My blazing Mickey.

Now, she’d be putting that nickname to good use because… fuck.

Red suits her far too well.

When my eyes finally register her movement as she looks up into my eyes, I notice they're glassy and red, like she’s been crying.

Who the bloody fuck made her cry?

The way my entire body locks up is dangerous. I’d box whoever decided to make my girl cry.

That’s my fucking job.

“Jayce Winchester. What pleasure do I have the honor of seeing your ugly face at my doorway?”

Her words, matched with the dreadful expression that floods her face upon acknowledging me, remind me that we’re not together.

She’s not my girl.

I fucked that up.

Totally forgot.

That just puts me in a foul mood, and I lash out before I can control myself.

“You’d wish to see my handsome face posted all across town,” I snap before letting out a cocky huff. “Oh, actually, as the new rising star of the Saskatchewan Pincer Blades, my golden image has been plastered all over town. Even got a few tv interviews coming up.”

My bragging does nothing but bore her. She seems uninterested in my accomplishments. Instead, her eyes are drifting over to my right.

Which I already hate.

Her attention is supposed to remain on me.

“Oh, hey, Wyatt.” The way her tone does a 180-degree flip with an added smile that lights up her face has my jealousy bells ringing like a fucking plague will hit this shitty town and burn it all to the ground.

“Hey, Mishka,” he greets her with a playful smirk that ticks me off.

I know the fucker wouldn’t rebound and date Mikayla when his ex is her best fucking friend in the universe, but I despised that no matter how many years have passed, he could start a conversation with my girl as though we hadn’t been wrapped up in our own lives for five-plus years.

Wyatt was like a brother to me, but I always disliked how easy it was for him to strike up a conversation with anyone.

In Mickey’s case, they were both half-Russian and could speak the language fluently. I hated how they had that in common with so many people I was surrounded by back then. I tried to learn the complicated language, but fuck. Everything sounded the same, and I was about to get into a full-blown argument asking the simplest shit like, ‘how the fuck are you?’

Mickey used to condemn me for thinking so negatively and not being ‘open-minded.’

Why did it fucking matter?

I knew three languages—English, French, and Gaelic. Now, with English being the main language in Scotland, I didn’t need to learn my country’s tongue. Only did it to please my father, and that didn’t get me far.

The fucker found out my team is going to be going across the nation to enter the league and have a chance of playing in the NHL playoffs, and he didn’t even look up from his fucking morning paper.

“?????? ????, Wyatt.”

There she goes, speaking in Russian, knowing I can’t understand.

Knowing I hate that and that I can’t understand her. It ticks me the fuck off when I’m ignored.

Wyatt never reads my body language—or just ignores it. He’s laughing as he points to the sky that’s beginning to show signs of the sun setting.