotches on the ice like a tattoo of my sins etched into the white of my faded dreams.

Olli leads me off the ice. The adrenaline pulses through me, heady and high, tingling my fingers, making my bones sing. The knuckles on my right hand start to throb, and I welcome the pain, because pain is better than anger.

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