12. CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER TWELVE
12
Islam my locker closed, frustration simmering just beneath the surface, and I’m seconds away from losing my shit.
Again.
I took it out on everyone on the opposing team tonight.
Hey, I’m nicknamed Killer for a reason.
It's been a week—a week of cold silence, unanswered texts, and the digital brick wall that is now Rory's blocked profile. The team knows it; hell, even the trainers throw me looks that tread the line between pity, and I told you so, and you should’ve known better.
I swipe at my phone again, and it’s fucking useless. I don’t know why I think she’ll text or call. She’s obviously pissed about the Vegas headlines, and I don’t blame her. But she didn’t give me a chance to explain.
Was I drunk? Yes.
Did I have too much fun? I don’t remember.
Did I sleep with anyone? Absolutely not.
That night in Vegas—it's a blur, a tape with too many rewinds and pauses, distorting the playback. When the cold light of morning had filtered through the hotel curtains, my head throbbed in time with my pulse. The first thing I reached for was my phone.
"Good morning," I had typed, a message doomed to hang forever in the digital void. But by then, the headlines had blared louder than my hangover, and Rory had already shut me out.
I swipe at nothing now; it's a pathetic attempt to connect. I know I screwed up. The images from the club tell a story that's hard to dispute—a symphony of sins I can't remember composing. Some chicks I should’ve told to fuck off because I was taken, but that would’ve strung a whole other sort of headline that Rory wasn’t ready for yet.
I had an image, sure, but it didn’t mean I had to act on it.
Yet, despite the damning footage, one truth remains clear: I did not sleep with anyone that night. The morning after was heavy with regret and too much tequila, but not the weight of that particular guilt.
However, she didn't give me the chance to tell her that I didn’t do anything or kiss her ass. It doesn't help that the team's stance is unanimous—unforgivingly pragmatic because of who she is and all the reasons why I shouldn’t be fucking with her in the first place.
They don’t care.
They think I’ll get over it, and that will be it. The girl who doesn’t want anything to do with me, which is something I’m not used to.
“Let her cool down,” Elliott mutters at my side as I thrust my arms through my fresh t-shirt. “You owe her that.”
“For how long?” I leer through my clenched jaw. “I didn’t—she knows I didn’t fuck anyone.”
“Does she?” I don’t have to look at him to see the skepticism on his face.
Since when do I not fuck a girl who’s willing to give it up?
Never.
I fuck everything.
I turn to him sharply, my glare intended to skewer. But I meet only his calm disbelief—mirroring the world's skepticism. I don't need a mirror to know what he's seeing, what they're all seeing right now: a playboy, reckless and unaccountable.
Preston Carillo, one of our defensemen, saunters over with a grin that tells me he has a joke or a jab coming. "Hey, Wells, you hear about the new guy on Rory's Instagram?"
The fuck?
I reach for his phone immediately, but he yanks the damn thing away like it’s his most prized possession, and I’m seconds away from breaking his damn arm.
"Don't start, Preston,” I hear Reid drone, sounding bored and uninterested. “Or I won’t stop him when he busts your lip.”
The motherfucker ignores him and smiles at me. I tell you what, it won’t be his lip I go for first.
It’s going to be his balls.
Preston steals another glance at his phone. "Big dude, tattoos, one of those smiles that makes even me a bit jealous."
Rage and jealousy claw their way up my gut, threatening to spill over in a torrent of words or even something more primal.
And I’m about to beat Preston’s ass if he doesn’t let me see.
“Do you wanna die tonight, Carillo?” I leer through clenched teeth. “Because I’ll do it right the fuck here.”
“You're on a social detox, my friend. And you have to respect her privacy.”
This son of a bitch.
“How about I respect your right to have your head implanted in a locker?” I grind out, clenching my readied fists into tight balls.
He tsks at me as if I can’t do it and haven’t done it before. I could do a cheap shot when he isn’t looking, but I aim to do it while he is. “And here I was about to let you see it out of bro-code.”
Elliott's hand comes down on my shoulder, a silent counsel to restrain myself. "He's riling you up, Judson. And you're letting him."
Preston's laughter confirms Elliott's warning, but it does little to quell the storm brewing within me. I shake Elliott's hand off and step back, breathing heavily because I’m about to lose it.
It doesn’t change a thing. I got this.
But it does, and I don’t.
It changes my image of her, possibly finding happiness in someone else's arms, someone who's not me. It changes the tightrope I've been walking on since Vegas—it frays, shakes, and threatens to snap it from under my feet.
I snatch my jacket from my locker, slinging it on with more force than necessary. "I'll see it for my fucking self."
“How?” Elliots asks. “She blocked you, dude.”
“I mean, she’s going to be at some sort of party tomorrow night,” Preston alludes placidly. “If you wanna see—” This time, I snatch his phone out of his grasp at lightning speed and hold it for dear life.
And there she is.
A photo of Rory, her smile lighting up my world like the flash of a goal light, but she's not alone. There's some guy with a smirk I've come to loathe, even without knowing him. His arm is slung around her with a familiarity that sends a jolt of possessiveness through me. The smirk plastered on his face, I know it well.
Cocky, self-assured—that pretty smile a challenge etched in his GQ model features.
I’d kill his ass on the ice and off. Jealousy rears its ugly head, and the emotion is foreign to me.
I used to be that guy—no, I am that guy, but this is new territory. It’s not the healthy competitiveness in the rink; it’s messier. I’ve never bothered with jealousy before. I was too busy being the object of envy, not the one doing it.
And I’m not a fan of this new feeling.
I didn’t mind before that Rory wasn’t the biggest Wolverine fan, but now I want her to be. I want my number on the back of her jersey, like a brand that belongs to me and only me.
But Rory isn’t just anyone. She’s the game-changer. The rule-breaker. She’s the one who matters.
Clenching my jaw, I forcibly relax my fingers, unwilling to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing me truly rattled. I hand the phone back with a scowl to Preston, feeling the weight of his gaze on me as I try to deflect.
"Doesn't mean anything.”
"Your funeral."
I jerk my head up to Preston. “Is it, though? Because I’m about to board a red-eye. You down?”
“No,” Elliot shoots out. “We gotta be in Washington tomorrow morning. Coach has us doing weights.”
I ignore him and keep my challenging gaze on Preston. “Well?”
“Well, I am the one who helped, aren’t I?”
No.
He fucking provoked me.
“Yeah, I’m down,” he finally says when I don’t confirm that he was anything or is anything but a pain in the ass.
“Y’all better be back before showtime,” Reid warns us, and I can feel his penetrating glare our way. “You’re not gonna be late.”
Shit, we’re going to be late as fuck.
Which means Coach might bench me. And I don’t have time to watch from the bench.
“Find out more information about that party,” I order. “We’re making a surprise appearance.”
“That’s going to cause media attention,” he warns. “And I thought you were keepin’ it low-key.”
Fuck low-key.
However, I know it’ll only piss Rory off more. I don’t need any more targets on my back.
“You know what a hat is, don’t you, Preston?”
He smirks at me and nods. “Alright, asshole. It looks like we’re party crashin’.”
My hand is already tapping out messages, looking up flights, coordinating how we might slip into that party unnoticed by anyone who might turn it into front-page news. We’ll go incognito, as much as two high-profile hockey players can. Hats pulled low, nondescript jackets, blending in like two more partygoers just there for the music and the drinks.
I’ll navigate around the media and dodge the public eye like I’m about to skip out on a check. What matters is getting to that party, standing in a space where I can see her, not through a screen or Preston’s teasing narrative, but in person, where I can read the truth in her eyes.
If she sees me, when she sees me—I’ll deal with that reaction when it comes.
One play at a time.