Page 118 of Fractured Fates
“She attacked me,” I whisper. “The other day out on the pitch. Blasted me right across the fucking field.”
I wait for him to laugh at me, to at least grin. Instead his eyes are more alert than ever.
“A lucky shot?”
“Maybe, a little. She caught me off guard for sure. I had no time to defend myself. But …”
“But …”
“Her power …”
I lift my shirt, showing him the dark mark sitting in the center of my gut, the size of a fist.
Tristan looks up at me, then back to the injury.
“You haven’t healed it?”
“I’ve tried. It was twice this size a day ago.”
“Did you show it to the nurse?”
I blink. “If I did, then there’d be questions and …”
“I thought you wanted her gone.”
“Out of the fucking locker room, yes, but …” I trail off. Who am I kidding? I have no idea why I made that decision. Why I decided not to tell on her. Why I let her stay.
No idea, except that maybe she intrigues me as much as she does Tristan.
“I think it’s time we had a serious word with her,” Tristan says, the curiosity in his eyes and that laid back attitude dissipating, and the calculating man I know him to be showing himself.
I drop the hem of my shirt.
“Yeah, I think we should.”
We wait until there’s no one else left in the locker room but us and her.
She’s busy packing away her cleaning supplies, but looks up, frowning when she senses the two of us approaching.
“What?” she asks with suspicion.
“You know every other helping-hand we’ve had has been a hell of a lot more cheerful and welcoming than you.”
She shrugs. “I never asked for this job. I’m quite happy to hand over the washing of your kits to you.”
Tristan shakes his head and sits down on one of the benches.
“Where do you come from, Pig Girl?” I ask her.
She flinches, it’s barely perceptible, but she does. I dart my gaze to Tristan and he frowns.
She flicks off her rubber gloves in irritation and glares at Tristan. “If I recall, we already went over this.”
“Yes,” he says with that lazy smile the girls go wild for. “But if I recall, you told me fuck all.”
“It’s none of your business. You’re not my friends.”
“No, we’re not,” Tristan says darkly. He’s always enjoyed playing with his food. I guess I have too. But tonight I want answers.
