Page 22 of Frozen Hearts
His eyes crinkle, and he lifts a hand to rub at his forehead before looking down at his clean fingers.
“Oh. It must be permanent. Did you tattoo it?”
“What the hell are you talking about, woman?” he growls angrily.
“Thefuck offstamped on your forehead.”
His chest rises and falls in a silent, aggravated huff, and he shakes his head. Still, I swear I catch the corners of his lips twitching, almost as though he were about to smile, before he quashes the action.
He wouldn’t want to ruin his bad-boy image, after all.
“Other women may ignore your very obvious warning and fling themselves at you, but I do not have such self-destructive tendencies.” I fix my bag on my shoulder and glare at his sharp, handsome face. “I suggest you look up the wordaccidentin the English dictionary.” Moving to step around him, I toss over my shoulder, “And while you’re at it, you might want to look up the wordsorry, too,” before storming off, absolutely furious that I only got a sip of my coffee before I foolishly dropped it.
6
ROYCE
The soles of my shoes stick to the beer-stained floor, and if it weren’t for the thudding bass and screaming crowd pressing in around me, I’d be able to hear theripevery time I lift my feet.
Not that I care. I barely even notice the stench of sweat and BO hanging heavy in the air, or the waving of dollar bills as bets are placed. The only thing I’m aware of is the sense of belonging that settles deep into my bones every time I step in here.
It’s a far cry from the screaming stadium of fans calling my name as I ran onto the field. Hard to believe it was less than a year ago when the football field was my home.
I thought football was my entire future. I was standing on top of the world with endless possibilities lying before me.
Before it was cruelly ripped away.
Now, I’ve replaced a grass field and shiny locker room with steel-sheeted walls and a blood-stained boxing ring. I can’t bear to even look at the football stadium. I haven’t set foot in it since everything went to shit. The game that was once the love of my life, I now avoid with a sickening passion. Along with my old teammates. I rarely show my face on campus. I go to my classes and go home, and that’s it.
The only pleasure I allow myself is this.
Although, I dunno if you’d call beating the shit out of someone pleasurable. It’s cathartic—a necessity in order to function. To expel the pent-up energy I no longer have a release for.
It’s not something I do for pleasure.
However, I have found a surprising comfort in this old warehouse on the outskirts of Halston. It speaks to the lost soul I’ve become. Perhaps because it has become the only place where I feel fully in control. Where the outcome is solely based on me—my performance.
“What we bettin’ tonight?” Logan asks, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he takes in the crowd with excited eyes.
“Like you need the money,” I drawl, rolling my eyes. His dad runs a multi-million dollar marketing company, and if he can keep his grades up, he’ll be a shoo-in for an NHL contract this year. He’s practically swimming in money. But that’s not why he’s doing it. He’s an adrenaline junkie, just like I am. Except, his vices are girls, booze, and betting. Whereas mine is solely in making people hurt. In bashing their heads in. In watching the fear bleed into their eyes and leach them of color.
He shrugs, not giving a shit. “If you’re going to drag me out here the night before a game, then I may as well make it interesting.”
“Didn’t hear you complaining when we were leaving the house.”
The asshole is full of it. There’s nowhere he’d rather be. He gets off on the crowd’s energy as much as I do. He, more than anyone, understands what a high it is to have people screaming your name.
He also understands how that isn’t enough. It’s like the opening note in a song. It sets the scene. Gets the blood pumping. But more has to come after.
The piano solo is poetic, and the drum base is invigorating, but combine them, and you get fucking nirvana. The taste of blood in the air is my piano. The screams for violence are my drums. The vibrating of the floor beneath pounding feet is my bass. The feel of skin bruising beneath my fists is my chorus. Theoomphof air as it’s punched from his lungs is my verse. Thethumpof my opponent hitting the mat is my bridge.
All individual elements. All build the hype. But together? Together, they make the most addictive of songs. One I could play on repeat for the rest of my life and never grow tired of hearing it.
“Here,” Grayson grunts, shoving a beer into Logan’s hand. He knows better than to get me one pre-fight. I’ll save the alcohol for after I’ve taken down tonight’s poor bastard.
The three of us turn our attention to the current fighters. Sweat-slicked skin, tinged with blood. One guy is barely on his feet and I know all it will take is one well-placed hit to take him out.
“You up next?” Grayson yells in my ear.
