Page 2 of The Cruelest Kind of Hate
“It’ll be less stressful for everyone if you stay here. And I mean it, Teague.”
My brother opens his mouth, but no protest comes out.
My eyes flit over the obnoxious license plate as I scoff at the sheer idiocy of the personalized words emblazoned on the aluminum. Of course this person would be the biggest asshole out of Riverside’s three hundred thousand population.
I turn on my heel, march back into that godforsaken rink, andpolitelyask the attendant at the front desk if he could be sokind as to call out the license plate to the red Jaguar parked illegally out front.
With a sigh, his monotonous voice bellows over the loudspeaker, “Will the owner of the red Jaguar please come to the front? I repeat, will the owner of the red Jaguar please come to the front? Uh, license plate: HUGE STICK.”
Impatience cracks through me and sizzles along my ribs. I’m going to show this dipshit that he messed with the wrong woman. He couldn’t wait a few seconds before boxing me in? Seriously? The world doesn’t revolve around him.
A few minutes pass before there’s any movement in the sea of hockey helmets, and then, sauntering over is a man nearly half a foot taller than me. He’s dressed from head to toe in hockey gear, exuding a nonchalant air about him that triggers that fight response boiling inside me.
He has thedecencyto take off his helmet, and what I’m greeted with is a handsome face, much to my misfortune. Shaggy, brown hair parts down the middle, a few strands falling into green eyes. His long, dark lashes tickle his brow bone, his seemingly flawless face complete with a chiseled jawline, angular cheekbones, a set of pouty lips, and a nose too straight to belong to a hockey player. He has a face made to be seen, a face that could cure cancer, a face that could do some serious damage to me if I don’t treat this situation with the utmost caution.
“This better be important. I’m in the middle of practice,” he snaps, pinning his arms over his chest. A muscular-looking chest. Or maybe that’s just his hockey padding.
Who does this guy think he is? He’s acting like he’s a goddamn gift from the gods and I should be blessed for simply existing in his presence.
The attendant immediately livens. “Oh, I didn’t realize it was your car, Gage. You want me to deal with this lady?”
Excuse me?
Gage shakes his head, glaring down at me from his stupid, towering height. “I’ve got it, Ernie.”
From the parking lot to the rink, I’ve had plenty of time to gather an arsenal of insults for the douche in front of me, and I’m ready to send those suckers flying like bullets from a machine gun. “You boxed me in, you fucking prick!” I shout, torrents of anger pouring through my veins as opposed to the usual trickle.
“Whoa, there. You’re the one who parked inmyparking space.”
“I was only going to be a minute!”
“You can read, can’t you? Those spots are reserved for team players. And last I checked, you’re not on the team, sweetheart.” Gage gives me a condescending head tilt that makes me want to pop said head off his spinal cord.
I’m fully aware of the audience we’ve amassed from the volume of our altercation, but I couldn’t care less if someone gets my meltdown on camera. This dick needs to be knocked down a peg.
“I’m just asking you to move your car. I have somewhere to be, and none ofthiswould be happening if you just waited for me to move.”
His tone drips with sickly sweet sarcasm. “Oh, I’d love to stop what I’m doing right now for your benefit and move my car. In fact, I’ll ask Coach to stop practice until we get this whole thing resolved. Do you want monetary compensation for your time too?”
A growl rumbles in my throat. “You think the world revolves around you just because you’re a hotshot hockey player?” I hiss.
“You think the world revolves around you just because you’re a stuck-up brat?”
That’s it. I’m going to kill him and make everyone in the rink a witness to murder.
“Move. Your. Car. Before I shove it up your ass and gun it.”
Gage steps closer to me, magnetizing grin and all—perfect, blindingly toothy, with just the right amount of confidence to churn a storm of butterflies in my stomach.
He’s so close to me that I can feel his breath plume over my face, can smell the intoxicating hint of pine in his cologne, can practically anticipate his touch on my skin if he moved slightly north.
“She has a bark,” he drawls, impressed.
Our eyes clash for a moment—a world of arctic blues and forest greens meeting each other for the first time—but I smother the attraction cresting inside me. Any nonviolent feelings will be immediately terminated upon discovery.
Don’t get too close, Cali. Long-term Gage exposure could result in radioactive poisoning.
My glare has enough venom in it to paralyze a single person, and it’s reserved for Gage only.
