Page 122 of Brutal Obsession

I grit my teeth. “No.” I try patience, but it’s not my strong suit. “No. Somethingdidhappen—”

“Nothing happened to you. Nothing happened to me.” He narrows his eyes. “And nothing happened to Jack.”

So it was him.

I don’t know why I’m surprised—he’s literally the first person I thought of when I saw the cast. But he’sGreyson. He’s the kind of asshole who hits you with his car and puts an innocent passenger in the driver’s seat. He doesn’t beat up ex-boyfriends for fun.

He doesn’t care that much.

“Ms. Reece!” Coach Roake skates toward us. “What the hell are you doing on my ice?”

I face him and wobble. “Um—”

“And I know you’re not my newest hockey player,” Roake snaps, “because tryouts were three months ago.”

My cheeks heat. “Sorry, sir. I’ll just…”

I take a step and, wouldn’t it be my luck, my heel slips out from under me.

Greyson catches me from behind before I eat it. “Got her, Coach.”

I can hear his cheeky smile, even though I can’t see his face. He keeps his hands where they are and lifts me back up, my feet barely losing contact with the ice. He speeds us toward the entrance I came through. He doesn’t set me down until we’re both on the mats.

“We’re not done,” he warns.

We are, though. I can’t just forget about the conversation I had with his dad’s secretary. I can’t forget about ballet and the help I can get. The resources for my leg.

I got my confirmation that he did something to Jack. Why he was at my apartment is a question I’ll just have to live with—especially if I want my future back. It hurts to step away from him again, hurts worse that I won’t get my answers. I take a deep breath and exhale my frustration.

“Goodbye, Greyson.”

He winces.

I’ve got to leave it there. It was a mistake to come here in the first place. I’ve got to focus on my own future, and he has to focus on his.

37

VIOLET

The more I ignore Greyson, the more angry he becomes. Maybe not angry, but more like a toddler throwing a tantrum.

A toddler holding a grenade, but still.

February slips into March. The hockey team win their final game of the season, and they qualify for the national tournament. There are two away games—they win both—and next week is a home game. The whole school is buzzing.

It’s also the weekend that kicks off spring break.

To keep myself sane, I’ve been sneaking into the dance studio at night. Better than the gym, I reason. I got my MRI late one afternoon a few weeks ago, and Dr. Michaels cleared me for aquatic therapy soon after. There was only a little guilt winding through my bones when I mailed the bill to Senator Devereux’s office.

Did I call the clinic every day for a week to check on the balance?

Yes.

And who was more surprised than me to find that theydidpay for it?

The aquatic therapy feels ridiculous at first, and I pull at my one-piece swimsuit self-consciously. The woman who guides me through stretches and exercises is patient and calm. She has one of those voices that brings down my adrenaline and relaxes my muscles.

It’s been helping. So much so that I’ve started taking dance lessons again, too. Slowly getting back into shape, teaching my body how to move again. The instructor yells at me often, but I feel the improvement in my sore muscles.

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