Chapter 25 SONYA
SONYA
I’m staring at graffiti, specifically a Scream All You Want decal block-lettered on the wall. Below that is a bench. On it is protective gear to be worn over our clothes.
I lift up a padded jumpsuit and start putting it on, pretending that my nervous system isn’t flashing warning signals in my brain. That these fidgety, fumbling fingers of mine are settled, when they aren’t.
“Sonya, how are you feeling?”
I feel Hughes’ eyes on me as he puts his own coveralls on. He hasn’t looked away. Like he urgently has to figure out what makes me feel better.
As if he cares.
All of a sudden, the corners of my eyes sting.
I grind my teeth down, ready to lash out in defense, telling anyone who listens that I’ve got random allergies! Because hell no. I’m nowhere close to crying. I can’t cry. The last time that happened…
Was so long ago. Ages ago. I was a little kid.
“I didn’t expect you to bring me here,” I admit, my voice strained.
“In a bad way or in a good way?” Hughes asks, searching my expression.
A beat passes. Part of me wants to be rude and terrible, hoping it finally pushes him away for good, but I also can’t deny the truth.
Guilt splashes in my stomach. I’m being so horrible to him, but if he wasn’t with me today, I don’t know what I would have done.
His easy warmth makes me feel okay, somehow.
Like someone actually sees me without flinching at my edges. “…Good way.”
His shoulders drop and he grins, relieved.
We’re almost dressed. The problem is that my coveralls have a zipper that goes down my back. I’m twisting and turning, but I can’t seem to find it.
“Let me.” His offer is automatic, but I shake my head no.
“I can do it.”
He’s done more than enough. If I let him do more, I’ll be embarrassed and horrified all over again about…
all of it. Because I’m not the kind of person who has panic attacks.
I don’t need to be held by a guy to breathe again, to sleep over at his place and be taken care of, to be fed a delicious breakfast, or rescued from the hospital.
I don’t do any of that stuff.
It’s needy. Reliant. Risky.
And the sooner I remember all that, the faster I’ll get back to my old self. Which begs the question, what am I doing here? Why did I say yes to this?
I don’t have an answer, except I got fired. My ballet career is…
No, I can’t think about that right now.
With my world spun upside -down, I’m operating on unfamiliar instincts. Desperate to not fall apart again. To feel the kind of rage that makes me stronger, not weaker. To get properly mad so the world feels solid below my feet once more.
Hughes steps behind me. With his padding on, he’s even larger than before. But his touch? It’s gentle.
“Hey, Sonya darling. I know you can do it. You can do anything and everything you want because you’re never not spectacular. But just for today, rely on me. If it makes you feel better, we can pretend later you didn’t.”
I freeze. This aching vulnerability pinches my chest. How does he know that’s what I hate, and what I’m most afraid of?
Help.
His knuckles are a whisper against my spine as he zips me up. Afterwards, he hands me a helmet. I put it on, but don’t have a chance to secure the chin strap or lower the visor. Hockey reflexes beat me to it. His fingers are quick, decisive. Confident.
My breath catches.
Stepping back, Hughes’ mouth curves. My stomach somersaults when I think I catch him murmuring absolutely fucking deadly to himself. It’s a low, fond observation.
But I can’t dwell on that.
He moves quickly, opening the door for me. Then he hands me a baseball bat. “You ready?”
“Yeah.”
Blood beats in my ears as I charge into the room that’s been readied for us.
Instant adrenaline floods my mouth. It tastes amazing.
Exactly what I didn’t know I needed. To not think, but swing, swing, and swing some more until electronics explode.
Keyboard keys go flying. Television screens crack. A microwave is dented.
I destroy everything.
Instead of lecturing me about how anger isn’t healthy or placating me with insufferable clichés like this too shall pass, Hughes brought me to a rage room. A place where people pay to release stress by breaking things.
Tension melts from my body like water swirling down the drain.
More objects crunch under the weight of my blows.
I’m huffing and sweating, and finally back to being invincible.
Like nothing can vanquish me. Except maybe this man who somehow oddly understands me clearly enough to bring me to a place like this.
Not that I’m consciously worried about that. I’m too busy smashing things.
This is relief.
Much later, the front desk attendant walks into the room. It’s been a while since we started. Thinking that our time must be up, my shoulders sag. This was nice while it lasted. A very effective distraction to forget what happened to me earlier.
The man looks around and balks. “I had a birthday party of five yesterday, and they didn’t do this kind of damage…”
Hughes laughs. “Isn’t she incredible?”
“You mean terrifying, right? Anyway, it’s been over an hour—”
Before he can finish that sentence, Hughes leads him outside.
Ten minutes later, he’s back in his same spot. Leaning against the wall, grinning in this way that doesn’t make sense since he hasn’t broken anything himself. Affectionately, maybe. Like he considers himself lucky to be able to watch me unleash.
I pause my destruction. “Are we being kicked out?”
Hughes shakes his head, negative.
I’m confused. “Wait. We have more time?”
“As much as you want.”
A strange glow spreads through my body.
How? The reception area where we signed multiple liability forms had a chalkboard schedule displayed. It seemed crammed full of other bookings. This place is popular.
I think about asking but get distracted looking at him, outfitted in the same protective gear.
The coveralls are drab and dreary. Yet they don’t dull his eyes.
If anything, the blue in his gaze seems brighter, like a cloudless sky in the middle of summer.
And his hair appears almost golden against the black helmet. Sunshine-infused strands.
This isn’t the first time I’ve seen him in dark clothes.
For interviews between games, the Wings are always dressed up.
Hughes has a navy suit he sometimes wears.
It’s expertly tailored, though I’d call it a sack compared to what he’s wearing now.
They must not carry his size. The fabric is padded, yet strains over the contours of his body and leaves no room for doubt. It’s clear he’s a professional athlete.
I am one, too.
But my muscles aren’t what I’m thinking about currently.
I walk to him and lift his hand, pretending not to notice how his pupils instantly darken or the thick swallow of his throat. Maintaining eye contact, I place the handle of the bat against his fingers. “I’ve been hogging all the fun.”
“But I’d rather watch you, darling.”
“Yeah, right.” I’m rolling my eyes. “Destroying shit is way better.”
“Not for me,” Hughes says, looking very pleased with himself. He smirks as he says, “I’m not bullshitting when I say my eyes are sore from not blinking because I didn’t want to miss a second.”
“Of my violence? You’re so dramatic.”
“And you’re sexy when you’re destructive—”
“Stop it,” I warn, my chest fluttering at his words.
“Stop what? I’m innocent! You are to blame here.”
“I’m not breaking anything else if it’s going to turn you on, you pervert.”
“That doesn’t make a difference. I always want you, Sonya.”
“There you go again,” I mumble. “Being dramatic.”
I turn away from him, pretending to survey the scene. So much has happened to me these last few days. I should still be crushed, downtrodden, pissed—
But now I’m bantering with him? There’s a strange hum in my veins.
My heartbeat is flummoxed, and in some dark corner of my mind, I wonder if talking to Hughes like this gives me as much normalcy as breaking things does.
As if over the years I’ve gotten attached to us acting like this whenever we did see each other.
That I need and want more of this back and forth.
And how this whole time, I never really wanted him to leave even when I was telling him to go.
Not that he’d ever guess that, the way I’ve been treating him.
That guilt in my stomach makes itself known again.
“What do you want to attack next?” he wonders, bumping his shoulder with mine.
Half the room is already a disaster. A minute ago, I was impatient to finish the rest, desperate for more catharsis. But now?
“I want to watch you,” I hear myself say, stuck on the idea for some reason.
Hughes is momentarily startled. Then recovers and arches a brow. “Well, well, well. If you insist on making me your source of entertainment, then I guess I have no choice but to put on a show for you!”
His goofy eagerness almost makes me smile. I’m forcing myself to keep a straight face. “Don’t pretend putting on a show is a struggle for you.”
Hughes points his big blue eyes at me, his lips pouting. “But I’m shy.”
I strangle the urge to laugh. “I’m sure you’ll survive it. Somehow.”
And just like that, we swap places.
It’s his turn.
The cabinet stands no chance. Neither does the printer nor the desk.
Hughes whistles while rampaging, his trim waist swiveling as the corded musculature of his broad back and never-ending shoulders ripple underneath the coveralls.
I know hockey is known for men with thick thighs, but his have never looked more like tree trunks than they do now.
Planted on the ground as he easily wreaks havoc only using his upper half.
Nonetheless, my eyes lower. It’s audaciously perky and has no business siren-calling my hands, telepathically shouting out to me how grabbable it is…
His ass.
I suck in a ragged breath. Center myself. I lecture myself internally that watching his commitment toward complete destruction and hearing his wild husky laughter isn’t making heat pool low in my belly.
(It does.)
I can see why he was on the sidelines without complaining. And why he took those pictures on his phone when he thought I wouldn’t notice. This has no right to be this hot. I don’t know why it is. Some buried lizard part of my brain quivers seeing his raw strength on display.
My heart pounds. Arousal spikes inside me. I’m—
Wet.
Just like I was this morning, straddling him, pretending like I wasn’t. Not only that, but my mouth twitches. I want to…laugh even harder than before. Especially when Hughes bashes a detached windshield, giving me his most seductive smile. Or when he skips over and kicks a side table.
Warmth gathers in my chest, before I push it away.
Unadulterated joy isn’t my vibe as Hughes would call it.
I’m not supposed to envy or enjoy this unserious man with his silly escapades.
Like he’s singing corny pop songs out loud now, serenading me with them as bits and bobs fly into the air.
It’s ridiculous, and I have no business wanting to join in.
So why does this tucked-away, previously abandoned part of me want to join him and try it out?
Keep it together, I lecture myself.