Brutal Obsession, page 2
“He begged. And he does look cute when he’s on his knees…”
I glare at her. “Seriously?”
She shrugs, still smiling. “I think he missed you. He made a point that you like to isolate when you stress, which is true. You can’t deny it. We’re just trying to prevent that from happening, is all.”
Freaking hell. I can’t explain the knotting high in my chest, but I need to explain it to her. “He missed the dance team, peppy version of me. I’ve been doused in…” I struggle to find the right way to explain, finally settling on, “gray.”
“Violet’s gone to the dark side, then? Well, to keep up with that thinking, how about this?” She plucks out a black sequined dress.
I’ve only worn that one a handful of times. It’s short and sexy, and immediately bile rises up my throat. I swallow hard.
“No.” My voice is flat.
She raises an eyebrow. “Is it because—”
“I’m not going to show off my leg on my first day back. Or ever.” My leg. I really don’t want to talk about my leg. “My days of shorts and skirts are over.”
I pick out black leather pants and a pink sweater. Compromise. There’s snow on the ground, after all, and if we’re going out, I don’t want to freeze to death.
Willow closes my door and leans against it, filling me in on the latest drama while I change. She doesn’t flinch when I pull off my pants and reveal the thick scar on my lower leg. The surgeons did their best, but they had to cut me open. My tibia and fibula were both broken—snapped nearly clean through.
My leg took the direct impact of the accident.
I was lucky they didn’t use hardware to keep me together when they reset the bone. After surgery, I had physical therapy in the hospital. Then crutches for weeks while it healed, with strict orders that I couldn’t put any weight on my leg. After that, physical therapy to slowly help my muscles get used to walking, bending… functioning.
Crown Point University let me take a medical leave of absence for the fall semester. I’ve had to add an extra class to my schedule this semester, plus both semesters next year, to graduate on time.
That’s the only silver lining.
“You look good,” Willow tells me. She extends a tube of lipstick toward me.
I finger-comb my blonde hair into somewhat respectable curls and then swipe on the dark-red color. It’s bolder than what I would’ve normally gone for, but I trust my best friend’s judgment. It gives my pink sweater a bit of an edgier vibe.
Probably.
Maybe it’s wishful thinking.
She loops her arm in mine. In the living room, our friends are spread out on the couches and the floor. Now that I look closer at them, they do seem ready to go out. Flawless makeup, nice clothes. Dresses, heeled boots.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Haven. There’s a game tonight, but it should be okay if we get there before it ends. Should we call a cab, or are you good to walk?”
Haven is a local bar that’s almost always overrun by CPU students.
“Walking is fine.” I’ll pay for it tomorrow, but my blood runs cold at the thought of getting into a car. It was a struggle to sit in the passenger seat of mom’s car on the way here. Our silence was tense. My leg constantly jigged until she pulled over and let me out in front of my apartment building this morning.
Since then, I walked to campus to register for classes and confirm my financial aid, applied for three jobs near school, and got myself a congratulatory coffee. I missed Willow when I dropped my stuff off earlier, and I definitely didn’t venture farther into our space. I didn’t want to walk down memory lane too soon.
My leg already aches, but I ignore it. Spring semester starts on Monday. I’ve got the weekend to rest and recuperate.
This is my college experience.
So, no, I’m not getting in a car. I smile at my friends and lie. “I could use the exercise.”
Willow scoffs. “Whatever you say, Batman.”
The ten of us gear up for the weather—snow or not, it’s actually still rather mild—and walk two blocks to the bar near campus. It’s a regular hangout known for being lax on IDing college kids, and they have a five-dollar margarita night which usually draws a big crowd.
The oval-shaped bar in the center has a million bar stools. There are televisions mounted on almost every wall, showcasing the pro athlete games. There’s not a bad seat in the house. And after a CPU game finishes—especially if we win? Standing room only.
I considered applying for a job there, but I don’t think I could do it. Serve my friends, I mean. Even if they tip well, some students get weird when they’re drunk.
It’s relatively quiet when we arrive. We stamp our feet in the small vestibule, knocking off loose snow and salt. I blow into my hands, laughing at how ridiculous we are. The others shake their heads and chuckle along with me. Yeah, the lighthearted blame rests on my shoulders. So much for it being mild outside. That was before the sun set, and now it’s colder than a witch’s tit.
We claim a U-shaped booth, everyone climbing in and pressing close. I end up across the table from Jack—luckily—and beside Willow. On my other side is a fellow junior, Jess, who joined the dance team last year.
“Paris just texted,” Amanda says, tapping on her phone. She glances up and leans forward. “Says the team is heading here.”
Willow rolls her eyes. “Place will be flooded with puck bunnies in a matter of minutes.”
“Hockey team?” I clarify. I feel like I’ve lost my sense of time since I’ve been gone. Everyone has moved forward except for me.
Hockey starts sometime in October, and their season goes through the winter and into spring—especially if they’re on a winning streak and make it into the national tournament. We never went to many hockey games in the past because it usually conflicted with the dance team competitions or basketball games.
If there’s one thing CPU has going for it, it’s the D1 sports.
“There’s a new hotshot on the team,” Amanda says. She blushes. “We’ve only lost one game. Some of the girls even started a petition to move our Friday practice so they can go to the home games. They’re probably going to get their way.”
My eyebrows hike. Puck bunnies—the girls who fawn over hockey players—or not, I doubt our coach would let that slide. Perhaps if enough of them protested…
“There’s talk of them being selected to participate in the Nationals tournament,” Jack adds. “Whole school’s been talking about it. They just have to win a few more games.”
CPU hasn’t won a title in almost a decade—not in hockey, anyway. Jack’s team made it to the Rose Bowl last year, but they lost by a field goal. And this year, they didn’t even make it to the playoffs.
That’s a sore subject.
“Well, let’s get drunk before they show up and make us all miserable,” Willow says. She flags down a waitress and orders us a round of tequila shots.
Yep, definitely going to be paying for this tomorrow.
Still, it’s nice to be back. The conversation shifts from hockey to the dramatics on the dance team, and I smile and pick at my sweater as I listen. I’m familiar with most of the names, but a few times I glance questioningly at Willow. She provides context. A freshman, a new transfer, an older girl who finally made it through tryouts.
We get our tequila shots, plus wedges of lime and a salt shaker passed around. I lick the back of my hand and pour the salt onto it, then hold my wedge and shot glass until they’re all ready.
“To Violet’s return,” Willow says.
They raise their glasses and clink them together in the middle of the table. As a unit, we lick the salt, tap the shot glasses to the table, and toss the liquid back. The taste of it is familiar, searing down my throat. I bite down on the lime, and the citrus explodes across my tongue. It mixes with the tequila and makes it actually enjoyable.
“That never gets old,” I giggle, leaning into Willow.
She hugs me. “I missed you.”
“Missed you, too.”
“Good. Another round!” She slides out of the booth and knocks on the table. “I’ve got this one, then you sorry lot are buying next.”
Jack takes Willow’s place beside me. He puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me into him. His warmth is familiar. The weight of his arm is comforting. “Have I told you I missed you?”
“Once or twice.” I roll my eyes, but I don’t straighten up. I should, because my behavior toward him over the past six months has been nothing short of atrocious. I don’t even know why he still cares.
He couldn’t see me. Not how I was… and how I might still be. I wasn’t lying when I told Willow I was different. I feel like an uglier version of myself. Not as nice, not as bubbly, not as optimistic. Literally darker. Something broke inside me after the accident.
The dance team was just a hobby. A way to stay in shape and make friends. Willow was the one who begged me to audition with her our freshman year. She loves to dance, just as I did, but was terrified of doing The Big Brave Thing by herself. I went, but I didn’t expect to love it. My true passion was bigger than that. Deeper than that.
Ballet.
My heart hurts just thinking about it.
There should’ve been no room in my life for the dance team. No room in my life for friends. Not with my mother choreographing my schedule like a complicated piece, weaving appointments and training and rehearsals.
My whole college schedule was arranged around five-hour dance training, and I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t love every second of it. The long days, the sore muscles, the relief of finally nailing a piece of choreography.
The dance team was a compromise to my career. One I insisted on along with college. I missed more than a few dance team days for ballet—and the coach accepted it from the start. From everyone else, she demanded perfect attendance. But she had to admit, I had skill. I had talent, the sort of natural movement my ballet master always praised me for. The natural grace and intuition on top of training.
The dance team’s different style gave me a mental break—and a physical challenge.
As for ballet, I was going places. First as a soloist in the company’s productions, then I became a principal—one of the leads. I dreamed of bigger shows. Bigger companies and productions after I graduated CPU. The Nutcracker or Sleeping Beauty in New York City or San Francisco. The sort of principal roles that make a ballerina in the industry.
And then that dream shattered along with the bones in my leg.
Willow comes back with a tray, her eyebrow raising at the position Jack and I are in. He just grins at her and plucks one of the glasses from the tray. He sets it down in front of me.
“They’re here,” Amanda says, her voice high.
I glance around. The bar has been filling up, sure, but now the noise climbs. A new energy rushes through the room. My stomach knots for some reason. I can’t explain it. It’s like anticipation but worse.
I’m surprised to recognize the first pair of guys through the door. Knox Whiteshaw is legendary, even at a school like CPU that doesn’t usually get national recognition. He’s accompanied by the goalie, Miles. No surprise there. They’re brothers and thick as thieves.
Knox is a junior, like Willow and me, and Miles is a sophomore. Even so, he rose to meet the expectations set by his brother. On the medium-sized college campus, everyone tends to know each other. And when you’re in sports? You’re definitely known.
More players follow in behind them, and I catch a glimpse of another starter on the defensive line.
“Violet,” Jack says in my ear. “You okay?”
I glance at him, and my face gets hot. “Perfectly fine.”
My confidence took a hit when I missed a semester. Which is why my cheeks stay hot while girls come up to us. Some grin at Jack, congratulating him on a good season—as if this is the first time they’ve talked to him in months—but more welcome me back. I’m actually surprised at how many people notice us. Notice me.
Willow nudges my leg under the table. “See? They missed you.”
Jess laughs. “Yeah, the dance team sucked without you. I mean, we did okay. But we just missed the positive energy you always brought. We’re so glad you’re back.”
I pause. Willow’s smile drops off. I give her a look, but she can’t meet my eyes. So, she didn’t have the courage to tell them—I don’t blame her, I wouldn’t want to be the messenger of bad news. Coach knows, but I doubt they’ve seen her since we had a phone chat with my doctor two weeks ago.
The basics?
While my bones healed—and they’re still technically healing, the ligaments and tendons strengthening by the day—my nerves didn’t. Over the last six months, I’ve experienced incredible pain that comes out of nowhere. Not to mention my muscles are weak.
I’ll never be on the dance team again, and I’ll never be a ballerina.
Goodbye, dreams.
“Violet?” Jess leans into me. “What’s wrong?”
I realize I have a tear rolling down my cheek. I quickly brush it away and take a deep breath. “Sorry, guys. Didn’t mean to…” I gesture to my face. “I’m not able to come back to the dance team. Doctor’s orders.”
“But, Coach—”
“Talked to my doctors and agreed,” I finish quietly.
Their stares are heavy. Sad.
I shake my head and force a smile. “It’s okay. I’ll cheer you on from the sidelines. Yeah?”
Amanda scowls. Her gaze lifts, and she tosses back her shot. “They’re coming over here.”
I take a second to rein in my emotions. Not easy when I suddenly feel like I’ve let everyone down… again. I stare at the table until I’m sure my eyes aren’t burning.
“Hey, Steele,” Amanda sings. She’s in the middle of the table, perfectly poised to be the center of attention. Her cheeks are pink from the tequila, and her smile widens.
“Amanda,” he greets her, then turns to Jack. “Hey, buddy. Have you met our newest left wing?”
He and Jack slap hands and bump fists.
I finally glance up and realize that Steele isn’t alone. The blood drains out of my face.
He stands beside Steele, looking like… like nothing ever happened? Impossible.
The man who hit my car and ruined my life.
Greyson Devereux.
2
GREYSON
My teammate nods to the guy sitting at a table full of girls. “Jack, Greyson. Jack is the quarterback on the football team.”
I quirk my lips. The football team lost spectacularly this year, no thanks to Jack here. It’s a good thing the hockey team is picking up the slack and bringing some attention back to this school.
That’s where I shine.
In the spotlight.
Well, correction: that’s where I used to shine.
My gaze goes to the girl beside Jack, who seems like she’s about to be violently sick. She looks familiar in the way most girls do. Like I might’ve had a chance encounter with her at some point in my life but nothing worthy of me remembering.
Maybe we ran into each other here, at Haven. After a game.
I smirk at her, and she flinches. Not the usual reaction.
Interesting.
Steele is going around the table, introducing the dance team. I register it faintly, still trying to figure out the girl under Jack’s arm. She’s watching me, too. Her blue eyes on mine are like daggers. I’m intrigued.
“And Violet,” Steele finishes. “Back from…”
“Hiatus,” she says faintly.
She has an unusual name. I’ve only heard of one other…
“Violet Reece,” Steele continues. “Best damn dancer on the team—no offense, ladies.” He winks at the other girls.
Violet Reece.
I clench my jaw to keep from saying anything. My expression smooths, although what I really want to do is ask why the fuck she’s in my town. I’ve been here since the start of the fall semester, and I haven’t seen or heard of her. Not even a fucking whisper.
Best damn dancer on the team. Back from hiatus. So, what, this is a massive coincidence? My luck. No, her luck. I’m glaring holes in her skull, I think, but she makes a point to not look away.
Challenge accepted.
“So, how are you liking playing with the Hawks, Greyson?” one of the girls asks.
I tear my gaze off Violet and try to find who asked. The girl in the center, with perky breasts peeking out from a low-cut shirt, leans forward. It seems to be a tactic girls employ to drive attention down to them.
So I go with what she wants and let my eyes fall to the swells, then back up to her face. She’s flushed from whatever they’ve been drinking. I’ve seen her with some of the other girls who always shadow the team. We’re regulars at Haven—the owner has a soft spot for the team, especially after a win—and she just has the look.
A puck bunny in hiding. They’re usually not so subtle. Although I’m not sure what she’s doing is subtle. Maybe she’s just in denial.
“It’s a good change,” I finally reply. “Much better than where I was.”
Violet lifts the shot glass in front of her, slamming it back. My attention is pulled back to her. It’s unnerving. She swallows delicately, her throat moving. She’s stopped staring at me and has chosen to go with ignoring my existence.
But it’s subtle enough that I don’t think many other people pick up on her snub.
Maybe she’s regularly like this.
Cold.
It’s all the more intriguing, because I realize that I don’t actually know her. I’ve only heard her name in association with my future being choked to death.
“We’ll see you ladies around,” Steele says. He pulls at my sleeve. “Come on, man.”
“You look like you have room for two more,” I say.
The girls giggle. Except the one on the end, across from Violet.
A best friend? She seemed to catch whatever was going through Violet’s mind.
