Page 76 of The Bad Boy Rule

I hate this, and I fucking hate him.

“Listen to your mother,” he sneers, eyes glinting with pure hatred. “Go play your little game. Leave. I don’t want you here.”

He’s baiting me, trying to get me to react, just like always.

And I’m not doing it.

Stepping closer, I lean in. “Don’t fucking touch her. Leave her the fuck alone, do you hear me?”

I don’t bother listening to his slurred response. Instead, I turn to her, “If he touches you, call the cops, Ma. Promise me.”

She hesitates, eyes darting to him, then back, but she nods. “Go. He’ll calm down once I make dinner, get food in his stomach. It was just a little disagreement.”

It’s the same thing she always says.

He’ll change, he’ll get sober, he’s not going to hurt me. He doesn’t mean to. He loves both of us.

The same excuses, the same lies. Over and over. So many times that I think she truly believes it.

She’s a victim of his physical and mental abuse, just as much as, if not more than, I am.

And it breaks my fucking heart.

“I love you, Saint,” she whispers.

“I love you too, Ma. Always.”

We can’t keep living like this. Something has to change, not only for my sake but for hers.

THIRTY-SIX

LENNON

Glancing at the door, I sigh and continue skating another slow circle around the rink, chewing my lip nervously.

Where is he?

We were just texting an hour before ice time, making plans for after, and now thirty minutes have already passed, and he still hasn’t shown.

He’s never this late, and I probably shouldn’t be, but… I’m a little worried.

Which means that I’m not focused, and I’m not even going to attempt to work on toe loops when my head isn’t in it.

I’m realizing just how much my mental state affects my ability, and I do not need a repeat of the last time. I had bruises all over my ass and thighs after trying too hard when I was not in the right headspace.

Suddenly, the doors fling open, and Saint storms through. They shut heavily behind him, and he walks directly to the bench, slamming his hockey bag onto it so hard that I jump.

Something’s wrong.

Something’s happened between our conversation earlier and now because this is an angry, volatile version of Saint.

His shoulders are tense, the muscles in his jaw flexing as he drops down onto the bench and wrenches his bag open, pulling out his skates.

Never looking up at me.

“Saint?” I say softly. “What’s wrong?”

I never thought that I’d know him, certainly not this way, but after the weeks we’ve spent together, I think I do.

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