Page 8 of Ricochet

His gaze meets mine, and, for a moment, it’s as if he’s frozen in time. A time in the past, back to that sixteen-year-old boy with that haunted look in his eyes when I caught him alone in a different locker room.

Only a few seconds later, he snaps out of it. He rolls his eyes as he lets out an exasperated sigh.

I find it amusing how I clearly affect him after all these years.

While I should probably be trying to defuse whatever bomb is ticking between us, I’m not about to apologize for something I’m not sorry for. So until he can get the fuck over it, he’ll have to deal with me being an asshole right back to him.

An eye for an eye.

A tooth for a tooth.

“How’s the shoulder, Hayes?” I ask as I remove my pads and hang those up too.

“Why?” He doesn’t turn to look at me again as he starts taking off his own layers and hanging them up in his station. “Plan on injuring it again?”

I let out another short laugh, nothing more than a breath through my nose. “Nah. Need my wingers in top shape.”

“Call meyourwinger again, and we’re going to have a problem, Wakefield.”

“Funny. I thought we already did.” I turn to him as he’s removing his pads, revealing his base layer that’s clinging to well-defined muscles. He’s definitely filled out since high school, but he’s still leaner than me. “Or was I mistaking bedroom eyes for loathing?”

He scowls again.

Nope, definitely loathing.

“Fuck off, Stone.”

He pushes past me, leaving me chuckling quietly.

Peering over my other shoulder, I watch as he disappears into the showers. I guess he doesn’t have as much of an aversion to showering in the locker room as he once did.

Not that I blamed him once I understood the reason.

If Callum knew I killed his stepdad, would he hate me more?

Or less?

Steam from the shower fillsmy small bathroom as I turn off the water and step out of the stall. After drying myself off, I wrap the towel around my waist and walk out into my bedroom.

I might end up late to my first class because I decided to come home to shower after the team’s morning session at the gym. I just had to get the fuck out of there. My skin was crawling every time my gaze locked with Stone’s from across the room.

Every time he looks at me, it’s as if he’s carving me open all over again.

Seeing Stone for the first time in years is throwing my whole damn world into a tailspin.

I may not have all those same marks on my body as I once did. The only bruises I ever sport these days are from the particularly rough games when I let my guard down a little too much. I still have some scars, but they’ve faded enough to where I feel comfortable showering in locker rooms now. I’ve had a few guys ask about them, but it’s easy to answer with “old childhoodinjury” without too many follow-up questions.

But it doesn’t erase the memory of Stone seeing them all when they were fresh.

If I appreciate one thing about him, it’s that he hasn’t brought it up. All he’s mentioned is the shoulder injury, which healed a long time ago.

So does he even remember?

Does he really think I hate him just because of the stupid shoulder thing? If he does, that’s fine. I’ll let him think that all he wants. That only means he won’t be thinking of that day in the locker room, of the sight of my marred flesh. Of my vulnerability and weakness.

I’m not fucking weak anymore.

After I get dressed, I stuff the books I’ll need for today in my bag, getting irrationally angry when they don’t want to fit neatly inside on the first try.

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