Page 18 of Puck'N Enemy
Dylan remains quiet. He barely blinks as he wipes a spill on the counter. When he’s done, he scoops ice cream into another cup and hands it to a customer.
Dylan stays cool and silent, ignoring Mitchikov’s intimidation like it doesn’t touch him in any way.
“Aww, c’mon! Don’t go all mute now,” Mitchikov sneers, doing his best to rile Dylan up. “Where’s all that cursing and swearing you guys were doing during the third period?”
A bitter taste builds in the back of my throat. I should say something and put a stop to it.
That’d be the right thing to do but something inside me wants revenge for what Dylan did to me back then. So, I stay quiet and hang back, watching my teammate bully Dylan.
I get exactly three seconds to savor the sweet taste of justice because the next moment, Mitchikov vaults over the low counter and shoves Dylan hard against the wall.
“Hey!” one of the workers shouts from the back. “You can’t be here!”
But it’s too late. Mitchikov takes his chance and hits Dylan straight in the gut.
Dylan staggers but doesn’t hit back or retaliate.
He just braces himself as Mitchikov shoves him again and punches him in the face. The impact is so hard, Dylan’s lip splits open.
For the second time, those luscious lips have bled this week.
Stunned, I watch the blood trickle down his chin. Dylan pants heavily but doesn’t hit back at Mitchikov even once. He doesn’t even bother to shield himself from his relentless attacks.
The Dylan I knew, the one from my past, would’ve fought back like a hurricane. He would’ve cursed Mitchikov out and punched him without hesitation.
Dylan’s temper was a thing of legend back in our high school. No one dared to rile him up because they’d end up with cracked bones and broken teeth.
Dylan also had an assful of pride that he guarded with a blade.
But this Dylan in a pink apron, handing out ice creams...is just not the same.
He just takes it without any retaliation.
And Ihateit.
“Pavel, back off!” I growl, stepping forward.
I rarely call him by his first name, so Mitchikov glances over his shoulder, looking surprised. “What? I’ve barely started with him.”
“I saidback off.” Pushing between them, I shove Mitchikov away.
“Bro, are you serious right now?” he mumbles.
“That’s enough,” I say quietly, casting my gaze on Dylan.
Apart from his bleeding lips, his right cheek is starting to bruise. But he neither looks at me nor speaks.
Wiping the blood with the back of his hand, he turns around and walks through the double doors, leading into the kitchen.
I watch him disappear like none of this mattered to him. LikeIdidn’t matter to him.
It takes me another moment to understand him, though.
Dylan wasn’t protecting himself.
He was protectingme.
He didn’t want anyone to know we have a history. This way, none of my teammates will know who we were or what we used to be.
