15. Micah

15

MICAH

T he human brain was amazing. The fact that I could compartmentalize the absolute fear that threatened to freeze my body every time I thought about the texts and the events of the summer, and still be able to function? Ava, Grayson, Cruz, and I were receiving those fucked-up texts that had to do with the lake—otherwise, why would we be targeted? We'd never all hung out together otherwise. That was enough to keep me up at night, but yet here I was, with the same fucking worries that always played on my mind. Will I ever live up to my dad's expectations? Unlikely. Am I going to get the grades I need? Hopefully. Will Grayson Cross ever stop being the bane of my existence? Also unlikely. Unless my dad stopped worshiping the ground he walked on?—

Speaking of.

"Good. Again." My dad's voice boomed across the rink, the semblance of a smile on his face as he watched Grayson skate from one end of the rink to the other in swift, powerful strokes, his stick connecting with the puck that Smith shot in his direction. My dad didn't even look away from the action as he snapped his fingers in my direction. "Micah. Make sure you get all of this."

I obediently lifted my camera, capturing the brutal grace of the Barracudas as they executed their drills with perfect precision. There might have been more pictures of Grayson than anyone else, but that was to be expected, with him being the captain and star player.

Working on autopilot, I moved around the rink, trying to find the best angles. It would be better if I were on the ice, but I could barely skate—much to my dad's endless disappointment—and even if I could, I didn't trust my camera to stay safe around flying pucks and big men with big sticks.

When I felt as if I had a decent range of images, I connected my camera up to my laptop to begin sorting through them. I zoomed in on an action shot of Grayson, his blue-gray eyes narrowed in concentration behind the cage of his helmet. They were so fucking intense, so focused. My heart stuttered in my chest. It was as if he was looking into my soul, although I knew he'd actually been focused on one of his teammates-turned-temporary-opponent.

The players began filing off the ice, my dad clapping Grayson on the back, a beaming smile on his face that I couldn't recall ever being directed at me. "Well done, son. Keep up the good work, and the conference title will be within our reach."

Son . I bit down on the inside of my cheek, scrolling through the photos on my laptop in an effort to make myself look busy. Why did I have to care so much? I should be used to the way my dad acted by now.

A throat cleared. "Will do, Coach. Hey, look. Micah got some good photos of us, didn't he?"

My head whipped up, my eyes widening at Grayson's unexpected words. His gaze slid from my laptop screen to my dad.

My dad didn't even bother to look at the screen. "He has to make himself useful to the team somehow. Not everyone's born with your talent, as much as I wish they were."

Fuck, his dismissive words hurt . I averted my gaze, willing myself to hold it together and not make a fool out of myself in front of the hockey team. Fumbling in my bag for my earbuds, I shoved them in my ears, hitting Play on my music app, and did my best to drown the world out.

Fucking Cross. Why did he have to say anything to my dad, to remind him of what a failure I was in his eyes, as if he needed another reminder?

When I was finally alone, I yanked out my earbuds and let my face drop into my hands.

"Hey."

No . "Leave me alone," I muttered from behind my hands.

Fingers curled around mine, pulling my hands away from my face. "I think I get it now." Grayson's voice was softer than I'd ever heard it before, and I gritted my teeth as I realized he probably felt sorry for me. Fucking great.

"Get what?" I snapped. I needed to ask Cruz Martinez for some tips on how to project a "fuck off and die" vibe, because my glare wasn't deterring Grayson at all.

Although, thinking about it, Grayson wasn't deterred by him, either.

Grayson tightened his grip on my hands, and without warning, he suddenly yanked me to my feet. I stumbled, tipping forward and landing hard against his sweaty chest, a huff of breath punching out of me. Pushing away from him, I rubbed at my own chest, sending him the most savage look I could muster.

"Are you okay?"

"No, I am fucking not! You're built like a solid wall. Try falling against yourself, see how you like it." I was aware my words didn't make much sense, but I was frustrated and hurt and all I wanted was to be left alone.

"Sorry." He tugged his lip between his teeth, running a hand through his sweaty hair. "Look, all I wanted was— Hold up. You're built like a wall, too."

I stared at him. "Have you taken a puck to the head? Yeah, I'm fit, but I don't have the build of a fucking hockey player. Much to my dad's disappointment, which, by the way, thank you very fucking much for reminding him again just how much of a disappointment I am."

"That was what I wanted to say. I?—"

"Please, just leave me alone. I don't want to hear whatever you think you have to say."

"If that's what you want," he muttered. "At least I fucking tried." Turning on his heel, he stalked away toward the locker rooms.

I sighed. "Wait."

He stopped instantly, turning back to face me, giving me a wary look. "What?"

Steeling myself, I forced the words out. "What did you want to say?"

At that, he came right back over to me, the hardness disappearing from his expression. "I wanted to say that I get it. I get why you hate me now. I'm sorry I didn't see it before, and I'm sorry I've made your life harder."

My shoulders slumped. "It's not your fault. If it wasn't you, it would be someone else. I'm never gonna measure up in my dad's eyes. Useless at skating, useless at hockey, built like this?—"

"Fucking hell, Micah," he bit out, slashing his hand through the air between us. "Stop. Your dad's a fucking fool if he can't see and appreciate the talent you have."

A gasp fell from my throat before I could suppress it, because I'd never have expected him to say anything so disrespectful about his coach. But he seemed…angry. And not at me. I opened my mouth to say something—I didn't know what—but he was still talking.

"You're fucking ripped. Look." With zero concept of personal space and propriety, he yanked up my T-shirt, placing his palm flat against my abs. "See?"

"I know I am." I shoved his hand away, my heart pounding. "I do a lot of martial arts, and I work out. But I'm never gonna have the bulk he wants me to. He hates that I take after my mother—his ex-wife—rather than him." A thought suddenly occurred to me. "How did you know I was ripped?"

His cheeks flushed, and that was a sight I thought I'd never see. Grayson Cross embarrassed?

"I saw you at the lake. Earlier that day, when we were swimming. Before—" He cut himself off with a grimace, and just like that, my compartmentalizing went to shit.

"What are we going to do?"

"I'm gonna shower, and you're gonna text Ava and Martinez. Get them to meet us at the library. We need to find out everything that happened that day at the lake."

My mind wouldn't stop racing, replaying that night over and over again. After packing up my stuff and texting the others, I headed into the locker room, my heart still racing and my palms sweating. As much as I had complicated feelings about Grayson Cross, he was the only person around right now who could distract me from my spiraling thoughts. And he was one of only three people who had an idea of what I was going through. The rest of the hockey team had been and gone while Grayson was rinkside with me, so I didn't have to worry about anyone wondering what I was doing there.

When I pushed open the doors, I heard the shower running. Instead of taking a seat on the benches and waiting, I lowered my bag to the floor, and then crossed the locker room to the entrance to the showers.

My eyes widened, my cheeks instantly heated, and I couldn't move or breathe, caught in place by the shock of the sight in front of me.

Surrounded by billowing steam, rivulets of water running down the chiseled lines of his body, Grayson Cross stood in the shower with his head tipped back and his eyes closed, his hand wrapped around his dick. His large, hard dick.

Fuck . I needed to get out of here, but I couldn't make my body move. If he opened his eyes, he'd find me staring at him, and there would be no explanation I could possibly provide.

He groaned, the sound echoing around the showers, and my dick jerked, lengthening inside my sweatpants.

What the fuck ?

Somehow, I got my feet to move, stumbling backward and around the corner into the relative safety of the locker room. Collapsing back against the bank of lockers, I gasped for breath, desperately willing away my hardening erection. The only thing in my head was the image of Grayson in the shower, and my dick stubbornly refused to deflate. Why was this happening to me? As if my life didn't have enough complications, now my dick was betraying me like this?

The shower cut out, and Grayson strolled in with a towel wrapped around his hips. I threw myself onto the nearest bench, tugging my bag from the floor and throwing it onto my thighs, barely suppressing the wince of pain when it hit my erection.

Lucky for me, Grayson didn't notice, making a beeline for his locker. My eyes were dragged back to him against their will, trailing down the powerful lines of his back.

He opened his locker.

A piece of paper fluttered to the floor, and all hell broke loose.