“I don’t give a damn who hears me,” I retort. “Because I’m leaving, and in case it isn’t crystal-fucking-clear, you need to leave me the hell alone.” I do my best to wrench my arm away, but that only makes him squeeze harder. God, I could curse myself for falling into his stupid trap and coming over today.
45
Will
Practice was good. Rosco has been cleared for limited play, but he’s a bit rusty, so I’m still skating on the first line with Van and Booker for now. I drove my car today, which I don’t often do, partially because parking is so hard to find, which is why I’m heading down a side street to the off-campus lot where I found a place to park before practice.
I’m cutting through a little neighborhood, walking down an alleyway, when I hear angry voices. It takes me a minute to realize what’s going on. A couple is fighting, and it’s clearly none of my business, but since things are getting a little shouty, I slow my pace. And that’s when I spot Mel’s car. It’s parked about twenty feet away, in the gravel driveway of one of the houses on this street.
What the hell is Mel doing here? This section right off campus is mostly comprised of professors’ homes, since it’s not zoned for student living. I hear shouting again, and when a voice I know well cries out, “Get the fuck off me,” I drop my bag and take off running in Mel’s direction.
This is a scene from a nightmare. Professor Ashman—Chaz—has Mel by the arm, and she’s pulling away from him, but he’s refusing to let go.
“You heard her,” I say. “Let her fucking go.”
They turn toward me, clearly shocked to discover they’re not alone.
“I said,let her go,” I repeat. Chaz sneers in response, but thankfully, he drops her arm.
I reach for Mel, but she waves me off, asking, “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” I say. “I couldn't find parking on campus, so I parked on a side street. But when I heard yelling, I took a detour.”
“You need to go home, Will. I have this handled.”
“Hell no,” I answer automatically. “I’m not leaving until you do.”
“You heard the lady, Will,” Chaz says, a smirk on his face. “Go home. Melanie and I will work our differences out, and we certainly don’t need you interfering.”
I hear his words and have to clench my fists. Who does this asshole think he is? There’s a freaking bruise forming on Mel’s arm and he thinks I’m the one who needs to leave? What the hell?
“I’m serious, Will,” Mel says as she turns toward me. “You should go. And I’m leaving, too. I should never have come here in the first place.”
“Melanie, you can’t leave. We have so much to talk about, so much left unsettled.” She ducks past him, but Chaz is quicker than he looks and tries to make a grab for her.
And that’s when I lose it. I’ve been loosely holding on to my sanity, but when he reaches for her, I lose my damn mind. I rear back and let my fist fly, nailing him square in the jaw. Chaz stumbles back and Mel screams.
My hand is on fire but it’s like I’m frozen and can’t move. It’s hard to believe I just hit someone— my professor, no less, but I’d do it again. He was hurting Mel.
“The fuck is wrong with you?” Chaz roars, holding the side of his face. “Do you have any idea what you just did? You attacked me on my property. I could sue your ass.”
I have no words because my head is reeling with the reality of what he’s said. Was I unprovoked? No, but I still hit the guy. And what are the chances he’ll agree to let this die a silent death. What the hell have I done?
A door slams, startling me from my spiral. I turn to see an older gentleman exit the house next door. He’s in his bathrobe with a mug of coffee and a concerned look on his face. “Everything good out here? Thought I heard some shouting.”
Chaz rushes to assure him things are fine, and Mel seizes the opportunity to get the hell out of here. I follow, my hand throbbing, my knuckles bloody, and my head spinning.
46
Mel
Ineed distance from the shitstorm that just exploded in my life, so my plan is to get safely back to my apartment before I do or say something I’ll regret. When I get overwhelmed, I need to be alone, to process, but Will’s hot on my heels, so I’m not sure that’s going to happen.
We get to my car and Will slides into the passenger seat like we’re going to the movies or grabbing a bite to eat like he didn’t just punch my ex—his professor—in the face. I start the car and pull away from the curb, heading west toward the hockey house. The faster I can drop him off and be alone to sort through the mess of what happened, the better.
“Are we heading back to your place?” he asks, totally missing the fact that I’m pissed as hell. “’Cause I should probably ice my hand.”
“I’ll just take you home,” I tell him, figuring the less I say, the better.
