Page 7 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
I don't.
I spin around and punch the guy square in the mouth. Hard. He drops like a sack of cement. Suddenly, security is swarming and phones are coming up to record the whole thing.
And somehow, through all the chaos, Juliet fucking Monroe is there. She worms her way between bodies and presses her small hand against my chest, right over my heart. Her dark brown eyes flash.
"Hunter. Stop."
I jerk back automatically. Her hand drops as though I burned her. She takes a half-step back, eyes wide.
Not scared of the crowd.
Scared of me.
It’s the worst expression I’ve ever seen. People have looked at like a lot of things, but damn. She saw the mask slip. I saw the thing my mother warned the world about.
It guts me. Makes me feel worth less than gutter trash. She doesn't know I’d rather throw myself through the glass than ever hurt her.
But how the hell could she know that, when half the world thinks the same thing? When my mother sold that exact story to the press?
And still… Juliet stepped between me and the ledge and pulled me back.
I stare wide-eyed at Juliet. Did she see it? My mother described me the same way in every interview. A monster in skates. Just a heavy breather who can't tell the difference between the ice and real life.
From the side, the fan’s arm swings at my face, yet I don’t flinch. Don't react. Don't move at all. I'm too busy watching Juliet watch me. He crushes his plastic beer cup into my neck, thankfully missing my face. The guy doesn’t know how to punch for shit, but there is wet foam and bits of a plastic cup on my neck, my shoulder, my chest. Hell, there’s even a drop or two on Juliet.
She flicks the drops away with a disgusted look, then grabs my wrist and yanks me backward into the tunnel with surprising strength for someone so small. I let her. Not because I’m done. Because she’s the first person all night aside from my teammates who doesn’t give me that look.
The one that says that I’m an out-of-control maniac. Juliet knew me before I was the Chainsaw. Before the money, the fame, the fans screaming for me to wreck other players and pound them into the ice.
I stare at that red lipstick of hers and watch as her lips twitch.
"You get in fights like it's your job," she says, still holding my wrist. "But being good at hockey doesn't excuse being a dick."
I grunt something noncommittal and dismiss it. She doesn't know what she's talking about. Hockey excuses everything.
Coach Cross is waiting for us in the tunnel. I cringe. He doesn't even look at Juliet, who finally lets go of my wrist and backs toward where Jessa is standing. Cross is bright red, his expression absolutely ballistic.
Well, shit. I probably earned that look.
The guys hate it when I lose it. Good. It’s not as if I like them either. I’m not here to be anyone’s favorite teammate. What I am here to do is scare the shit out of the opposition and maybe my locker room while I’m at it.
"You just gave the league a fucking field day," Cross says through gritted teeth. "We're going to have to do something drastic. Really drastic, Huxley."
Fuck me. I don’t even know what he means, but I already hate it.
I don't speak as I trudge down the hall toward the locker room. Juliet's vanished by the time I turn around. Good riddance.
But later, sitting in front of my locker and slowly untying my skates, I can't stop replaying it. The way she looked at me. Not just with fear, but with something else. Recognition, maybe. Like she saw exactly what I was but stepped in anyway.
Is that really how she sees me? Just a blunt instrument with decent footwork and anger management issues? I know it’s all that most people see.
That’s how the rest of the team sees me too. They don’t talk to me unless they have to. I prefer it that way. If I had my choice, I wouldn’t talk to most of them either.
I’m the Chainsaw. The enforcer. Forever the guy who solves problems with his fists because I learned no other way. Or maybe I did learn. Maybe I just forgot how. Or maybe it’s easier to be the monster they already see than the man I’m scared I’ll never become.
Thanks to my mom’s big mouth, most hockey fans also know that I’m the son who couldn't see his own mother's betrayal coming because he was too busy trying to make her proud.
I listen to the rookies joke around as they change out of their gear. Usually their noise grates on me, but tonight I don't join in and I don't glare either. I just sit there, quiet. Neutral. It's the closest thing I have to trying anymore.
