Page 69 of Wicked Games

I stand. “That it?”

He stands, too. “The list by the end of next week, or you’re off the team.”

My eyes widen. “What?”

“You heard me. I’m sure the guys will be able to pick up the slack.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. “You got it.”

“I don’t want to see your face until next week.”

That means no scrimmage.

I stare at him, waiting for the punch line, but his face remains stoic. He’s dead serious. He points to the door, and his dismissal is clear.

My whole body gets hot. I storm out without looking back, doing my best to control my fury. Everything is slipping out of my control.

I’m stacking up offenses against my uncle. Missing dinner, talking back, failing to rein in Margo’s mom, and now this. He already keeps track of my hockey. He encouraged me to play a sport, to go full throttle. Threatened it, in fact.

He said I had to be the best, or I may as well not play at all.

The bell rings. That whole thing, and I missed sixth period entirely. If I was a normal student, I’d let my anger show. Maybe kick a locker, punch someone. I’d love to punch Ian in the throat just for existing. But since I’m me, I have eyes on me at all times. And if I were to break… well, that would be worse than anything I just endured.

Students automatically move out of my path, which makes me feel only slightly better. They still respect me, even if I’vebeen missing games. I thought my suspension was coming to an end… and now this.

Let’s not forget Margo dropping the bomb of someone harassing her. A blocked number threatening her.

I head toward Mr. Bryan’s class. Margo will probably avoid me, right? Just because she has a spine doesn’t mean she’s had any practice using it yet. And that interaction with Coach probably seeped all her courage from her skin.

I stop dead.

If I go into that class and she doesn’t so much as fucking look at me, I’m going to lose it.

“Caleb?”

I spin around. Margo is thelastperson I expect to see standing in the middle of the now empty hallway.

“Are you okay?”

Is she fucking for real? “Just dandy.”

She moves around me, and I follow. Again. I can’t help it; she may as well have me leashed and collared.

“You didn’t tell me you were being harassed,” I say.

She glances back. “Because I thought it might be you.”

“What convinced you it wasn’t?”

“Nothing,” she says. “It could still be you.”

I grunt. “It isn’t.”

She stops suddenly and shoves me against a wall. My breath catches in my throat, my hand automatically wrapping around her wrist and keeping her palm pressed to my chest.

Damn, that was sexy.

“Savannah texted you the photo of Ian and me,” she says. “True or false?”

---