Page 81 of Anger Bang
Her left eye started to twitch, and her grip on her phone tightened until the tips of her fingers turned white.
Fucking. Hockey.
If it hadn’t been a part of her life since her dad popped a mini-puck in her mouth instead of a teething ring, she’d hate anything that had to do with ice skates, vulcanized rubber, and penalty boxes.
“And it’s not like you can move to Harbor City with me. You have to stay with the Rage,” he continued.“You know your dad would be lost without you. I can’t do that to Coach.”
Astrid almost dropped her phone she was so taken aback by his words.
He couldn’t do that to Coach?
To. Coach.
Disbelief and anger swirled through her, kicking her heart into overdrive so much that she could hear her pulse in her ears like a dull roar. He was jiltingher, but he didn’t want to hurther dad?
If Astrid wasn’t so pissed she couldn’t form words, Tig’s ears would be burning right now from a string of curses in a mix of Czech, Russian, Swedish, and English, along with some French Canadian slang thrown in for good measure. She’d learned about more than hip checks and how to fire off the perfect slapshot, because the rink had been her dad’s version of an after-school program.
As it was, though, Tig had shocked her back into total silence for the second time in the past half hour. It literally was a record.
“Astrid!? Can you hear me?” he yelled into the mic.“I’m going to fucking flip if this fucking call got dropped.”
He continued to holler into her earbuds as she pulled herself together, catching sight of herself in the kid-height mirror as she sat on the closed toilet lid with her shoulders slumped and spine curved forward. She looked like the Halloween version of a haunted bride. Her mascara had run. Her cheeks were red and blotchy. A strand of hair had come free from the bobby pins and stuck straight out. Plus she had a glass-eyed stare that definitely gave off possible zombie vibes. She looked bedraggled and unhinged—so pretty much exactly like she felt on the inside.
Someone pounded on the bathroom door, yanking her attention away from her reflection.
“Honey, are you okay?” her dad asked, his thick Canadian accent coming through the church’s simple hollow-wood door as if he was talking through a megaphone.“I don’t want you to worry you, Button, but no one can find Tig. Do you know where he is?”
She opened her mouth, but still nothing came out. Not even a squeak for help. And Tig—finally at the sound of her dad’s bellow—had smartened up enough to shut his trap.
“Button,” her dad said with a weary sigh.“It’s going to be all right. I’ll find him.”
Tig flinched on her screen.“Make sure Coach knows I hated having to do this.”
Another single tear slid down Tig’s cheek—an effect he ruined by doing a quick chin-lift greeting and wink at someone off camera who hollered across the Sky Lounge,“Jonesy! We’ll miss you!”
He looked back at the camera, not bothering to wipe away the tear this time.“I really am sorry, Astrid.”
Then he hung up, his tearful face replaced on her screen by a picture from her eighth-grade Sadie Hawkins dance, when she’d finally worked up the courage to ask Tig to be her date. They were both in braces and wearing what now were embarrassingly cringy outfits but back then were the absolute must-haves. She had a hockey puck–shaped wrist corsage. He was already working on growing his blond mullet, the flow that would become his signature look. They were looking at each other as if the whole world was theirs and they were going to conquer it together.
That had been the beginning of it all. Sure, she’d gone out on dates now and then with other guys, but it had never meant anything. She’d fallen in love with Tig Jones when she was twelve years old, and no matter what had happened between them, she had never fallen out of love with him.
Well, that ended now.
This moment.
This very fucking breath.
Astrid balled up her mother’s veil in her hand and locked eyes on her reflection. Today was supposed to be a day for solemn vows, and it sure as hell was still going to be. Staring right at her own tear-stained face, Astrid O’Malley swore to herself on all that she held dear that she was officially and forever done with the craptastic trinity of men, love, and stupid fucking hockey.
D.
O.
N.
E.
Done.
