My Bully Hockey Boy Wants Me Now

Chapter4

Lila POV

“If you look in that mirror one more time and frown, Lila, I’m going to throw your reflection out the window.”

Nova’s voice was playful, but her hands were steady as she added a final touch of dark liner to my eyes. She had spent the last hour at my house, turning my bedroom into a makeshift salon. I looked at the girl in the mirror and felt a jolt of something that wasn't quite scary, but wasn't quite comfortable either. The black silk dress hugged my curves in a way that made me feel powerful and exposed all at once.

“I just don't want to step on any toes, Nova,” I whispered, my heart thudding against my ribs. “I don't want trouble tonight.”

“Trouble is already there, honey,” Nova said, grabbing her keys. “You might as well be the best-dressed thing in the room when it finds you. Now, get in the car.”

The drive to the Vale mansion was a blur of streetlights and Nova’s endless hyping. I kept praying for a quiet night, for a corner I could hide in, but as we pulled into the massive circular driveway, I realized hiding was off the menu. The house was a fortress of glass and light, pulsing with the bass of a song I didn't recognize.

As we stepped out, I saw them. Vanessa was standing at the top of the stone steps, dressed in a white lace dress that looked like a weapon. Her hand was possessively wrapped around Jaxon’s arm, and she was kissing his jaw with a slow, deliberate smirk that said mine.

I stopped at the bottom of the stairs, my courage failing. “Nova, I can’t.”

“Don’t you dare,” Nova hissed, grabbing my hand and squeezing it tight. “You are the main event, Lila. Act like it.”

We walked up. The guy at the door stopped talking mid-sentence when he saw us. Then the girl next to him nudged her friend. By the time we crossed the threshold, the noise in the foyer didn't stop all at once, but it died down in ripples.

Boys I had never spoken to—guys who usually looked through me in the hallways—were staring openly. The girls who spent their mornings whispering about my weight were suddenly very quiet.

Vanessa’s perfect smile froze. It didn't slip; it just turned into a mask of ice.

Jaxon was standing by the drinks table, a glass half-raised to his mouth. He went completely still. His eyes traveled from my shoes up to my face, slow and unhurried, and for a second, he actually missed his mouth when he went to take a sip.

“Is that… Lila?” someone whispered nearby.

“Keep walking,” Nova murmured in my ear, her voice full of triumph.

Nova pulled me into a circle of her new friends, laughing and talking as if I wasn't the center of a hundred staring eyes. I felt like a fraud, so I did the only thing I could think of. I drank. The first cup burned, but it settled the shaking in my hands. The second cup made the music sound better.

By the third, I was actually smiling.

I felt a presence behind me before I heard him. The heat from his arm was a physical weight against my back. Jaxon leaned past me, his chest almost brushing my shoulder as he set an empty glass on the table.

“You look terrible,” he said, his voice a low vibration against my ear.

I didn't turn around. I didn't want him to see the way my pulse had taken a sudden halt. “Is that the best you can do, Jaxon? I thought you were a performer.”

He didn't move away. He stayed close enough that I could smell the whiskey and the cold night air on his skin. “I told you not to wear this.”

“And I'm telling you, you don't own me,” I said, finally turning to face him.

His eyes were dark, tracking the movement of my lips. He looked like he wanted to say something else, something jagged, but Vanessa was suddenly there, sliding her hand back onto his arm.

“Jaxon, baby, come dance,” Vanessa said, her eyes flaring with hate as they landed on me. “The scouts from the university are here. They want to see the star player.”

Jaxon cursed under his breath, his gaze lingering on me for one more second before he let her pull him away.

The joy I’d felt earlier started to sour. A hockey player named Miller, the one who’d commented on the bet—started heading toward me with a grin that made my skin crawl. I knew exactly what that was. Another trap. Vanessa’s way of keeping the joke going.

“Hey, Hart, want to show us what you can do on the floor?” Miller asked, reaching for my waist.

“Not in this lifetime,” I snapped, stepping back and turning toward the stairs.

I needed to breathe. I needed air that didn't smell like cheap beer and desperation. I ran up the stairs, ignoring Nova’s call, and ducked into the first hallway that looked quiet. I opened a door at the end of the hall and stepped inside, fumbling for a light switch.

The room came into focus. It wasn't a guest room. Trophies lined the shelves. A black and gold hockey jacket was draped over a chair. On the wall, a framed jersey with the number 24 stared back at me.

I turned to leave, my heart hammering, but the door was already occupied.

Jaxon stood there, his hand on the handle.

“You should leave,” I said, my voice cracking.

“Probably, but you're in my room,” he answered. He was standing loosely, his tie undone, but his eyes were sharper than I’d ever seen them. He took a step into the room, closing the distance.

I tried to find the anger, the memory of the red paint and the pig’s blood, but the air in the room felt too thick to breathe.

“You ruined my report,” I said, desperate for any reason to keep the wall between us. “You stepped on it.”

“I know,” he said, stopping inches from me. He reached out, his thumb grazing the line of my jaw. “I’ve been ruining things near you for a long time, Lila.”

I looked at him, really looked at him. I saw the guilt he tried to hide and the boy who I'd asked out in kindergarten. I also saw the man who had let a crowd laugh at me while I bled pig's blood.

I slapped him.

The sound was sharp, echoing off the glass cases. Jaxon didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He just stared at me, his eyes dropping to my mouth.

“Is that all you’ve got?” he whispered.

“I hate you,” I said, even as I reached out and bunched the fabric of his shirt in my fists.

“Good,” he murmured. “Hate me then.”

He leaned in and crashed his mouth against mine. It wasn't a movie kiss. It was desperate and messy and tasted like whiskey and years of unspoken things. I told myself to stop. I told myself to remember the rink. But my hands were already moving into his hair, pulling him closer, as if I could finally find the truth of him in the dark.