Page 6 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
The thing is, he doesn’t demand attention. He earns it by always showing up, even if it’s in that quiet, brooding way that makes people underestimate him. Not me. I know better.
When the world tilted after Dad died, it was Silas who steadied me. I didn’t see it then, but I see it now. He’s the anchor we never deserved but always had.
“Number nineteen, Grayson Reed!”
Grayson cuts a line across the ice, scowling already. Doesn’t wave, doesn’t smile, doesn’t bother. He mutters at a rookie who’s too slow to move out of his way. The cameras catch it, and the fans laugh, chanting Oscar. He hates it.
“Number seventy-nine, Jett Huxley!”
My oldest brother makes a show of it, because that’s what he does. The Wildcard grins, tosses a wink at a group of women pressed against the glass, skates a half circle like he’s headlining a concert. Brilliant one second, chaos the next.
Then it’s me.
“Number forty-seven, Hunter Huxley!” A pause for dramatic effect. “The Chainsaw!”
The nickname used to feel like armor. Now it feels like a muzzle. Like the only version of me they’ll ever want is the one who makes them scream. I step out anyway. In my first shift, I throw a hit, squaring up with their enforcer before the puck even drops. I’m following the script because it’s the only role I’ve been allowed to play.
Decker and Moose get called after, the vets still hanging around. Moose yells about food or fantasy football every damn day. The rookies bring up the rear, Connor bouncing like he owns the place, Shane looking like he wants to disappear. Golden retrievers, both of them.
The game hasn’t even started, but the roles are carved in stone.
First period, some asshole on the other team takes a cheap shot at Thorne behind the play. I react before I think. Drop the gloves, land my hits, set the tone. The crowd loses its mind.
All that noise used to hype me up. Now it just sounds like applause for a crash I can’t stop.
The coaches grimace because they know what comes next. By the time I hit the penalty box, I’m already thinking about the next fight.
Through the glass, I see rookies staring at me like they expect blood. Like that’s what I’m here for. Maybe it is. With so many fresh faces and the team still figuring out who the hell we are, nobody else seems ready to do the dirty work yet.
I look up into the stands, scanning the crowd out of habit, and that's when I spot them. Jessa Laramie, who works for the team part-time, looking sweet and harmless. And right next to her, Juliet fucking Monroe.
She's maybe five foot four in those heels she always wears. Always in those goddamn heels like she's trying to prove something. She’s wearing a short sapphire blue dress, looking as impossibly expensive and out of reach as ever. Her red lipstick catches the arena lights, too red and too precise, like she wants people to look at her mouth. It's always perfect, never smudged, never faded. In college, it left marks on everything she touched. Napkins, pens, coffee cups.
Even her lipstick was trying so hard. With one look, you knew that she’d be impossible to please.
Two drunk fans with foam chainsaws wedged her and another girl between them, and they are getting rowdy. One of them jostles her hard enough to spill beer on her knee. The other leans in close, saying something in her ear that makes her jaw tighten. She pushes him away, but the guy barely budges. He's twice her size and drunk enough to think he's being charming.
Something red-hot flashes behind my eyes. Like hell one of my fans is going to hurt a woman, especially not right in front of me.
I slam my gloved hand against the penalty box glass. The impact makes the plexiglass shudder and both guys jump. Catching their eyes, I make a slow, deliberate motion across my throat with one finger.
Letting them know that I’ll kill them. Take their bodies out into the Sound on my boat and weigh them down, sinking them as deep as the fucking ocean.
The men laugh, thinking it's part of the show. But Juliet rips her arm free from the grabby one while they look at me. Juliet and her friend get up, fleeing their seats for somewhere safer. I turn around and cross my arms.
What I won’t do is look for pretty little Juliet again after that. I don't need that kind of hassle in my life.
Third period, I get into another fight. This one isn't even about a hit or a dirty play. I just don’t like the look of #32. He plays to the cameras, a smile on his face. And me? I just need a release, need to hit something before I explode. I check him into the boards and the guy goes down easy. The crowd erupts as if I just won the Stanley Cup.
I grunt and skate off. It means nothing to me. I used to feed off that roar. Now, it just sounds like permission to lose control.
The game ends with our losing in overtime. Not surprising by any means. I'm skating toward the tunnel when some jackass fan leans over the railing and shouts something that stops me cold.
"Hey Huxley! Darla was right! She dumped your ass just in time!"
I freeze with one foot still on the ice and the other on the rubber matting. My mother's name coming out of some stranger's mouth like he has any right to say it. Like he knows anything about what she did to me.
Silas skates up beside me smoothly. "Leave it.”
