Chapter 5 - Callum

My eyes fly open to be greeted by darkness. A different kind of darkness than the one that was just swallowing me whole in my sleep.

Air enters and exits my lungs too quickly to feel like I’m getting any oxygen. My heart is fucking jackhammering in my chest, and my body is covered in a layer of cold sweat. The sheets are bunched up around my calves like I was thrashing in my sleep.

Fuck.

I haven’t had those nightmares in over a year.

The ones plagued by shadows and pain, the stench of cigar smoke and the sound of sinister laughter.

I close my eyes and try to get my heart rate down and my breathing to return to normal. When I glance over at the clock on my nightstand, I see that it’s not even five in the morning.

But fuck if I’m going back to sleep now.

Kicking off the rest of the sheets, I climb out of bed and throw on a pair of shorts. We don’t have strength and conditioning training this morning, but I could use some time at the gym anyway. So I get dressed and head down to the one on the first floor of the apartment complex. It’s small and not nearly as good as the one on campus, but I don’t want to risk running into Stone. Even if that risk is low.

I’m pretty sure the memories he’s brought with him are what triggered those nightmares.

Every time he looks at me, it’s too fucking fresh. Every time, I remember when he looked at me and saw every piece I never wanted anyone to see.

And then I remember every bruise.

Every scar.

Every weakness.

Marching into the gym, I’m determined to sweat every one of them out.

I pissed Stone off yesterday. That much was obvious. To be fair, he pissed me off first.

Arrogant ass probably doesn’t like to be told what to do.

At practice, he was like a fireball on the ice, a live wire. Going after anyone who got in his way. When he bodychecked Brooks, it felt personal. It’s not like I’ve made it a secret I’d rather Brooks be on the first line with me and Nate. I should’ve hidden my animosity behind the same mask I hide everything else. But when I’m around Stone, I find that harder and harder.

Stone split me open five years ago, and I haven’t been able to close myself up again. Not when it comes to him.

But there are still secrets I keep.

Ones I have to keep.

I lose track of time, and when I finally leave the gym, my clothes and hair are drenched with sweat. It drips into my eyes, making them sting.

Jesse is still asleep in his room after I’ve gotten a shower and dressed. I start some coffee so it’ll be ready for him when he wakes up, then head out for my first class.

My biochemistry and genetics classes go by pretty uneventfully. I’m well and truly distracted by the time they’re over, that familiar sense of feeling overwhelmed by a heavy course load finally hitting.

Since I have a couple of hours before practice, I decide to go to the library and attempt to get a head start before I find myself behind the very first week of the semester.

While majoring in biology was kind of a last minute decision, I’ve enjoyed it enough to stick to it.

However, three years into my college career, and I haven’t narrowed down exactly what it is I want to do. I’ve been considering something in the realm of a medical illustrator, which is why I’m still taking as many art classes as I can get away with. But I’m not sure if I’m ready to commit to two more years of school.

Finding an empty table in the back of the library, I unload my books and notes. The laptop I own is an old hand-me-down from my uncle. It’s practically a brick, which is why I don’t carry it to school. I usually handwrite everything and type my essays up later.

Opening my biochemistry textbook, I start reading through the first two chapters, taking notes as I go.

I’m halfway through the second chapter when the chair across from me scrapes against the hardwood floor. I look up just as Stone sits down, an open bag of Funyuns in his hand.

I swear this guy’s going to give me a fucking aneurysm.

Dropping my pen on top of my notebook, I lean back in my seat. “Shit just goes in one ear and out the other, doesn’t it?”

“Huh?” He flashes me a smile that’s so far from innocent that he wouldn’t be able to get away with murder right now. “What was that?”

I blink once. Twice. Not the least bit amused.

He smirks and holds out the bag toward me. “Chip?”

My jaw clenches as I scowl at him. “No.”

He shrugs and plucks a yellow ring out of the bag before tossing it in his mouth. “More for me then.”

I stare at him for a bit, wondering what about him has me more on edge than usual. Then I remember how infuriated he was yesterday, fuming as he marched out of the locker room without even showering first.

The complete one-eighty is a bit dizzying.

“You’re in a better mood than you were yesterday,” I say before I can stop myself, hoping he doesn’t misinterpret my observation for caring .

“You mean the mood you put me in?” He stares at me for a beat and then laughs it off. “Yeah, I’m much better. Thanks for asking. Just needed a good release last night.”

I roll my eyes. Hard. “I really didn’t need to know that.”

I’m used to Jesse sharing his sexual escapades with me and the uncomfortable feeling that often accompanies most of his stories.

However, this uneasiness I feel now is different somehow.

“What are you doing here, Stone?”

He folds his chip bag tightly closed and places it on the table. “I have a proposition for you.”

I raise a hand in the air, motioning for him to get on with it.

“Our anatomy and physiology class is a refresher course for me. I was thinking maybe if you needed some help—”

I lean forward again to slam my textbook closed, cutting off his words, and spinning the book around to face him.

His brows shoot up into his forehead. “Biochemistry?”

“I’m a biology major. I don’t need your fucking help.”

“Huh. Wasn’t expecting that.”

Sliding my book back toward me, I open it right back to the page I was on. “Now, if that was all…”

“Look, Cal—”

“It’s Callum,” I correct him while shooting him a fresh glare. “You don’t get to call me Cal like we’re fucking buddies.”

It’s too much. Too personal. I want to forget he ever saw me, not be reminded of it every time he says my name. I already have to be every time those rain-washed eyes are on me.

“Fine. Callum .” He leans forward and lowers his voice. “This is my last year of hockey. I don’t plan on going pro.”

“Don’t have what it takes, huh?” I ask. Because I just can’t stop myself.

He tilts his head, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Come on. You know that’s not true.”

I peer down at my book before I roll my eyes again.

“I know you hate me.”

I hate you even more now that you’ve brought the nightmares back.

“And that’s fine. Hate me all you want. But I have every intention of making it to the championship. If you keep bringing all that hostility toward a teammate with you onto the ice, we’re not even going to make it to the fucking playoffs.”

I know he has a point.

And I know I do have a problem. I’ve always been so good at hiding.

Why the fuck can’t I hide from him?

“You don’t owe me anything, Callum,” he continues when I’ve still refused to even look up from my textbook. “But you do owe your team.”

Fuck him.

He needs to stop making so much fucking sense.

“So what can I do? What do you want?”

I look up at that because he actually sounds… genuine . And his expression matches—brows drawn, eyes serious, no annoying smirk.

What do I want?

I want you to disappear.

I want you to stop seeing me.

I want the nightmares to go away.

Instead of saying any of that, I shake my head and mutter, “I don’t know.”

“You wanna knock me around with your stick?” Now that infuriating smirk is back. “Tie my skate laces together? Punch me? Bite me? Though, fair warning, I might enjoy that last one.”

That’s fucking it.

Grabbing my things off the table, I start shoving it all back into my bag. He’s clearly not going to leave, and there’s no way I’m going to be able to get any more studying done with him sitting across the table from me and refusing to shut up.

“I just want you to leave me the hell alone.”

“That’s not going to do any good, and you know it.” He stands when I do and starts following me through the library. “You’re still going to see me on the ice almost every day. I could transfer out of anatomy and walk the other way when I see you around campus, but that’s not going to do a goddamn thing.”

I push my way out the front door of the building and rush down the steps as though I really stand a chance of escaping him. He remains undeterred, chasing after me without closing his damn trap.

“We could actually play really fucking well together. But if you can’t stand to be around me off the ice, then we’re never going to get anywhere. So fucking work with me here!”

Stopping at the bottom of the stairs, I turn and face him, having to look up where he stands two steps above me. “If I promise I’ll work on it, will you back off?”

“You said you’d leave your shit off the ice yesterday, and you couldn’t do it. Clearly that’s not going to work.”

And now that the nightmares are back, it’s just going to get even more difficult.

“I’ll try harder.”

Turning back around, I start marching down the sidewalk. I’m only telling him whatever it is he wants to hear, whatever will get him to drop this and…

Go.

The.

Fuck.

Away.

Because as his footsteps continue after me once more, the beat of them on the concrete matches whatever vein is throbbing incessantly in my head.

He wants to make it easier for me to be around him, but right now, he’s accomplishing the exact opposite.

I think he’s still rambling on as I round the corner of the library, continuing down a path lined with trees between two buildings. But I can’t hear him past the rushing river of fury in my ears, growing violent with rapids.

He won’t leave me alone.

I just want to be left alone.

“Callum! Would you please just stop?”

The moment his hand is on my shoulder, I finally snap.

I spent the better part of my life not fighting back as hard as I should have. Bruises, scars, and nightmares made me weak. I thought I could leave it all in the past. Do the healthy thing and grow, try to heal myself. Or the unhealthy one and learn to ignore the darkness that threatens to consume my soul every waking moment of every day.

Except now Stone’s drifted in like the fog, like a shadow, to prove me wrong.

I can’t ignore that darkness.

My fist connects with his face.

While pain shoots through my hand like an electric current, Stone’s head snaps to the side as he stumbles back a step. When he looks at me, a bead of blood drips from the cut on his bottom lip. My eyes track his thumb as it brushes against it, coming away painted red.

“There,” he says, sounding more satisfied than I feel. “Feel better?”

Was he trying to provoke me into hitting him?

I’d get even more angry about that, maybe hit him again. But the few people who are close by have already stopped, staring at us, waiting for exactly that. Probably itching for a fight.

I won’t give it to them.

As I meet Stone’s gaze, I try to keep mine away from the streak of blood beneath his quickly swelling lip.

“No,” I answer honestly. “I don’t.”

Turning around, I walk away.

Turns out punching Stone might’ve helped a little after all.

I still had about an hour before practice, so I spent that time taking a nice long walk around campus. It did little to help clear my head. The entire time, it was swimming with images of pale green eyes and bloody lips.

My hand hurts like hell, and I had to wrap it before practice. When I got to the rink, Stone was already there, skating alone out on the ice. I only had a few seconds before the rest of the team followed me out from the locker room.

If he knew I was there watching him, he didn’t let it show.

But that’s all I did. Just watched him out there. He skated a full circuit around the rink at a speed that rivaled my own, his body leaning into every curve, ice spraying behind him.

I know he’s right.

We could actually do something this year. He’s a damn good player.

And I owe this team.

So I’m doing what I told him I would.

I’m trying harder.

While Nate, Stone, and I run drills together, I’m sharing the puck more than I did yesterday. The three of us pass it around center ice, easily outmaneuvering the second-line defense. Stone spins, takes off on a breakaway, shoots. The puck flies into the back of the net.

We take turns attacking the goal. Fitz actually manages to block a couple shots of Nate’s and one of my own. It earns him more praise than he’s used to by the coaches and the rest of the team. It must help because when we all start on offensive zone drills, he beats his previous record of blocks.

As we head off the ice after practice, Stone skates up beside me and taps his stick against mine.

“Thanks for actually playing with me today.”

“I didn’t do it for you,” I tell him as we head down the tunnel. “I did it for the team.”

“Right. Well, if you need to beat me up a little before practice and games so we play like that, let me know so I can invest in a value size bottle of Tylenol.”

Yeah, if that’s what it’s going to take, I’ll be popping that shit like candy.

My hand kills.

Gripping my stick for the past two hours after punching Stone in his surprisingly hard face certainly didn’t make it feel any better. I’ll probably be sticking it in a bucket of ice as soon as I get home.

But I don’t want to punch him again. I shouldn’t have done it the first time.

I can’t let myself give into that darkness again.

Mine nor his.

Once in the locker room, we start stripping out of our gear. When I remove my base layer, I notice it again.

Stone avoids looking at me.

I became aware of it the first time.

Normally, he has no problem letting his gaze find me over and over again. But I’ve realized as soon as I take off my shirt, it’s gone.

It’s the same when we get into the showers. Not that I’m looking at him either. I hate that I can usually sense him—like his eyes have fucking branded me—but right now I don’t. Not until we’re back in the locker room and my clothes are on.

Like it’s nothing, his eyes are on me again as he says he’ll see me in class tomorrow.

And my eyes are on him as he turns to leave.

I have no idea what that’s about. Maybe he does realize after all that’s why I hate him as much as I do. Neither of us have brought up that moment from five years ago, but it must exist somewhere in his mind.

I wish I wouldn’t keep finding new reasons to hate him.

Why couldn’t he forget?

And why do I think all of it bothers me for reasons it shouldn’t?