She doesn’t shout it. It’s worse than shouting. It’s surgical. Precise. Meant to slice right through. And she storms off.
I look around and realize the corridor’s full of spectators now. Staff with half-folded towels, one guy holding a clipboard in mid-air, and the intern who now has a coffee cup paused halfway to his lips. All of them are watching like we’re the next big primetime show.
“Cassy!” I call after her. I start moving. Fast. “Cassy, please, it’s not what it seems.”
She stops. Turns.
There’s a calculation in her stare now. No panic. No mess. Just fire and target. “What part of FUCK YOU do you not understand?” She bolts. Gone.
I’m left standing, jaw tight, fists clenched, staring down the hallway like I could catch her if I just moved fast enough.
I don’t. I turn and look at the back of Bishy at the other end of the corridor.
My blood’s boiling. He'd better start running.
I storm down the corridor like a damn freight train seeing red, passing staff who step out of my way like I’m radioactive. Doors blur past. I barely register the overhead PA barking out morning drills. I slam into the locker room door with my shoulder, sending it flying open.
The place is alive with noise, sweaty, testosterone-fueled, early morning chaos. The kind that reeks of liniment, wet gear, cheap deodorant, and the beginning of a long-ass day.
There’s a buzz of laughter. Peters and Davis throw socks at McAvoy, who’s sitting in his jockstrap and chirping about last night’s Tinder date.
Brody’s shirtless, taping his stick and talking trash about someone’s slap shot. Towels, jocks, and jerseys are everywhere. Helmets clatter to the floor. The low thud of bass from someone’s speaker pulses like it’s part of the floorboards.
I barely glance at any of them.
Bishy’s just walking to the bench, towel slung over his shoulder like an asshole.
Brody looks up, sees my face, and instantly shuts up.
I don’t stop. I don’t warn.
I storm straight past him and slam both hands into Bishy’s back, hard enough to send him stumbling forward into the bench.
He whirls around.
“What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you some kind of idiot?” I’m loud. Deliberate. I want everyone to hear it.
Bishy clenches his fists. “What’s wrong with ME? What's your fucking problem this morning?”
He pulls out the wad of cash and holds it up between us like that’s supposed to mean something. “If you don’t want this five hundred bucks, I don’t care.”
I swipe the money out of his hand, crumple it, and toss it at his chest. “Did you have to offer me that in front of her?”
We’re squared off now. Two bulls in a cage. The room goes dead silent.
You could hear a skate blade drop.
I feel the weight of every stare in the room, but I don’t blink.
Bishy’s face is flushed, his jaw clenched, and veins popping in his neck. He steps in, way too close. “I don’t give a shit if you’re captain now,” his forehead crashes into mine. “And I don’t give a shit if I just broke up your and Coach McCullum’s stupid little daughter’s romance.”
My head’s locked with his. I push back, nose to nose, our breath mingling like we’re seconds from blood.
That’s when Brody wedges himself between us, shoving me back a step. “Come on, guys, we’re all on the same team here.” McAvoy’s up too, and wraps an arm around Bishy, pulling him toward the benches.
“Chill, man. Fucking calm down.” Brody’s holding onto my chest like he thinks I’ll lunge again, and maybe he’s not wrong.
I take a breath. And another before I lean into Brody. “If he even looks at me the wrong way…”
