Page 5 of Pretty When He Bleeds

“Thanks, Mom,” I grab a granola bar from the cupboard and lean against the fridge. “Why are we doing this again?”

“Because Coach will rip us a new one if we’re not ready on time.” He says and finally looks up at me. He scans my face and I can see the way he clenches his jaw. “Nice souvenir there, Death Wish. Planning on collecting more?”

I scoff. “I told you I had it handled.”

“Yeah, you looked like you had itrealhandled when I dragged you out of that bar,” he says and hands me the other protein shake from the fridge.

“Shut the fuck up and let’s go,” I say and he rolls his eyes before grabbing his keys from the counter.

None of the other guys are up this early, not even Thorn Knight, and he’s part of our team. We live in this massive house with eight other guys, all different athletes ranging from football to basketball to soccer. It’s easier to split the rent between ten guys, even if Kill’s family owns the place.

People at campus call our place The Sin Bin, for obvious fucking reasons.

By the time we get to the rink, the team is there already, including Thorn, who I guess was up before me anyway. We head to the locker room, where we start gearing up for practice. The process of putting on my gear is automatic; it’s muscle memory at this point.

“Bishop,” Coach barks as soon as I step onto the ice. “You’re late.”

“Barely,” I say as I skate past him. He doesn’t look amused, but he doesn’t stop me either and I join the others on the ice. I skate a lazy lap around the rink, my mind not drifting for once and I’m thankful.

“Hey Bishop,” Thorn says as he skates up next to me. “How’s the face?”

“Better than your passes,” I shoot back, earning a laugh from him.

Killian, Thorn, and I grew up together back in Michigan, played on the same high school team, and all three of us got full rides at Blackthorne. We’ve earned a rep and nickname for how well we play on the ice.

The Royal Trinity. Stupid as shit, but hey, it means we’ve sort of made a name for ourselves.

We run drills for an hour; passing, shooting, and running plays until my muscles scream in protest. It’s fucking brutal, but it’s the kind of brutal I can handle. The ice is the only place where my brain shuts up, where I don’t have to think about anything but the puck and the sound of my skates cutting through the ice.

The three of us take turns running plays, our timing perfect. That comes with years of playing together and knowing the other so intrinsically that there’s no room for mistakes. By the time practice ends, I’m drenched in sweat and my ribs feel like they’re on fire, but it’s worth it.

The walk to my first class is hell. My body feels like it’s been put through a meat grinder and rearranged wrong. I’d kill for a fucking nap right now, but I doubt any of the professors would allow me to slack off. Film and Media Studies might not sound like a big deal to most people, but the professors here treat it like we’re training for the Oscars.

I drag myself through the quad, not wanting anyone to touch me because I’m completely fucking overstimulated right now and the wrong move could make me snap. The noise in my head is loud, my body hurts, and I just want to be fucking left alone but it’s not even 9 a.m. yet.

It’s gonna be a long fucking day.

The lecture hall is already half full when I get there and I take a seat toward the back. Not because I’m trying to be invisible, but I don’t want anyone breathing down my goddamn neck. The last thing I want is to be triggered here; I’m already known as Blackthorne U’s wrecking ball.

A couple of students glance at me and whisper to each other. I know what they see, or what they think they see: Roman Bishop. Right Winger. Blackthorne Timberwolves.

I hate that fucking look.

The professor starts the lesson by talking about narrative structures and how every story follows the same basic template, but I’m not present. I have my phone on voice record in case I miss anything since I’m extremely fucking spacey right now.

Hockey’s always been my thing—an outlet for shit I can’t deal with and a way to get hit without the other person feeling guilty about it. But this is for me alone. Shooting scenes, cutting footage, and getting lost in the details of a frame like nothing else exists.

But I can’t focus today.

The professor wraps up some spiel about our first project, but I’m out the door before he finishes. My next class is in fifteen goddamn minutes and it’s all the way across campus. Just an overall great fucking day.

By the time my final class for the day comes around, my brain is mashed potatoes and gravy. I’m buzzing with new projects, scene ideas, and deadlines, and for the first time in ages, I don’t watch where I’m going and walk into someone.

“Oh, shit, sor—” I cut myself off when I look into the eyes of the person I just walked into.

Damon fucking Ward.

If I wasn’t so terrified of the asshole, I would find him hot. God, heishot, but there’s no way in fucking hell I’m going down there. Dark curls hang messily in his eyes, green eyes that send ice down my spine, and a smirk that could make a fucking nun blush. It doesn’t help that I remember the guy being ripped as fuck underneath those black clothes.

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