Heart of Thorns (Shadow Valley U Book 2)
Heart of Thorns: Chapter 8

@B_Hart: @therealthorne’s true face may be gone from the locker room but never from our memories. [IMAGE]

I shake my head, trying to hold back a laugh. I should be pissed, but I’m not.

This girl is relentless. She even tagged me!

Who does that?

Rhys slaps me on the arm, and I quickly shield the screen from him. I grab a towel from my locker and wipe the sweat from my forehead and the back of my neck.

The fixed portrait of me glares down at us. There are other guys, sure, but it seems like they’re all a little less defined. And maybe it’s because she had to fix the details she added to make me into the devil. But it seems like she saw me. My eyes are… well, it’s kind of flattering, in a creepy way. She got all the details right, down to the golden flecks.

Is she actually a stalker? Or did I insult her?

I’m leaning toward the latter.

Let’s not forget that I offered my hand to her. She nearly tumbled off the ladder.

I snicker. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a more clumsy person. The details of her injury—the slight limp I spotted, the snide comments that girl made at one of the parties—elude me. Mainly because I can’t fucking ask anyone about it without showing my hand.

All I know is that she’s a hockey player.

Was.

Was a hockey player.

Briar Hart.

I turn her name over in my mind, unfortunately liking the sound of it. And the way she snaps at me. Brambles, indeed. She’s thornier than me—and that’s fucking saying something.

My phone buzzes again, and I check it.

Holy fucking exclamation points.

My stomach cramps, and I put my phone away without replying. No doubt it’s Cynthia Keenland, the name conveniently supplied by my father again a few hours ago. To make sure I give a swoon-worthy performance after the game, both to her and her father. The investor.

The day my parents stop using me to further their one-percent, billionaire, blue-blood society friends, will be the day I drop dead of a heart attack.

Coach comes in and gives us a spiel about not slacking in the fourth quarter. I drain half my water bottle and use the restroom, and then we’re back on the field.

Thoughts of Cynthia and her dad fade, but Briar’s face remains.

Our opponents kick, and we get possession. I put on my helmet and hop up and down, resisting the urge to scan the crowd. That’s the kind of shit that gets me in trouble.

And yet…

Maybe she just sticks out in a crowd.

Or maybe it’s the blue-and-white jersey she’s wearing in a sea of red.

Briar Hart.

“Come on!” Rhys tugs at my arm.

I rip my gaze away from her and follow him onto the field. She’s wearing the other team’s jersey. Her and another beside her…

Why?

She goes to Shadow Valley U—does she not have any fucking respect for the school?

“The play?” Rhys elbows me hard.

I jerk and look around at my teammates, then call out a familiar play. One that will get the ball down the field. I point at Rhys, and he just nods.

All business.

We get our first down, and I call another play. Line up. Snap. The football feels warm in my hands, and I dance in the pocket for a moment, then another. Waiting, waiting… there.

I throw. It’s a beautiful spiral that just seems to go and go⁠—

Oof.

I’m hit hard from the side. The guy drives me into the ground, his shoulder pad digging into my neck. And for a second, I can’t seem to get air in my lungs.

The body is yanked off me. I’m lifted to my feet by teammates, and it still takes another second to drag in a ragged breath.

“That fucker,” my center seethes. “You threw the ball already—where the fuck is the flag?”

“Don’t worry about it.” I clap him on the arm and cast a quick, innocuous glance toward the stands.

Fuck me, does she seem worried?

My helmet obscures my face, so she probably doesn’t know I’ve clocked her. Her hair is up in a messy bun on top of her head, but she’s wearing a bright-red lipstick that’s totally at odds with the blue jersey.

The image of backing her against a wall and lifting the fabric off her comes unbidden.

Shit.

Before I know it, we’re in formation again. My head swims, and I shake out my limbs. My body goes on autopilot, and we’re fifteen yards away from the goal line by the time the defense manages to halt our forward progress.

I switch out for our kicker and take a seat. It’s only then that I notice the twinge of pain in my knee. My physical therapist, always on hand during games to wrap joints or simply be here during emergencies, appears in front of me.

“How does it feel?”

“Fine.”

“You were limping for the last two plays.”

“No, I wasn’t.” I scowl at him. “It’s fine.”

He just stares at me.

The kicker does his job, sending the ball through the posts. It puts us up ten points, with four minutes left on the clock.

They send the ball down for the other team, and I hop up to pace.

“I just need to walk it off,” I tell him over my shoulder.

But with every step, it just aches worse. I grab a cup of water and gulp it down, then another to pour over my head.

The visitors barely make it to the fifty-yard line when they throw an interception.

We’re back in.

Ignore the pain, ignore everything.

One minute and fifteen seconds.

Just a few plays left. And, in the blink of an eye, it’s over. The home crowd goes nuts as the time counts down. The field suddenly fills with people—the rest of my team jumping around me and Rhys, who puts his hands on my shoulders and shouts something unintelligible.

The excitement is palpable, and I force myself to be just as in it as they are.

“There you are! Thorne!” a feminine voice calls.

I turn.

The girl I took on a date a few days ago appears, a man in a suit right behind her. “Oh my gosh, Thorne, you were incredible!” She bounces forward and kisses my cheek.

I should’ve kept my helmet on.

“Thanks,” I tell her. Because being cordial is what’s expected. My attention swings to her father. “Sir.”

“Good game, son.”

If there’s one thing I loathe, it’s being called son.

But… it seems like this guy really does want me to be his son. In-law.

Abso-fucking-lutely not.

He continues on about the game, even commenting on things he thinks I could improve. When he reaches that stage, I tune him out. My polite agreements seem to mollify him, but I’m just searching for a hint of blue in the crowd.

“…eager for you to join the Keenland family.”

I refocus on him. “Sorry, what?”

He narrows his eyes. “Your father assures me you’re serious in finding a wife.”

“I…” am not. But the words stick in my throat.

“I love my daughter,” he continues. “Do you understand?”

It’s like everything he’s saying suddenly presses in on me at once.

Wife. His daughter. Do you understand? It’s a phrase my father often employs when he wants to get his way. When he dictates my life with an iron fist.

I can’t breathe with the pressure of it all, and my gaze flicks around for an escape route.

Blue jersey.

An absolutely insane idea strikes me.

“Sir, I think there’s been a misunderstanding. I’m in a serious relationship.” The words are out before I can stop them.

His eyebrows hike. “You took my Cynthia out on a date while in a relationship?”

“My father set it up, sir. I had no idea she would see it as a date, and I apologize for that.”

He stares at me a beat. A flush crawls up his neck, but he doesn’t act on his emotions. If anything, all of that seems to drain away. He clears his throat and shakes his head, muttering something.

About a waste of time?

Mine’s been wasted, too. Over and over again.

“Well. Give my best to your parents.” He motions for his daughter, and they disappear into the crowd.

Okay. Okay, that’s fine.

Now I need to convince the girl with the heart of thorns to pretend to date me.