Page 89 of Pretty When He Bleeds

“I promise,” he says, voice rough.

Something inside me snaps at that. Because fuck promises, actually. I’ve heard them before. I heard them from Caleb, and look where that got me.

Where it got him.

I don’t trust my voice, so I just nod.

Damon exhales, his grip on my face loosening before his hands slide down to my shoulders. “Go to practice, baby.”

“I don’t—”

“I’ll be fine,” he interrupts. “I swear. I’ve got therapy later, and after that, I’ll probably just crash.” He leans in, pressing a quick kiss to my lips. “You need to stop hovering over me like a mother hen.”

I huff out a weak laugh. “Fuck off.”

He smirks, brushing his fingers through my hair. “Go.”

I hesitate, but eventually, I sigh and head toward the door. “If you need anything—”

“I’ll call,” he says, rolling his eyes. I don’t believe him for a fucking second. Because all I can hear is Caleb’s voice in my head, telling me the same fucking thing.

Coach is pissed.

I knew he would be, knew the second I left practice yesterday that I was gonna get my ass chewed out, but I don’t care. I can’t care. Because the only thing running through my head right now is Damon.

“You think this is a fucking joke, Bishop?” Coach’s voice cuts through the noise of the rink, loud and sharp as a slap. “You think just because you’re one of my best players, you get to pull this shit?”

I stand there, my helmet under my arm, sweat rolling down my spine. My body is tense, muscles wound so fucking tight I might snap in half.

“No, sir,” I say, voice flat.

Coach scoffs, running a hand down his face. “Jesus fucking Christ. You’ve got talent, but talent means jack shit if your head isn’t in the game. You leave practice again without permission, and I swear to God, I don’t care how good you and King are on the ice—I’ll bench your ass.”

I nod stiffly. “Understood.”

He stares at me for a long moment, like he’s trying to gauge whether I give a shit. I don’t. “Get your gear on and focus today,” he mutters, shaking his head as he walks off.

I don’t say anything. Just head for the locker room and do as I’m told. By the time we hit the ice, I’m running on autopilot.

I move through the drills mechanically, skating harder, pushing myself past the pain in my legs, my arms, my fucking chest. I shoot, I pass, I dodge—every movement precise, calculated, and perfect.

But all I hear is static, like my brain’s tuned into a frequency I can’t turn off.

I should be paying attention. I should be listening to Coach, to my teammates, to Killian calling plays. But all I can see is Damon—his hands shaking, his eyes dark, his paint-stained fingers gripping mine like I was the only thing keeping him from slipping off the edge.

I grind my teeth and push harder. The harder I push, the less I have to think.

Killian’s watching me, I can feel it. He knows something’s up, but he doesn’t say shit. Not yet. We run through more drills, and I don’t miss a single pass, don’t fuck up a single shot. But I don’t celebrate either. I just keep moving.

When practice ends, I skate off the ice without looking at anyone. I rip my helmet off, my jersey clinging to my pads and my chest rising and falling too fast.

Killian doesn’t say a word until I’ve showered and changed. Then, as I sling my bag over my shoulder, he claps a hand on my back. “Burgers. You, me. Now.”

I blink at him. “What?”

He raises an eyebrow. “You’re wound up, and I’m fucking starving. So unless you have a hot date with your boyfriend, let’s go get some food.”

I snort, shaking my head as I run a towel over my damp hair. “Damon’s got therapy.”

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