Page 66 of Don't Let Me Go (Don't Let Me 2)

Mother. Fucker.

The asshole has hated me ever since I kicked him out of my house. Not that anyone would blame me. In fact, the bastard looks downright pleased with himself for fucking me over.

With a dry laugh, Colt asks, “You really think I’m gonna believe you, Logan?” The air grows more tense around us. “After all the shit you’ve pulled?”

Logan joins in, his amusement low and condescending. He stands up, striding closer as if the fight at the Taylor House wasn’t enough to satiate either of their hate for each other all those nights ago.

“Sorry, Colt, but apparently, you don’t know your friends as well as you think you do. Then again, neither did I,” Logan adds with a shrug.

I storm closer and seethe, “You’re twisting things––”

“Logan’s telling the truth,” Burrows interjects from the corner of the locker room. The room falls deathly quiet, and Colt folds his arms over his jersey. Waiting. Listening.

And fuck Burrows if he says anything else.

“Burrows,” I seethe, my eyes narrowing with a silent warning. “Not the time.”

“Theo screwed your little sister at a party when you were out of town last weekend. If you have a bone to pick, you should take it up with him and leave the rest of us out of it. Including Logan.” He glares at me. “Maybe he can even buy you a nice juicy steak with his winnings and tell you all about it. Ain’t that right, Theo?”

Screw him. My only saving grace is Blake is holed up in Russ’s office, or I’d be even more pissed at the way he's talking about her. Like she’s a thing. An object. Something to be conquered. Taken. Used.

But as far as Colt’s concerned, the damage is already done, and Burrows isn’t the asshole for talking about his sister like she’s a thing. I am. And there’s no going back.

Colt looks at me again. Only this time, he’s looking at me like I’m a stranger. Nah, even worse. Like I’m an enemy. Like I’m Logan.

“Colt,” I start.

Through clenched teeth, he cuts me off and grits out, “Is it true?”

“I can explain.”

“You serious, man?”

“It’s not what you think.”

“After everything we’ve been through?” he argues, stepping closer until we’re chest-to-chest and eye-to-eye. “You’ve known her since she was a kid.”

“It isn’t like––”

“All right, guys. Game’s on in two,” Coach interrupts from the doorway of his office. He usually hangs out in there before a game, mocking up trick-plays while watching the opposing team’s footage. Then, about five minutes before the first buzzer rings, he comes into the locker room, says a few words, and leads us through the tunnel to the rink.

Apparently, today isn’t any different.

Until he reads the room and sees the team captain going head-to-head with the star player.

Rocking back on his heels, Coach adds, “Usually, I’d give a motivating speech, but it looks like Thorne, Taylor, and Burrows already beat me to it.” He crosses his arms, hugging his clipboard to his chest as his gaze zeroes in on me. “Taylor, you wanna add any words?”

I shake my head, the cash all but forgotten in my tightened fist. Because now isn’t the time to give some bullshit speech about hockey when it’s the furthest thing from my mind. But I can’t exactly pull aside Colt and explain what happened when we’re expected to be on the ice, either.

My hands are tied.

Fuck.

“Good,” Coach decides. “Remember, Hawks. When we’re on the ice, we’re brothers.”

Colt holds my stare, his gaze darker than I’ve ever seen it. But I don’t blame him. Because if the roles were reversed––if anyone else touched Blake––I’d be right next to Colt, ready to hunt the asshole down.

Sensing our animosity, Coach adds, “One more thing. If you have something personal that needs to be addressed, do it off the ice. We clear?” He pauses, waiting for us to acknowledge him.

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