I grit my teeth. “No.” I try patience, but it’s not my strong suit. “No. Something did happen—”
“Nothing happened to you. Nothing happened to me.” He narrows his eyes. “And nothing happened to Jack.”
So it was him.
I don’t know why I’m surprised—he’s literally the first person I thought of when I saw the cast. But he’s Greyson. He’s the kind of asshole who hits you with his car and puts an innocent passenger in the driver’s seat. He doesn’t beat up ex-boyfriends for fun.
He doesn’t care that much.
“Ms. Reece!” Coach Roake skates toward us. “What the hell are you doing on my ice?”
I face him and wobble. “Um—”
“And I know you’re not my newest hockey player,” Roake snaps, “because tryouts were three months ago.”
My cheeks heat. “Sorry, sir. I’ll just…”
I take a step and, wouldn’t it be my luck, my heel slips out from under me.
Greyson catches me from behind before I eat it. “Got her, Coach.”
I can hear his cheeky smile, even though I can’t see his face. He keeps his hands where they are and lifts me back up, my feet barely losing contact with the ice. He speeds us toward the entrance I came through. He doesn’t set me down until we’re both on the mats.
“We’re not done,” he warns.
We are, though. I can’t just forget about the conversation I had with his dad’s secretary. I can’t forget about ballet and the help I can get. The resources for my leg.
I got my confirmation that he did something to Jack. Why he was at my apartment is a question I’ll just have to live with—especially if I want my future back. It hurts to step away from him again, hurts worse that I won’t get my answers. I take a deep breath and exhale my frustration.
“Goodbye, Greyson.”
He winces.
I’ve got to leave it there. It was a mistake to come here in the first place. I’ve got to focus on my own future, and he has to focus on his.
37
VIOLET
The more I ignore Greyson, the more angry he becomes. Maybe not angry, but more like a toddler throwing a tantrum.
A toddler holding a grenade, but still.
February slips into March. The hockey team win their final game of the season, and they qualify for the national tournament. There are two away games—they win both—and next week is a home game. The whole school is buzzing.
It’s also the weekend that kicks off spring break.
To keep myself sane, I’ve been sneaking into the dance studio at night. Better than the gym, I reason. I got my MRI late one afternoon a few weeks ago, and Dr. Michaels cleared me for aquatic therapy soon after. There was only a little guilt winding through my bones when I mailed the bill to Senator Devereux’s office.
Did I call the clinic every day for a week to check on the balance?
Yes.
And who was more surprised than me to find that they did pay for it?
The aquatic therapy feels ridiculous at first, and I pull at my one-piece swimsuit self-consciously. The woman who guides me through stretches and exercises is patient and calm. She has one of those voices that brings down my adrenaline and relaxes my muscles.
It’s been helping. So much so that I’ve started taking dance lessons again, too. Slowly getting back into shape, teaching my body how to move again. The instructor yells at me often, but I feel the improvement in my sore muscles.
Willow’s not quite in agreement with me on the dancing front. She thinks I’m pushing myself too fast. On the Greyson front, however, she’s fully on my side. In solidarity, she’s quit seeing Knox. She said she didn’t need to be over at their house every night, rubbing it in Greyson’s face. I think she’d just rather not see the parade of women he probably has coming and going.
Paris has restarted her attempts to woo him. She sits next to him in the dining hall, casting furtive glances my way. As if she’s going to catch me caring. Maybe she thinks she’ll spot me weeping into my soup bowl.
Unlikely.
Besides the pull toward the dark cloud that is Greyson Devereux, I’m finally feeling… happy. And somewhat back to normal. Even the news about the press release has died down. Jack disappeared into the background noise, nursing his broken leg.
I do my best to put him and that night out of my mind, although my trust in men has officially broken. Either way, I’m moving on.
But, as always, good things have to come to an end.
Greyson finally reaches his limit.
I don’t know what it is that sets him off, but it happens after our last class of the week together. For a month, I’ve sat as far from him as possible. I’ve studiously concentrated on my textbook, my notebook, the professor. Anything but the burning glares he sent my way.
Part of me has been eager for him to break. He’s not used to things not going his way. I wait with bated breath for the grenade to go off. But for so long, all he does is glower from afar.
Unfortunately for both of us, his father is more used to getting his way—and that’s exactly what’s happening. Greyson just doesn’t know it.
For the record, I’m minding my own business. As always. My new friend, Stacy, and I have been debating topics for our final projects in environmental economics—one of the classes I share with Greyson. Willow, Jess, and Amanda have a dance class. At least Paris isn’t around because of it, too.
Part of my mission over the last month has been to make friends outside of the dance team, for no other reason than they’re getting increasingly busy—and I don’t want to eat alone every evening. The dance team is gearing up for a big competition that takes place over spring break.
Stacy’s eyes widen, and then the chair beside me is yanked out. I know it’s him. He has a certain feel to him, like he’s projecting raw energy. He sits so he faces me, his knees pressing into my thigh.
I still ignore him.
“Violet.”
Nope. This isn’t happening.
He grabs my chin and forces my head around. I let out a little gasp at the connection and the way his eyes burn up close. His gaze drops to my lips, then lower. My throat, my heaving chest. Then back up. He smirks when our eyes collide again.
He doesn’t seem too worse for wear. There’s new stubble on his cheeks. He doesn’t bark at my new friend to leave. He doesn’t really do anything except stare into my eyes. Does he think that I owe him something?
I don’t. I’m grateful, but that’s as far as it goes.
His nails dig into my cheek. His thumb swipes across my lip.
So much anger.
His life is going just fine. He’s back at the top of his game. Amanda gave me the highlights from the last few games. Greyson has been on fire, leaving everything on the ice. He’s been interviewed for the local paper a few times. There’s been a feature in the New York Times, along with a smiling photo of him and his father, who attended one of them.
“You’re not leaving me any choice,” he mutters.
My eyebrows hike up, and I open my mouth to retort. He holds my chin fast, his thumb pressing harder on my lips.
“Don’t give me your excuses. You’re going to get up and come with me. You’re going to sit next to me, and you’re going to fix your expression so you don’t look so shell-shocked.”