Chapter 3: Hidden Scars: Chapter 2

how hard I’m clenching my teeth together. It’s giving me a headache. I’m fucking exhausted and the adrenaline crash is riding me hard.

After being picked up by my father’s driver, I was delivered to his new fucking penthouse to have my stitches removed and another new fucking cut added to my body. How dare I be tired from traveling after packing up my dorm room, right?

I haven’t had a chance to crash, but it’s coming. A few more hours of putting on a fake fucking face before I can disappear into the shower and fall apart.

My shoulders are tense as I lift my suitcase to the bed to unpack it. I force myself to not let out the hiss of pain as my new stitches pull at the movement. The throb at the back of my head is taking over and I can barely think around it.

I don’t want to be here, moving into this tiny fucking dorm room that I have to share. Since I was enrolled past the deadline, it was too late to the school to give me my own room. Father is not happy about it, but he made this fucking choice. I could have stayed in God damn Boston, stayed close to my sister, who’s in boarding school because God knows he’s not going to raise his own child. But no. I’m here in fucking Colorado.

“Are you waiting for something?” I snap at the guy I just interrupted getting a BJ. I’m sure this is exactly what he wants to be doing right now. Pretty sure the other dude is also on the team. That should make for some situations later. I wonder how long it’ll take for the boyfriend to give me the “don’t touch” speech.

“I guess not.” Jeremy stands up a little straighter, his shoulders squaring, and some confidence slides over his face. He’s cute when he’s got some backbone. Too bad I don’t have time for distractions.

“Why aren’t you running drills or working out? The season starts soon.” I fall back into my asshole ways so fucking easily. Keep him at arm’s length so he doesn’t land on Father’s radar. I workout all the damn time, my body is conditioned much like those who play in the pros since that is what my father wants from me.

It was incredibly frustrating playing for the juniors in a Tier Two division for the NAHL when Tier One teams with USHL have been scouting me since I was seventeen, but I wasn’t allowed to leave New England. Can’t stray too far from dear ol’ dad.

He wants to show off his perfect son, marry off his perfect daughter to the highest bidder, and become invincible. Show his drunk of a father how much better he is because he has money and prestige. Lily is a very innocent seventeen-year-old that has not yet felt the wrath of Doctor Andrew Carmichael. I’ve done everything in my power to keep it that way.

I just have to make it until her birthday next summer. Then I can tell my father to fuck off and never look back. I don’t need him.

I unzip my suitcase to give myself something to do. Even that small movement pulls on the damn stitches. My body is riddled with scars, from my shoulders to my knees, from my father’s scalpel over the years. He’s managed to keep most of them from crossing, blaming them on medical procedures anytime he was questioned. He’s a highly respected surgeon, why would he be lying?

Lifting stacks of clothes out of the suitcase, I get them placed neatly in the drawers at the end of the tiny bed I’ll be sleeping on for my freshman year.

“We have a workout schedule set by the coach, I follow that so I don’t burn myself out or risk injury.” His tone is sharper than it was a minute ago. Lookie there, a bit more back bone. My dick almost takes notice.

“If you want to get picked up in the draft, you need to step up your game. You had an unremarkable year last year, you have to do better.” My words cut through the space between us with my back to him. I don’t plan them, they fall out of my mouth. They are almost word for word what my father told me this morning.

“Uh, no. I want to coach.”

Silence falls and it is heavy.

Since my suitcase is empty, I zip it back up and slide it under my bed then turn to face him.

“If you don’t want to play, why are you wasting everyone’s time and the school’s resources? Someone who wants to play could have your spot on the team and be seen by the scouts.” Once again, my father’s words fall from my lips. I’ve said it before to my teammates in the past.

He almost flinches but manages to meet my gaze and hold it. Why do I want to break that strength? Maybe I am my father’s son after all.

Jeremy has no response. It’s better that way.

I take a step toward him, crowding him against his bed.

“Let me be very clear, I am not here to make friends. I’m here to play hockey to the best of my abilities and I will not let your lack of work ethic drag me down. Get a good night’s rest because tomorrow you are all in for a rude fucking awakening.”

“You do realize that I was playing on a Tier One team right? You weren’t. I think that speaks enough about my work ethic.” he snaps back.

“I wasn’t on a Tier One team by choice. I’ve turned down recruiters three years in a row.” I hold his gaze, watching as the confusion crosses his face.

“Why the hell would you turn it down? That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard!” His arms spread out wide as he talks.

“That’s none of your business, is it?”

He stares at me for a minute, confused and disbelieving, before a phone buzzes and I watch Jeremy look at his phone on the nightstand next to his bed. Jesus, this room is fucking small. Pretty sure my childhood closet was bigger than this.

I take a step back and force my hands into my pockets. Something about him has my fingers itching to touch, but I can’t.

Taking in the shaggy dark blond hair on his head and the perfectly unscarred expanse of his chest, my skin tingles imagining him against me despite how much my head revolts at the thought of being touched. The muscles of his abdomen flex as he pulls his t-shirt over his head and my mouth waters. He’s hot, there’s no other way to put it. With his boy-next-door vibe, he appears friendly, but I’m willing to bet he’s not so nice on the ice. I vaguely remember playing against him and I can’t wait to get to know how he plays so I can pick him apart.

Albrooke slides his phone into the pocket of his sweatpants and runs a hand through his hair. “I guess this means you don’t want to meet the team for a beer?” His eyes rake down my body, the muscles in his jaw jumping as he tenses.

“No.”

He slides his feet into some worn blue slip-ons, probably Vans, and disappears, closing our door behind him.

Finally, I’m able to breathe. My hands shake, my stomach turns, and my knees give out, dropping me onto my unmade bed. I lean my elbows on my knees and hold my head in my hands while the breath in my lungs stutters in and out of my ribcage. In the blink of an eye, I’m hyperventilating, my eyes fluttering shut as the morning’s activities slam into me.

The pull of the stitches being removed from my flesh, the burn of the scalpel as it sliced the skin on my left pec open. My stomach turns and I rush to the bathroom to empty its contents into the toilet. My knees hit the floor hard enough to bruise but I barely notice the pain. Sweat beads on my forehead as stomach acid burns my throat and nose.

I haven’t had a chance to crash until now, the adrenaline high of this morning finally wearing off, leaving me weak and tired.

The memory of my father’s barely-contained rage when I told him I could take the stitches out myself and to leave me alone sends a shiver up my spine. I fucking hate him. Nine months and he can’t touch Lily anymore. She’ll be an adult, graduated from high school, and finally able to touch the inheritance our mother left her. He won’t be able to touch her, which means he’ll lose his hold over me.

Dragging my ass off the floor, I don’t bother turning the light on before I strip my clothes off and turn the hot water on. I don’t want to see the fucking scars anyway.

I didn’t put any shower stuff in here, so I grope at the walls and find whatever Jeremy fucking Albrooke has. If he notices, I don’t give a shit.

I’m careful to keep the bandage on my chest dry, but I know I’ll have to change it and send a picture to dear ol’ dad later. Gotta make sure it’s not getting infected, that I’m taking care of it properly.

The heat of the water doesn’t do much to relax my muscles but I stand under it until it turns cold anyway. It’s peaceful in here, in the dark, alone.

Alone is safe.

Turning the water off, I realize I don’t have a towel or a change of clothes. God damn it.

I feel along the wall until I find the door and the towel hanging on a hook. Looks like I’m using the roommate’s towel too. The rest of my shit should be delivered tomorrow, though I’m not sure how I’m going to explain this if he asks. It’s fucking weird to use someone’s towel that you don’t know.

Quickly, I dry off and grab my clothes from the floor. I don’t want to put dirty clothes on but I can’t let anyone see the scars either. They’ll ask questions, and if they push it, they will disappear. They always do.

Cracking the bathroom door open, I peer around the room and see it’s still empty. I lock the door and hurry to my dresser to grab clothes. Being covered feels better.

I’m fucking exhausted and I have to be up at four am for a run. How late is this dumbass going to be? Will I be able to sleep or will nightmares wake me up in two hours?

I check my phone and find a message from my father wanting a fucking picture. I find the pack of first aid supplies he shoved at me this morning and head into the bathroom, closing and locking the door behind me. This time I turn the light on and pull my left arm out of my t-shirt so I don’t have to hold it while I deal with the bandage.

Carefully, I remove the gauze that’s taped to my skin and clean the wound. I’m patting it dry with a piece of gauze when the door to my dorm is opened and someone tries the bathroom knob. My head swings to the side when whoever is on the other side bangs on the door.

“Hurry up dude! I gotta piss!” Sounds like Albrooke.

“Fuck off,” I growl, quickly taking a picture and covering the wound.

“Unless you’re taking a shit or jacking off, open the door!” He bangs on the door again.

I slip my arm back through the sleeve and gather my supplies back into the brown paper bag.

Ripping open the door, I stand in the way so he can’t push past me.

“What the fuck is your problem?” he yells, cheeks flushed from alcohol.

“You. If I’m in here, I’m not letting you in. I don’t care if you’re about to shit your pants. Find another bathroom.” My empty hand lands in the middle of Jeremy’s chest and I push him back out of my way.

He must really need to piss since he doesn’t have a comeback and just hurries into the bathroom with the damn door still open. I lift my lip at his lack of privacy and shove the brown bag into the dresser before turning to my bed.

Shit.

I don’t have sheets or a pillow. Great.

Digging through my shit, I find a hoodie, fold it into a pillow, then lie down, back pressed against the wall, and close my eyes.

Should I be working out tomorrow? No. Am I going to do it anyway? Yes. I don’t have a reason for the damn stitches so I can’t tell the coach I’m ineligible for medical reasons.