Page 332 of Vicious Saint
I’m proven right the second my eyes drift to the office again.
In slow motion I watch as my father launches his phone, then swipes his hands across Coach Balkan’s desk, sending the contents of it crashing against the wall.
I blink, seeing but not hearing how loud he’s screaming.
The locker room falls still as everyone draws their attention to the back of the room, where the calmest head of the Royal Families turns full-range unhinged. Walls get punched, chairs get broken, even a bookcase gets tipped over.
I should go in there, ask what the fuck happened, but my feet root to the floor, the answer to my question already coming through in horrifying images of my worst nightmare.
My father must sense the realization, because actual tears are glistening in his eyes when they land on mine.
Full of apology, regret, and indescribable loss.
Except…I know it can’t be his.
Because June and Theory? They’re here with us. Even the aunt.
Leaving only one other person important enough to break his heart this way.
On the outside, I’m frozen.
But on the inside? A blazing hot fury disintegrating by the second.
Nothing—exactly what I’ll become if my fear is justified.
It isn’t until my father grips the back of my neck that I realize he’s in front of me. “Saint…” he calls out, the apology in his voice cracking me wide open.
No.
No.
It can’t be.
Thiscan’tfucking be.
“Look at me,” he orders as I shake my head, using motion to try and stop the hot tears blurring my vision.
“Don’t you. Fucking. Dare,” I tell him, half threat, half plea. “Don’t you fuckingdaretell me Hendrix is dead.”
43
Hendrix
My ears ring as I push open my eyes, blinking heavily through darkness and twinkling dots until they fade into a mess of blurry shapes. There’s movement around me, and when I blink a few times more the blurriness clears up enough to see that it’s people.
A lot of them.
Some running, some over me, some close enough to touch.
I attempt to lift myself up, but my head is heavy with a deep throb, not specific to the ringing. This pain, it’s isolated, as if I’ve been hit by something hard.
“Oh, no, sweetheart,” a man says, the gradual clarity of his voice startling me. “It’s best if you don’t try and move.”
Ignoring him, I try pushing off the ground once more, only to collapse onto it.
Vertigo takes over, turning the world blurry again as I try to think. Breathe. Figure out what’s happening.
But my thoughts, they’re too jumbled, and my body is weakening by the second. If I had to guess, it has something to do with the warm liquid oozing steadily down the side of my head.
