Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
I pull my arm out of her grip with a sudden, violent jerk.
Daisy flinches. “Grizz—what—”
“You sound like him,” I say, and the words come out before I can stop them.
She freezes. “Like who?”
“My dad.” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “That line? That exact line? You think you’re the first person who’s ever said that to me?”
Daisy’s face drains of color. “Grizz, I didn’t—”
“You didn’t mean it,” I mock, and my voice grows louder, rougher. My chest hurts. My legs throb. Everything is pressure. “You never mean it. You just say the thing that gets me to shut up. The thing that makes me small enough to fit into whatever picture you’re trying to frame.”
“That’s not fair,” she says, and her voice cracks on the last word. “I’m on your side.”
“No, you’re not.” The certainty of it scares me even as it leaves my mouth. “You’re on the league’s side. You’re on the team’s side. You’re on the broadcast’s side. You’re on everyone’s side except mine.”
Daisy’s eyes flash with hurt. “That is not true.”
“It is,” I insist, and my hands are shaking now. I can’t stop it. My body is a live wire. “You want me to swallow it and smile. You want me to pretend it doesn’t hurt so it’s easier for everyone else.”
“I want you to not get suspended,” she says. “I want you to not get fined. I want you to not become the story in a way that hurts you.”
I stare at her, breathing hard.
And I hate—hate—that part of me hears the logic. That part of me knows she’s right and wants to step forward, take her face in my hands, apologize, tell her I’m bleeding in places she can’t see.
But the louder part—the trained part that’s wounded and beaten up—only hears the painful echo.
It’s about more than you.
Daisy takes a step toward me, softer now. “Grizz. Look at me. I’m not him.”
Her mouth opens, then closes. Her eyes shine, not with manipulation, not with strategy—just with raw emotion.
I should stop and take a calming breath. I should defuse this, but I don’t. I choose not to.
I turn toward the boards, toward the bench area, toward the only thing in my hands that knows how to take violence and turn it into motion.
Daisy’s voice is tinged with panic. “Grizz—don’t—”
I lift the stick above my head with both hands.
For a split second, time holds its breath.
Then I bring it down.
A tomahawk swing, full force, all anger and heartbreak and humiliation channeled into wood and carbon fiber. The stick cracks against the boards with a sound like a gunshot. It shatters and pieces fly.
The impact reverberates up my arms, into my shoulders, into my skull. The arena noise feels far away now, muffled by the ringing in my ears. I stand there for a second, chest heaving, staring at the broken remaining piece of my stick in my hands like I don’t recognize what I’ve done.
Then I drop it, and it clatters to the floor between us.
Daisy is staring at me, eyes wide, lips parted. I think I just punched a hole through something we can’t patch back up.
I look at her and the rage drains enough for the devastation underneath to show itself.
“This,” I say, voice hoarse, “is what you do. You take the worst moment, and you tell me to make it about everyone else.”
Daisy’s chin trembles. “Grizz—”
And then I turn and storm down the tunnel toward the locker room, leaving the splintered stick behind.
Leaving her behind.
Leaving us behind.
Chapter 26
Daisy
I’m lying on my couch staring at the ceiling. Maybe it might offer answers if I give it enough time.
It doesn’t.
I toss and turn, tugging the throw blanket up and then quickly pushing it back down. Restlessness gnaws at me, and there’s an ache beneath my ribs that has nothing to do with illness and everything to do with unfinished conversations.
“Where is he?” I mutter to the empty apartment.
I check my watch for the third time in under a minute. Elias was supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago.
It’s been three days since the blowup with Grizz on the bench. Three days since the stick, the words, the way he looked at me with condemnation because I’d reached somewhere raw and dangerous without permission. Three days of silence between us and I can’t stand how things are unresolved.
I sit up just as the doorbell rings and my pulse spikes. I’m off the couch and halfway to the door before I remind myself to breathe. When I open it, there he is… Elias.
He looks me up and down, one brow lifting as if he’s already clocked the tension vibrating off me. His hands are full—two bottles of wine tucked under one arm, a pint of ice cream balanced precariously in his one palm, and a crinkling bag of chips clenched in his free hand.