Page 21 of All Your Pucking Secrets

Dad laughs, but the sound is all edge and no humor. He gets to his feet and, before I have time to react, he smacks me across the face. My head snaps around and the metallic tang of blood fills my mouth. A searing pain flares in my cheek and I raise my hand to it, gently probing the area.

Fortunately, he hasn’t split the skin.

I stare at him, seething. Fuck, I wish I could punch the smug expression off his face.

“Laziness and excuses won’t win you a Stanley Cup.” He shakes his head and stalks away.

I watch him go, and a flicker of movement in the corner of my eye catches my attention.

My heart sinks.

Standing on the driveway, a backpack slung over one of her shoulders, is Echo Dean. Her eyes are wide, her lips parted, and a dozen emotions flicker across her face. I know in an instant that she saw everything.

“What are you looking at?” I demand.

Her mouth falls open. “N-nothing,” she stammers.

“Better fucking not be.”

I can’t have rumors spreading about Dad hitting me. I can’t stand the idea of my classmates looking at me with pity or disgust. I’d become a laughingstock. Then, somehow, Dad would find a way to blame me, even though he’s the one who acted like a child where someone could see.

I know I shouldn’t let him get away with what he does. I’m a big guy. Strong. I shouldn’t be a victim. But I can’t protect Mom and Soraya all the time, and no one else will ever back me up against him. He’s too adept at talking his way out of situations, paying people off when that fails.

“Are you ready for our session?” Echo asks hesitantly.

I wave at the cones set out on the lawn. “I have to do another twenty.”

I hate myself for giving Dad what he wants, but he’ll no doubt be watching, and he’ll find a way to make me regret it if I defy him.

“O-okay.” She nibbles on her lower lip, visibly nervous. “I’ll wait inside.”

“Thanks.”

I watch her go. She probably wishes she wasn’t here. I do, too. Now I have to turn myself inside out wondering what she thinks she knows—and what she intends to do about it.

I spit out a mouthful of bloody saliva and launch into another sprint. Thanks to the brief break, I’m able to force my body to move.

The rain picks up, and if not for the fact my muscles are screaming and I’m dreading dealing with Echo, I might actually enjoy this now that Dad isn’t supervising. His presence makes everything worse.

When I’m done, I take a few extra minutes to carefully stretch my legs and glutes. I’m going to need to repeat the exercises later today or I’ll be miserable at training tomorrow.

I empty my water bottle down my throat, peel off my T-shirt, which is plastered to my torso, and stomp over to the front door. On the doorstep, I remove my muddy shoes and wipe the souls of my feet on the mat.

Inside, I do my best not to drip on the floor as I make my way toward the living room, where Echo is likely waiting. Mom appears from the direction of the bathroom with a fluffy towel clutched in her hands. She scans my face, her teeth catching her lip as she notices the bruise forming on my cheekbone.

“Here.” She offers me the towel. “Use this to dry off. There’s a change of clothes inside.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

Why won’t you stop him?

The unspoken question hangs in the air between us. She just smiles awkwardly and leaves.

I take the towel, set the jeans and T-shirt aside, and dry myself. Then, with a quick glance toward the living room to make sure I’m out of Echo’s sight, I strip off my shorts, towel off my bottom half, and pull the change of clothes on.

I toss the towel into the bathroom, knowing Mom will take it to the laundry, either out of guilt for not saying anything to Dad about hitting me or out of fear of what he’ll do if she doesn’t maintain a pristine show house.

I stride into the living room, where Echo is waiting on the sofa. She looks up and her gaze searches mine.

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