Page 49 of Unbound

I don’t say anything. This time, I force myself to be strong enough to leave him alone. He doesn’t need this, need me. He deserves so much better than I could ever hope to give him.

I go home to my quiet room. My blue backpack and rabbit sit on the bed, but everything else is still packed up. Avoiding planting roots is my specialty.

And, like always when I can’t sleep or get overwhelmed with the anxiety of a recurring nightmare, I think of Bennett and something softer. Of hands gentle in my tangled hair, a darker shade of blond. Of tentative fingers reaching for each other. Of steadying blue eyes.

The calm I feel in his hands is almost tangible as I pretend he’s beside me now.

Chapter 23

NOW

Bennett

“Again,” I hear the sneering yell of Coach LaBlanc.

Toren curses beneath his breath where he’s sprawled after getting taken down by a sophomore on his way to the net. I stopped the goal, but it was a messy play on both parts—and still, it’s Kane and Dougherty taking the blame.

“This time, Koteskiy—your line.”

Rhys steps forward—Freddy on his left and Hathaway, our first line right winger, on his other side. I’ve watched Rhys from between the posts for most of my life, and he’s still just as golden. I sometimes wonder if he knows that he skates like a more sophisticated version of his dad. He’s fast and intense, but Rhys Koteskiy is always steady.

Toren and Holden, to me, work seamlessly together. But against their own line, it’s a fierce competition. I keep my eyes on the puck currently on Freddy’s stick, flicking my gaze to where the other forwards are—trying to make assumptions on what play they’ll attempt, to guess at it faster than they can complete it.

I see the flicker of movement from Hathaway and angle toward him as Freddy passes—nearly intercepted by Holden—and then there’s a mess of commotion as Rhys and Toren collide.

Everyone stops.

“Watch it,” Toren snaps. Usually he’s quicker with his snark, but today he just seems agitated. Holden stops short beside them, his free hand hovering to interfere if need be. I skate over, too, eyes watchful. Tension brackets the group, filling the air until it’s suffocating.

Rhys frowns but doesn’t take the bait, only knocking his shoulder against Toren as they pass.

After their near fight last semester, Coach doesn’t like for them to play opposite each other. It doesn’t surprise me when Harris blows the whistle and switches out the entire line before giving me a signal that I can switch with Mercer, the backup goalie.

I bump his glove with mine as we switch off.

Behind the boards, I see Paloma, and my breath catches.

I haven’t seen her since the party at the Hockey Dorms, when she saw me with another girl from my class. I was too scared to guess at her expression, to give myself hope in the face of her possible jealousy. Was it terrible if I hoped she was? Knowing full well she had no reason to be?

It didn’t matter. I hadn’t been able to resist the pull of her—I never have.

We haven’t spoken since then. I’d gone home alone soon after she left, indulging in my ritual of scrolling through her photos and stories.

As usual, nothing helped.

Neither did her warning about joining practices, because seeing her now feels just as much like a punch to the gut as it always has. She’s so perfect, so beautiful, bright blond hair gleaming and pulled back off the smooth unblemished skin of her face. The thick Cupid’s bow of her top lip slides between her teeth before she chews on the bottom one as well, distracting as she always is—though now she’s not just in my sight, alone in the locker rooms after everyone has left.

Now, she’s here, in front of the team. In front of so many of my teammates who have openly talked about her, flirted with her, shared stories that make me sick with envy and fury. Even now, I repress the urge to swipe my skate across the faces of guys I otherwise like as they stare at her along the boards.

Beside her stands a redheaded girl I recognize from the grocery store, though I wasn’t paying attention enough to catch her name. And while Paloma looks dressed for her coaching session on the ice—leggings and a navy quarter zip with the Waterfell logo—the girl next to her does not, in a skirt and nylons with a plaid blazer overtop and heeled boots. She looks entirely in the wrong place.

“Holy shit,” one of the freshmen mutters, eyes locked on the girls as the make their way down toward the benches. Toren’s gaze shoots over his shoulder immediately. “Who the fuck is tha—”

“Who’s who?” Toren asks, grabbing the guy by the collar with a shake. “Either way, close your eyes.”

“S-sorry,” the guy mutters, jerking out of Toren’s hold. The freshmen may not respect Kane, since they know how the rest of the entire team feel about him, but they are afraid of him.

Kane locks his gaze with mine and nods.