Heart of Thorns (Shadow Valley U Book 2)
Heart of Thorns: Chapter 34

I follow our kicker down the hall. For the past two days, he’s been acting a bit off. He missed a field goal at the game last night—an oddity in and of itself—but he also hasn’t been as engaged in the locker room. I’ve been watching him, and he just seems checked out.

His hands were wrapped, too, which seems out of character.

Did he burn them starting the fire?

“Hey!” I call. “Jack!”

He stops and turns. He plucks earbuds out and raises an eyebrow. “Sorry, Thorne. I was jammin’.”

“What are you listening to?”

“Paul McCartney.” He holds up his hand. “Don’t start to give me shit.”

“I won’t. Just wanted to say that you did a good job today.”

“He scowls. “Yeah, right. I’ve been missing some easy thirty-yarders lately.”

Well… yeah. I point to his bandaged hand. “What happened?”

“Got into a disagreement with my brother.” He tugs aside the part around his knuckles, revealing deep-purple bruises. “Our parents raised us to deal with that sort of shit ourselves and not complain, which generally results in punching each other a few times. I didn’t want Coach spotting it and benching me, so…”

“Jeez.” I stare at him. “That kind of makes me glad I’m an only child.”

He chuckles. “Yeah. So, did you need something?”

“Nah. See you tomorrow, man.”

He leaves, and my shoulders drop. That was a fail. I was sure he was going to be added to the list of suspects, but his grumpy mood was because he thought his performance was subpar.

I fish out my phone, automatically checking for texts from Briar.

Nothing.

Her expression from when I kicked her out floats in front of my eyes, only to be replaced with the flash of hurt right before I kissed her on the field.

Fuck. She’s still helping me, and what am I doing?

Not a lot, that’s for sure.

I open my conversation thread with Rhys.

I roll my eyes. He’s been picking up more and more television cop show lingo. I have no idea if police actually say half the things that come out of his mouth. I follow in the same direction Jack went and step out into the cold evening.

The parking lot is mostly empty, and I zip up my jacket on the way to Rhys’s car. He comes from another exit. He remote starts it, then unlocks it for me, and I climb in fast.

The cold weather makes my knee ache. I know it’s probably nothing compared to Briar’s, and another freaking pang goes through my chest.

“What did Jack say?” Rhys practically falls into the driver’s seat.

“He showed me his bruised knuckles and told me some story about solving problems with his brother with his fists.” I sigh. “So, we’re nowhere.”

Rhys points to the glove box. I open it and take out the small notepad we’ve been using for our list. It has everyone who we saw from the fight on one side, then everyone else on the other. If they have an alibi for not being at the fight, they got crossed out.

If we saw them after the fire started—like, for example, Aaron—they get crossed out.

“There’s got to be a way to narrow this down,” I say, drawing a line through Jack’s name.

Rhys talked to Willow, Aaron’s girl, who told us a few other guys she and Aaron went with. And, when pressed, she insisted that they were with them the whole time leading up to the fire.

“I don’t like that we haven’t crossed out Ben’s name,” Rhys says. “Let’s work on him.”

I glare down at the list. “He’d see straight through me if I question him, and you probably blew your cover, too.”

He hums, thinking it over. I buckle my seat belt, and he pulls out of the parking lot.

“Okay,” he finally says, when we’re nearly home. “He’s besties with Stephen McDowell.”

“Right…”

“So we ask him.” He glances at me. “Obviously.”

That would make sense. Especially since they’re together a lot. Questioning Stephen on where he and Ben are would probably be pretty plausible, and less likely for Stephen to get his hackles up.

“Let’s talk to him tomorrow,” I suggest.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I hit the side button without removing it, silencing the vibration. It’s probably my mother, up in arms once again about going on another date.

She keeps mentioning Cynthia Keenland, which is driving me nuts. She had nothing special going on underneath the layers of Botox and filler. Just her daddy’s last name.

Briar is so much more than that. One, I don’t think she’s even considered filler, in her lips or other places. Two, she has a mind of her own. She does what she wants⁠—

“You’ve got that sad look in your eye,” Rhys interrupts.

I scowl. “No I don’t.”

“Were you thinking about Miss Heart of Thorns?”

I punch his arm, but he only cackles.

“Get it? She’s head over heels for you, and you’re Thorne⁠—”

“Fuck off.” I get out of the car and slam the door, leaving him behind to hurry up and get inside. My phone goes off again, and I growl louder as I fish it out.

Not my mother, though.

Lydia?

I swipe to answer it fast, my heart picking up speed. “Lydia? What’s wrong?”

She pauses. “What makes you think something is wrong?”

“I—”

“Okay, okay. Heartbreak aside, I think you’re the only one who can help us.”

“Us?”

“Briar,” she corrects. “The women’s team was finishing practice, Coach left, and then suddenly Briar passes us all laced up.”

There’s a distant whoosh in my ears. She’s on the ice? Skating?

“Tell her to stop,” I demand.

She’s not ready. We’ve been working on conditioning, but skating is a whole new beast. One sideways movement could derail everything. It could set her back months. A year, even.

“We tried.” Lydia sighs. “I stepped off to call you, but Marley keeps trying to talk sense into her.”

“And?”

“It’s not working. She’s frustrated.”

Clearly.

“And angry,” she adds.

At me.

“I’m on my way.” I hang up on her and pivot, nearly crashing into Rhys. “Be back later.”

“Uh-huh.” He narrows his eyes at me, but I don’t fucking care.

I drive like a bat out of hell to the arena. I park at the end of the row and rush inside, down the long, darkened hallway. Lydia stands on the mats that line the hall from their locker room to the rink, her hands planted on her hips. She’s still in skates and pads, the practice jersey boldly showing the Shadow Valley U Knights on her chest.

“Is she⁠—?”

“Still out there,” Lydia clips out. “If she hurts herself⁠—”

“I know. Just… give us a minute.” Or a few.

She makes a face. I ignore her and head to the rink. The door is open, giving me a view to the ice. Briar is at the far hash marks. Marley passes her a puck from the blue line, and she takes a slap shot.

Just watching her twist makes me cringe.

I step onto the ice and grit my teeth. The Zamboni hasn’t come through yet—probably because of Briar’s continued activity—so the chewed-up ice at least gives me a little friction.

“I’ll take over,” I tell Marley.

Briar’s head shoots up. “No.”

“Yes,” I snap, my voice booming across the distance. “You want to fuck your knee up? You do it with me.”

I hold my hand out, and Marley passes me her stick on her way off the ice. I can’t say I’ve played much hockey—and this, with no skates, definitely doesn’t count—but I’m coordinated. I glare at Briar when she slaps her stick on the ice.

“What?” I bark at her. “Is that caveman for pass you another puck?”

“Fuck off, Cassius.”

I roll my eyes and drop Marley’s stick. I kick a puck at her, and even though it’s slow, she takes a shot.

“There.” I point. “That hurt, kitten?”

“No,” she lies.

I laugh and storm closer. She moves to pass me, but I snag my fingers in the practice jersey she donned. She’s not wearing padding, though. I yank her around. With her skates on, she’s almost my height. Almost.

I hold her tightly and resist the urge to shake her.

“Let go of me.” She pushes at my chest.

I shake my head. “No.”

“Let go.”

“You’re being a brat,” I snap in her face. “Don’t hurt yourself because you’re pissed at me.”

She struggles harder, and I can’t do it—I’m going to lose my balance, and this fight, if I keep going like I am.

So I haul her over my shoulder, pinning her thighs to my chest, and slap her ass. Once, hard.

It takes her by fucking surprise, enough that I manage to get us off the ice. Lydia and Marley stand in the shadows.

“Locker room empty?”

Marley nods quickly.

“Keep it that way,” I order.

A shiver runs through Briar, and I dig my fingers into her thighs. I kick the door open and storm through, then drop her carefully back to her feet.

“Give it to me.” I motion to her.

“Give you what?”

“Your anger.” I shake my head. “Your frustration. Your helplessness that you seem to need to take out on yourself—or prove it doesn’t exist? I don’t know. Don’t hurt yourself. Hurt me.”

She stares at me for a long moment, then goes to one of the benches in front of a cubby. She unlaces her skates, her movements too jerky. I just stare at her in silence, my own anger building in my chest.

“I don’t want to care.” My words slip out, but it doesn’t break the growing tension. “I don’t want to care that you’re going to freaking hurt yourself doing stupid shit like this.”

“Then don’t.” She yanks her feet out of the skates and sets them aside. Rising, she strips out of the practice jersey, revealing a black skin-tight long-sleeved shirt underneath. And leggings under the pants.

“You make it impossible.” I step forward. “Look at me.”

She straightens and faces me.

“I need to think about football. You heard my father⁠—”

“You don’t have to bow to your parents’ will!” she shouts. “My father this, my mother this, trust fund fucking that. Who gives a shit? Who are you without your money?”

My mouth opens and closes. “You’ve got to be kidding me right now.”

“Your head is up your ass.” She scoffs. “I’m going to skate again.”

I clench my jaw. “Not if you injure yourself first. Doing things wrong, rushing into it⁠—”

“God, you’re impossible.” She yanks the tie out of her hair, shaking it loose. “You’re infuriatingly talented, and kind, and I hate you for it.”

I stalk closer. My heart drums against my ribs, and I reach for her. I can’t help it. My fingers slip through the silky strands of her hair, cupping the back of her head, and I pull her into me.

My gaze burns into hers, and I suddenly need to know the truth.

“Do you really hate me?”

Her eyes widen, but she doesn’t soften. Who would Briar Hart be if she softened for me?

“Yes,” she says.

“Liar.”

Her hands are at my jeans, unbuttoning them. Her gaze dips down, then back up, and a challenge gleams in her eyes. “Let’s find out.”