Heart of Thorns (Shadow Valley U Book 2)
Heart of Thorns: Chapter 5

My hands ache.

I wiggle my fingers a few times and crack my neck. Standing on the ladder for hours last night and again tonight has my body tight in all the wrong spots. My knee is so swollen I could hardly pull my jeans on this morning. There’s no going back now, though.

Typically, if I was on a commissioned job, I’d wear a shirt and loose pants that were already covered with paint. But going home and trying to get this denim off will do nothing but exhaust me.

I end my short break and stand from the bench, then spin around the locker room to stare at the rest of the empty spaces I still have to fill in. I have plenty of time to finish the job, but after another run-in with the football king himself, I’m more inclined to finish fast so I don’t have to see him again.

Anger zips to my fingertips as I stare at Thorne’s perfectly arched jawline. I worked so hard on it last night. I was proud and I still am, but God. My blood boils. The disgust on his face after he assumed I was another obsessed jersey chaser pisses me off.

Talk about being full of yourself.

He thought I was doing this to get his attention? If I wanted his attention, all I’d have to do is lift my pant leg up and show him my scars. That’d surely get a second look.

I exhale and pull my pencil out from behind my ear.

Arrogant asshole.

I begin sketching the team’s co-captain right beside the painting of Thorne. Nothing but my slow breathing fills the locker room. Where I used to have soft music playing in my earbuds while I worked, now I have nothing. There are times where I’m painting or sketching and I get so lost in the act that I can’t hear much except my own thoughts, but now I make sure I know my surroundings.

PTSD will do that to you, I suppose.

That’s why I was so frustrated when Thorne startled me.

What was he even doing here so late at night?

Maybe he was stalking me. Not the other way around.

My hand shakes. I glance around the locker room for a third time.

Chill, Briar.

My parents forced me into taking PTSD classes after my incident. Not many people know that someone trapped me inside the building that night. Except, of course, the arsonist and the police.

The last thing I wanted was for the university to put out a statement that not only did their female star hockey player jump from a burning building on campus, destroying her chances at ever playing hockey again, but that someone actively trapped her in said building and tried to kill her.

I was all for the attention I got when I was their highest-scoring hockey player, but having attention because someone tried to kill me?

Thanks, but no thanks.

Pencil strokes fill the quietness of the locker room the harder I push, and by the end of my mini panic attack, the lead is practically nonexistent.

I slowly lower myself to the floor with a wince and stare up at Jerkface One and Jerkface Two.

It’s a job well done.

I move to the other side of the wall and sketch Shadow Valley’s mascot—a knight, dressed in silver armor with red accents. It’s the same one I drew in the girl’s locker room, the one I spent my entire freshman and sophomore year in.

My pencil falls to the floor, and I hiss between my teeth.

After hobbling down from the ladder again, I search for my pencil.

“Come on,” I sigh. “Where are you?”

If I have to get down on my hands and knees for this fucking pencil, I’m done for the night.

I’m sore, tired, and irritated with Thorne’s stupidly attractive face staring at me.

I walk throughout the locker room on quiet feet, searching for my pencil. By the time I find it, I’ve already called it quits in my head. I swoop down, snatch it up, and then the realization hits me.

The weight room.

It’s honestly unfair that the football team, and even the men’s hockey team, both have top-of-the-line locker rooms with well-equipped machines for conditioning, training, and physical therapy. The women’s? It’s a joke.

We can’t even get them to stock quality tampons for us.

That must be what Thorne was doing here so late last night. Not the tampon part—the weight room.

As much as I want to punch him in the face, it’s clear he’s a dedicated athlete. It takes one to know one, and before my incident, I was the same. His name is consistently in the media. The other day, a video went viral on social media of him walking along campus with some of our peers kneeling along the sidewalk and bowing while he walked by.

I roll my eyes. What a cocky son of a bitch.

I mean, fine… he did seem agitated by the attention through his half-smirk. But it doesn’t matter. I’m bitter nonetheless.

Even more so as I stare into the men’s weight room with machines I know would help strengthen my leg.

My parents think I’m in denial because I refuse to accept that I’ll never play hockey again—they weren’t a fan of the sport to begin with. But I like to think of myself as determined.

I spin in an angry huff, ready to leave for the night, only to run right into a hard chest.

“Shit!” I stumble backward.

Two hands grip my arms, and the first thing that rushes through my veins is fear, only to be replaced by something else much more potent when I peer into his eyes.

Of course he’s back.

“This is getting old,” I snap. “Stop stalking me.”

Thorne’s brow furrows, his immediate annoyance clear. I mimic his face just to spite him.

“I was here first,” I add, beating him to the punch.

I rip my arms out from his grip. I hate that the touch alone gave me butterflies. I don’t get the feeling twisted, though. I know it’s because I haven’t been with anyone for months.

Thorne sighs. He’s still too close, but his minty breath puts me under a spell. I stare into his eyes and memorize the warm, golden flecks scattered throughout so I can add them to his portrait later.

“This is the men’s locker room, jersey chaser. You shouldn’t even be in here.”

“Jersey chaser? Really?” I roll my eyes and brush past him. My lip bleeds with how hard I bite into the flesh to ignore the pain of my leg.

Thorne grips my bicep, stopping me from getting too far. “Listen. I’m not into girls like you, so stop following me around. It’ll just be easier on both of us that way.”

Slowly, I drag my attention from his strong grip on my arm to his stern face.

I laugh. “Excuse me?”

He scowls. “I don’t know what you think this is, but running into me again, after painting my face on the wall, isn’t a good look. It means you’re desperate and I’m just not into desperate girls.”

He finally drops my arm, like that’s going to help. He was the one keeping me close just a second ago.

“Tell me you’re an arrogant asshole without saying it.” A sarcastic laugh follows my insult.

Stalking him?

Get a fucking grip, Thorne.

I turn the corner and head for my things. I hope he follows me so he can see that I didn’t just paint him but that I painted his co-captain and the logo as well. He’ll see it soon enough and hopefully he’ll feel like a complete idiot and knock his ego down a few sizes.

Loud music blares from the weight room, rattling the lockers around me. My jealousy and irritation kick up a few notches the more I peer up at his face on the wall.

Part of my rage isn’t even directed toward him, but I simmer in it anyway.

I pull the ladder over to his portrait and grin.

If realizing that I’m not stalking him, nor that I’m obsessed with him, by learning that I was actually commissioned to paint their locker room doesn’t put a dent into his confidence, then surely this will.