Page 70 of The Jester and His Outlaw: Part One

“She did. She turned nineteen over the summer, but we didn’t get to celebrate. So her parents insisted she throw something during the school year. They’re inviting a shit ton of people.” Foxy looks at me with a frown, but I’m locked up tight. There is nothing for her to decipher. “Anyway, you should come. Charley has had a rough go since everything last year and she wants to move. Oh, you have helped her even if you’ve been a raging asshole.”

“Jee, thanks, Foxy.”

“Hey, I only speak in truths.” She shrugs. “But really, she hasn’t said anything, but I think she likes you and she would like it if you were at her party.”

“No need for you to play matchmaker,” I grumble at the both of them because I know what they’re up to. Charley and I are doing fine in that department. We don’t need them butting in.

“Fuck off, grumpy butt.” A fry comes barreling toward my face, leaving a grease smudge between my brows. Shit, she’s got great aim.

Foxy guffaws, gripping her stomach in one hand while balancing her burger in the other. “Holy shit, I didn’t mean for that to actually hit you! Why didn’t you dodge it?”

“Because he’s too busy thinking about Charley,” Jensen snickers and now it’s my turn to launch a fry at him.

“Cut it out with this shit. There is nothing between us.” The lie is gritty on my tongue, spoiling into a bitter aftertaste.

“Keep telling yourself that.” Jensen laughs as he pats me on the shoulder so hard I have to fight to keep upright.Dick.

CHAPTER32

Layla is being a choppy bitch.I’m not sure what her problem is, but she is acting crazy and if she isn’t careful, then I’m going to lay her out. She pushed me into the boards three times and slashed my stick, which caught my fingers. My right hand is throbbing. It’s almost like she is trying to take me out.

This is a scrimmage, and in the grand scheme of things, we are teammates. She is playing like she is trying to do damage. Coach Wilson has warned her but won’t pull her from the lineup, and I can’t figure out why. He has his eyes on me more often than her, making me question if I should be on the ice. You should never be too careful with people who have enough money to bribe others.

I accept a pass, eyes vigilant, keeping my head up and handling the puck swiftly as I make my way down the center of the ice. Before skating into the trap the opposition has planned, a stick tapping the ice catches my attention and I dump the puck in that direction. Just as soon as it leaves my blade, headed to be cupped by my teammate, the taped blade of another stick wedges between the sharp edge of my skate and the ice. Whoever it belongs to lets it fall out of their hold, and I’m jerked forward. The ice meets my elbows in a collision that would likely break bone if I didn’t have pads on. Curses fall from my lips in a flurry.

I’m scrambling to get my bearings so I can make it back to my feet, fury pulsing through my veins and huffing from my nose.

The screech of the ref’s whistle bounces off the unforgiving, glass-like surface of the ice, reverberating through me and adding to my need for vengeance. It reminds me of the now missed play because they were forced to end it thanks to her trip. Stares of anger follow Layla closely as she circles around the net, convinced she’s gotten one over on me. I’ll give it to her, she has, but now I’m pissed and sick of her shit.

As soon as I’m back on my feet, I seek her out. She makes eye contact and fear flashes before it’s replaced with adrenaline. I fling my gloves from my hands, sending them streaking across the ice. There isn’t much of a crowd, but I distinctly hear my best friend’s “FUCK YEAH!” and the slam of her heel meeting the metal bleachers as she clamors her way to the glass in a rush to raise hell.

I swing around the opposite side of the net, cutting Layla off. I’m probably more pissed than I should be and about to make a huge mistake, but I’ve put up with enough from her. If Coach Wilson doesn’t intend to do anything, then I’m going to stand up for myself. She’s making physical attacks that could put me out of commission for the season, and hockey is one of the few things I get excited over. I don’t aspire to miss a single second, crappy team notwithstanding.

I’m going to enjoy the hell out of the ejection I’m about to receive for fighting—worth it. It will be a pleasant break when she is going to be out as well.

“What the fuck is your problem?” I bite out, my hands tingling with the need to punch her in her face. I’m not a fighter, typically, but I’ve been known to throw down when shit gets far enough. This fight is justified.

“My problem is you, whore,” she spits, showing me I’m nothing more important than the gum on her shoe.

We meet in a slam. Her hands find the back of my jersey and she starts trying to drag it off over my head. Bitch can’t even fight fair. I’m not the best player in the world, but I’m the first freshman captain the girls’ team has ever seen for a reason. Layla is good, smart, but she’s not great on skates. I plant the edge of my blade into the ice and propel myself forward to take complete advantage of her instability, pushing her off of me. Unfortunately, she rebounds and is right back in my face. I don’t want to hurt her, but I do want to show her she can’t continue to push me around like she is.

Hell, I don’t even know this bitch.I bet that’s how Sam felt.

Swallowing that idea, I laugh as rage spreads across my opponent’s face. It pisses her off even more and her fists clench. Good, fight me like a fighter, not a female.

“Why are you so triggered, Layla? What did I do to you? Are you just upset that you’re getting your asses handed to you even after your attempts to play dirty?” I taunt as she skates closer.

“He’s mine, bitch.”

Huh? Who is she talking about? Riggs?

My hesitation gives her enough time to swing on me. Her right hook whizzes past my face, the air brushing across my lips. While she’s regaining her stance, I take my shot, landing my fist in a crack against her jaw. She stumbles back, dropping f-bombs as she works to right herself and fails.

The ice refuses to accept her, and she bounces, her skates scraping layers off the slick surface. I can’t tell who, because the background noise is fuzzy at this point from all the adrenaline in my system, but someone is pounding on the glass. I can bet it’s probably my crazy as hell best friend. Fights are the only reason she watches hockey. They’re the enticing promise I used to lure her to my games. She lives for this shit.

A ref comes to a stop between us, warning me off with a palm in my direction as another checks on Layla. “Don’t worry, I’m not like her. She’s down, the fight’s over.” Disgusted, I move to collect my gloves and stick.

“Fuck you, Miller,” Layla calls from her downed position, venom so thick in her voice one drop could take Jensen down for good. She cracks her jaw, wiggling it back and forth. Come tomorrow it will be nice and ripe, purple and slathered in makeup to hide it. A pocket of fluid is already pooling beneath her skin where a prominent red mark is singing “I got my ass kicked” to anyone willing to listen. Damn, do I need to work on how hard I hit?

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