Page 19 of Puck'N Enemy
By staying quiet, Dylan made sure there would be no rumors or scandals about us that could jeopardize our places in our respective teams.
My stomach twists. I don’t like the way hechoseto get hurt to protect me.
Dylan didn’t have to do that. He could fight back and give Mitchikov the brawl and drama he was hungering for.
For the first time in weeks, the anger I’ve been holding onto doesn’t feel righteous. Instead, it feels hollow and stupid.
“Are we eating or what?” Bastian drawls, looking bored already.
I wrap my arm around Mitchikov’s shoulders, pulling him closer against me so he doesn’t barge through the employee door to chase Dylan. “Come on, troublemaker,” I say, dragging him alongside me. “You’ve caused enough disruption for the day.”
He frowns. “Larson’s such a boring guy,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. “Or just a coward like the rest of the Bears. He lost all his nerve when he saw us coming in a pack.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, my mind far from my teammates who’ve already forgotten about the brawl and are ordering burgers.
This time, I want to know the truth about what happened to Dylan when he disappeared for three years. It’s no longer about revenge or even closure.
I just need to know what happened to the boy I loved. And why does he still look at me like I’m the only person in the world that can ruin him?
8
Dylan
Pushing open the door to the apartment, I step inside the hallway and take off my worn-out sneakers. My ribs ache as I move, especially the spot where that Knight’s guy punched me.
“Fucking moron,” I mutter, still tasting the tang of blood from my split lip.
Closing the door behind me, I haul my backpack over my shoulder and step further inside the living room. At once, the smell of chamomile tea, old books, and bleach wafts into my nostrils.
No matter how much I want to ignore it, the sharp, clinical odor of chemo always hangs in the air. The quiet reminder that the sickness has become a part of our lives is inescapable.
Coach Becker lies in his recliner, reading a book. An old, faded blanket is wrapped around his tall, thin frame. Under the glow of the table lamp, his skin looks paler than usual.
That’s when I notice the IV stand beside him. He must’ve had a chemo session today. The IV bag is nearly empty, so I’m guessing it’s been a while since he got home.
I decide to sneak off to my room before he can see me but he’s quicker. He glances over his shoulder just as I’m about to pass the couch.
“Jesus, kid,” he says, frowning. “What the hell happened to your face?”
A sigh escapes me as I drop my backpack on a chair. “There was a scuffle. It’s fine, though.”
“Fine?” Coach Becker scoffs. “You look like you got hit by a truck.”
“Yeah, well,” I say, grinning. “The truck lost.”
A weak, huffing laugh escapes him but he soon ends up coughing violently.
“Coach!” I gasp, going over to him in a flash.
“I’m okay,” he says, wheezing. “Stop fussing already.”
I rush to the kitchen and quickly fill up a glass of water. Grabbing the pills he’s supposed to be taking in the evening, I go back to him.
“Here, it’s time for you to take these,” I say, crouching next to his recliner.
He stares at the pills like they’re poison. “I hate swallowing them.”
“I know,” I say gently. “But you hate hospitals more. So just drink some water and pop them in one by one. They’ll help you stay strong.”
