Page 14 of Heart of Thorns

I begin sketching the team’s co-captain right beside the painting of Thorne. Nothing but my slow breathing fills the locker room. Where I used to have soft music playing in my earbuds while I worked, now I have nothing. There are times where I’m painting or sketching and I get so lost in the act that I can’t hear much except my own thoughts, but now I make sure I know my surroundings.

PTSD will do that to you, I suppose.

That’s why I was so frustrated when Thorne startled me.

What was he even doing here so late at night?

Maybehewas stalkingme.Not the other way around.

My hand shakes. I glance around the locker room for a third time.

Chill, Briar.

My parents forced me into taking PTSD classes after my incident. Not many people know that someone trapped me inside the building that night. Except, of course, the arsonist and the police.

The last thing I wanted was for the university to put out a statement that not only did their female star hockey player jump from a burning building on campus, destroying her chances at ever playing hockey again, but that someone actively trapped her in said building and tried to kill her.

I was all for the attention I got when I was their highest-scoring hockey player, but having attention because someone tried to kill me?

Thanks, but no thanks.

Pencil strokes fill the quietness of the locker room the harder I push, and by the end of my mini panic attack, the lead is practically nonexistent.

I slowly lower myself to the floor with a wince and stare up at Jerkface One and Jerkface Two.

It’s a job well done.

I move to the other side of the wall and sketch Shadow Valley’s mascot—a knight, dressed in silver armor with red accents. It’s the same one I drew in the girl’s locker room, the one I spent my entire freshman and sophomore year in.

My pencil falls to the floor, and I hiss between my teeth.

After hobbling down from the ladder again, I search for my pencil.

“Come on,” I sigh. “Where are you?”

If I have to get down on my hands and knees for this fucking pencil, I’m done for the night.

I’m sore, tired, and irritated with Thorne’s stupidly attractive face staring at me.

I walk throughout the locker room on quiet feet, searching for my pencil. By the time I find it, I’ve already called it quits in my head. I swoop down, snatch it up, and then the realization hits me.

The weight room.

It’s honestly unfair that the football team, and even the men’s hockey team, both have top-of-the-line locker rooms with well-equipped machines for conditioning, training, and physical therapy. The women’s? It’s a joke.

We can’t even get them to stock quality tampons for us.

That must be what Thorne was doing here so late last night. Not the tampon part—the weight room.

As much as I want to punch him in the face, it’s clear he’s a dedicated athlete. It takes one to know one, and before my incident, I was the same. His name is consistently in themedia. The other day, a video went viral on social media of him walking along campus with some of our peers kneeling along the sidewalk and bowing while he walked by.

I roll my eyes.What a cocky son of a bitch.

I mean, fine… hedidseem agitated by the attention through his half-smirk. But it doesn’t matter. I’m bitter nonetheless.

Even more so as I stare into the men’s weight room with machines I know would help strengthen my leg.

My parents think I’m in denial because I refuse to accept that I’ll never play hockey again—they weren’t a fan of the sport to begin with. But I like to think of myself as determined.

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