Page 3 of The Cruelest Kind of Hate
“You couldn’t handle my bite.”
Something in him changes. It’s fleeting. And thanks to being up close and personal with him, I can see how blown his pupils are, how the brown from his inner irises have somehow widened in diameter underneath the harsh, recessed lighting, drowning out the previous green.
“Wanna put that theory to the test? I love a girl who bites.”
Something about the way he just said that makes the lower half of me tingle. That shouldn’t be a normal bodily response, especially not withhim. I tamp down whatever the hell is budding between my thighs and try to ignore that warm, oozing, honeyed lilt in his tone.
Ugh! He’s so infuriating. Gage is the rudest, most arrogant, and most conceited person on this fucking planet. I’d ratherhave a Pap smear performed by Wolverine than be within a ten-foot radius of him.
My heart punches against my ribs, indignation streamlining to every part of my quivering body. “Fuck you!” I spit.
“That’s all you got? Come on, I know a spitfire like you really wants togiveit to me. Go ahead. Do your worst.”
“If you don’t move your car, I’ll…”
You’ll what, Cali?! What can you do that isn’t illegal?
Everyone’s staring at me. The whole rink has quieted. No scuffle of blades or clink of pucks on ice. There aren’t even any whispered comments about how utterly embarrassing this whole interaction is for me.
The words die on my tongue, and my confidence goes with them.
Gage pastes on a too-wide smile that has pearly enamel twinkling underneath the fluorescents. “That’s a shame. Looks like you’ll be waiting to get your car back until after my practice is done. It should only be a few hours,” he drawls. “It’s not like you have anywhere else to be, right?”
Shock drives my precursory fury all the way to the state line. “I?—”
But he’s gone. He’s turned around, gotten back on the ice, and resumed practice like he didn’t just singlehandedly ruin my entire day. And everyone stood by to watch while it happened.
So, pushed to the brink of madness, I do what any reasonable person would do in this situation. I force myself to retain some semblance of calm, and I walk out the door with my head held high.
Teague perks up as soon as he sees me, anxiously shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Is he going to move his car?”
I navigate my way around the crimson complication, opening my Honda’s passenger door for my brother. “Nope.”
“Then why are we getting in the car?”
“Because we’re going to get out of here another way.”
Gage doesn’t think I have the balls to do anything, does he? I’m going to prove him wrong. I’m going to prove him so wrong that he’ll regret ever speaking to me like that. In fact, if Ieversee his smug face again, I’ll make sure to rearrange it with my fist.
As I get myself situated—with that wicked plan of mine forming in my head—I stick my key in the ignition, make sure Teague’s seatbelt is tightly secured, and then brace my hand over his chest before propelling backwards into Gage’s expensive car.
2
NOT THE COMEBACK I HAD IN MIND
GAGE
Despite the chill from the rink frosting over me, my adrenaline is like oxygen to the uncontained fire smoldering in my chest. Every muscle in my body is swollen with an ache that only hockey gives me, and my fucking sinuses are on fire from the ice-cold atmosphere.
It’s 5-5. There’s only a minute left in the game. We need to win this. We’re on a winning streak, and if we want to make it to playoffs this season, then we have to uphold it.
Sweat bleeds into my eyes, blurring the figures of my teammates, and hockey-padded silhouettes skirt along my peripheral, closing in on the goal. The screams from the stands meld with the shouts from the ice, and it’s a sensory overload to every charred nerve ending. I have my legs in a half-split that hurts like hell, my grip on my stick is wavering with each passing second, and I’m not sure how many more beats my heart can take before it bursts from my chest.
The Denver Dingos are a few feet from the goal, and a giant number thirty is blared across the pixelated screen, signaling that if I don’t save this next shot, the Reapers are gonna take home a loss.
You can do this, Gage. You’ve done this a million times before. Try and guess his next move—look at where his eyes dart, how his arm twitches. Cover as much of the goal as you can.
As a black-and-red player charges at me, swinging his stick completely backward before slapping the thick of the puck, I take a mental note of the arc of his arm, and the bulk of my body flies toward the upper righthand corner of the net.
