Page 2 of Cross the Line
“Why do you antagonize them like that?” I ask while we wait for everyone to gather at the meeting point. “It just makes it worse, you know?”
Ryker chuckles at me like I’m clueless. “If you don’t stick up for yourself, they’ll always fuck with you. It’s Bully 101. Don’t take their shit, and stand up for who you are.”
I know he’s right. But honestly, I don’t care what Presley says because nobody believes him. No one even likes him. And I can’t be bothered with his power games.
There’s only one game I care about, and that’s hockey.
Of course, it doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about killing him once or twice. Especially in the last week. Since he put his hands on my girl. I know it’s wrong, but every night since, I’ve gone to bed asking myself why I didn’t throw him in the pool and leave him to drown under the cover like he would’ve left Finley.
The bus to the hotel is quieter than usual. Even the A-hole squad has their heads down. It’s so strange and uncharacteristic of them that Coach keeps looking around, trying to figure out what’s wrong with his team after we just beat Colorado, the team tipped to come first.
The background music mutes when Coach taps the microphone to grab our attention as we’re pulling up to the hotel.
“Okay, boys,” he hollers, making the speakers screech, “you know the rules. Celebrate how you want, so long as you don’t break the law and you respect the other guests. If you have any problems, you know where to find me and Coach Murray. I do not expect to be called to the front desk because you’ve decided to slap shit around in the hallways.”
Sullivan, another of Presley’s besties, laughs, and Coach Murraytwists in his seat to glare at him. “I’ll break all your fuckin’ sticks and send you home myself. Don’t fuck with me, Sully.”
“What he said.” Coach nods at his second in command. “Be respectful. Be smart. And…”
“Be safe,” we all finish in unison, so he knows we’re listening.
“Fantastic. Dinner is waiting in the restaurant. Do not use fake IDs to order alcohol because I will know and I will send you home.”
“Do you think he realizes we’re going home tomorrow morning?” Ryker groans at Coach’s empty threats.
“Who knows at this point,” I chuckle, following behind him when we start exiting the bus.
Everyone heads to the restaurant. While the coaching team sits together, we spread out in the designated area for the team. As usual, Ryker and I sit at a small table alone, exchanging perspectives on the game.
Nobody ever bothers us or comes to talk to us. Which is why we’re both stunned when the resident party organizer stops by our table tonight.
“BYOB, remember?” He drops a small folded note on the table, much to Ryker’s delight. “And don’t be late or you’ll be locked out.”
“Okay,” Ryker agrees quickly while I observe Hughes’ posture.
He keeps looking over his shoulder at Presley’s table. I can’t tell whether he’s nervous to be seen with us, or if he’s been sent by them. Either way, he won’t catch me at his party even if our rooms are next to each other. The invite buzzes like a gnat; my instincts swat it away.
“Please… pretty please… please…” Ryker pleads with me the instant Hughes is out of earshot.
“No way.” I push the folded note away without looking at it. “I don’t want to go.”
“Well, I can’t go on my own, so… I guess that’s that.” Ryker sulks for the rest of dinner, making me feel like the worst human in the world.
Maybe I am. But I don’t believe for one second that those guys want us at their party for any nice reasons. This is all too weird, and I don’t like it. A knot sits under my sternum, growing tighter by the second.
Ryker leaves the restaurant before I’ve finished my plate. Skulking away without a single word. I hate it when he’s like this. I’ll spend the rest of the evening on eggshells around him.
“Trouble in paradise?” Presley barges past my chair, hitting my phone out of my hand and onto my plate. “Fucking faggot.”
The grate of my chair is the only warning when I push up onto myfeet and grab him by the collar of his shirt. Glacial eyes fix on mine. Unmoving. Unfeeling.
I hate him so damn much that I’m physically sick with it.
“What’s your problem?” My anger spits from my lips with all the frustration that’s wrenching my gut.
His hands grip my shoulders on either side of my neck while his forehead butts into mine. We’re like that for a moment. The roil of his blue eyes hitting my last nerve.
Presley doesn’t make a move. With the curl of his lips, he narrows his eyes. “You know. You fucking know, pervert.”
