Page 31 of Almost Ravaged (Men of Evercrisp Orchard #1)

Chapter twenty-six

Tytus

B y the time I lumber into the locker room, half the guys are already heading for the showers. Atty’s on the bench in front of our lockers, stripped down to his base layers and grinning as Swayzee goes on about a game the team won last year.

I rip off my practice jersey and pads, and as I hit the bench to take off my skates, I turn away from Atty, who’s no longer smiling, but giving me probing side-glances.

There’s no hiding my emotions from him. He knows me too well, but I can’t fucking explain to him that the reason my insides feel like they’re on fire right now is because of his sister.

I’ve stashed my skates and am gathering my sweaty base layers when he bumps his bare shoulder against mine. “You okay?”

I keep my head down. If I have to look him in the eye right now, if I have to see the golden flecks in his irises—the ones just like his sister’s—I might spiral again.

Not here. Not now.

“Fine.” Grunting, I rise to my feet and throw my sweat-soaked clothing into the laundry bin .

“We’re going out on Thursday night, boys,” Swayzee declares. “I want to see full participation from everyone who’s of age.” He squints at me, then Atty. “You in, Davvie-Davvie-Doo?”

Atty snorts. “You’ve got to come up with a better nickname.”

Tanvers snickers across the locker room. “I kind of like it.”

My best friend rises to his feet, shaking his head. “A nickname should be a shorter version of a person’s real name or a clever play on words. That’s neither.”

Swayzee twists up a towel, and as Tanvers walks past, he flicks it at him. As he’s winding it up again, he grimaces. “What the fuck, man? Are you an English major, or just a word nerd?”

He’s not far off the mark. Atticus hasn’t declared a major, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he chose English and followed in his father’s footsteps.

“Don’t even think about snapping me with that,” Atty warns.

Swayzee grins. “Oh yeah? Why not, Davvie-snacks?”

Atty groans. “Does it really have to be Scooby Doo-themed?” He stashes his phone, then stands and secures a towel around his waist.

Swayzee rubs his chin with his thumb. “I guess not. I’ll keep thinking on it. Give me until Thursday to figure it out. You guys are coming out with us, right?”

Atty turns and gives me a questioning look. I scowl back, refusing to commit.

“Ty?” he presses.

I run one hand through my sweat-soaked hair. I just want to fucking shower, so I push past him. “I’m not making plans until we talk to Sawyer.”

Swayzee doesn’t miss a fucking beat.

“Sawyer? Who’s Sawyer?”

The guy stops in front of me and turns.

I take a step forward, getting into his space, and he takes a step, then another, toward the showers. “Sawyer is Atty’s sister.” I leave it at that, letting my unamused scowl fill in the rest. A teammate’s sister is inherently off-limits.

“Wait. Hold up.” Swayzee’s eyes widen and dart from me to Atty. Then he breaks into a grin. “Sawyer’s the new girl on the crew. Bryant mentioned her. You’re telling me that redheaded bombshell who was sharpening skates this weekend is your sister?”

My spine turns to steel and my hands curl into fists on instinct.

“Watch it,” Atty warns from behind me .

“I’ll gladly watch that.” Swayzee rubs his hands together. “Sawyer, huh? Damn . She can come out with us on Thursday. We love us some preseason wabbit.”

The edges of my vision go red. This fucker doesn’t know when to quit.

“Wabbit?” Atty takes the bait, effectively changing the subject.

Tanvers barks out a laugh as he emerges from his shower stall and smacks Swayzee on the back. “Elmer Fudd here thinks wabbit is a clever alternative to puck bunny.”

Atty’s lip curls in disgust. “Dude. My sister’s not a wabbit.”

I shove past Swayzee, heading for the stall Tanvers just vacated. “Sawyer’s not a fucking puck bunny either,” I mumble as I shoulder-check the mouthy bastard.

His responding laugh echoes off the tile. “Is it weird that your buddy is more defensive of your sister than you are?”

I turn the water on with a little too much force and step into the hot spray. The pressure is intense and the water is scalding. It’s exactly what I need to clear my mind and soothe my sore muscles.

Jericho pipes up from the stall beside me. “If you think this is bad, you should hear the tangents on his podcast.”

Groans float out from just about every stall. That eases my irritation a fraction. At least I’m not the only one who seems put off by Swayzee’s shenanigans.

“In or out for Thursday, Davvalicious?” he asks as he steps into his own shower.

“Oh. I kind of like that,” a guy across the room chimes in.

Swayzee’s yapping doesn’t even slow. “If she’s your sister, then maybe she’s the one we should be calling Davvalicious.”

Fuck him.

Fuck this.

I can’t fucking listen to them talk about Sawyer.

I scrub at my skin, dragging the thin, sudsy washcloth with enough force to leave angry red marks beneath the dark hair on my torso.

When that doesn’t stop the anger from building in my chest, I chuck the washcloth against the tiles and brace both arms against the back wall, panting. Eyes squeezed shut, I force all the air from my lungs, then inhale slowly. Fuck, I have to chill the fuck out.

I can’t lash out. Can’t overreact .

I can’t ostracize myself before my teammates even have the chance to think of me as one of them.

As the hot water pounds against my neck and shoulders, I drop my head lower. Droplets of blood seep to the surface of the skin of my torso, evidence of my violent scrubbing, but they wash away as quickly as they appear.

“All right, all right,” Atty relents. “I’ll go out with you Thursday, but you have to leave my sister out of it. No nicknames for her, ever . And no wabbit weferences.”

The room erupts in laughter. No surprise there. The guy is easy to like. Once they’ve moved on to other topics, I go back to focusing on my breathing.

I give myself another ten seconds to let the darkness swirl inside me. To picture laying out Swayzee on the ice. Dragging him out of his shower stall. Forcing him to the frozen surface. Face down, his wet, bare skin sticking to the smooth ice to keep him locked in place.

I’d skate around him until he’d pissed himself and was crying so hard he hyperventilated.

Only then would I drag my skates over his bare back.

I’d tear through skin until I exposed the muscle and bone beneath the surface of his rotten personality.

I’d dig in and twist with the edge of one blade, severing ligaments and tendons.

I’d use my stick to prod at his flesh, peeling back the muscle and stripping the insides of his limbs.

The blood pooling beneath his body would freeze in layers, seeping out of him little by little. All because he ran his fucking mouth and disrespected my girl.

“Ty.”

The voice is close. Familiar. I snap up straight and find Atty staring at me, his sharp gaze looking right through the mask I wear for the rest of the world. He doesn’t know the depths of my darkness—no one fucking does—but he knows when I’m spiraling.

He swallows thickly, holding my gaze. “Arrêt,” he murmurs, using the French word for stop before switching back to English. That distinction is enough to snag my attention.

Atty continues. “Let it go. I put an end to it. He won’t say shit about her again.”

Lights dance in my periphery and my hearing comes in and out, like it always does when I’m on the verge of losing it.

I can’t focus .

I can’t breathe.

I can’t claw my way out of the intrusive thoughts. The visions of blood on the ice. The need to strike and maim and lash out until—

“Je t'ai dit d'arrêter.”

I told you to stop.

Reaching past me, he turns the handle until icy water blasts out of the showerhead.

“Fuck,” I hiss. That finally does it. With a sharp inhale, I step out of the darkness and blink wildly, looking at my best friend. Despite the shock, it’s what I need to snap out of it.

As I focus on him, the violent images in my head dissipate, and the sounds around me grow clearer.

Atty doesn’t ask. He doesn’t even let the moment linger. It’s how we’ve coped for the last three years. Longer, really, because my brain came up with all kinds of fucked-up shit long before Sawyer and I pulled that trigger.

With one simple move, he stopped the darkness from locking me up in my own mind. I’d be more ashamed that I couldn’t control it myself if I wasn’t so fucking grateful for the assist.

If Sawyer is my purpose, Atty’s my true north. No one can help me course correct like he can.

“You’re good?” he asks.

I swallow thickly and nod.

“I’m going out with them on Thursday night, but you don’t have to.” He searches my face one more time, then turns on his heel, yelling at me to hurry up, complaining that he’s hungry.

The last bit is just for show.

I quickly wash my hair, not bothering to adjust the water temperature.

I have no interest in going out on Thursday. Or being anywhere near Swayzee unless it’s required.

The image of him bleeding out on the ice flashes through my mind, and I shudder. How the fuck my brain goes that dark that quickly is beyond me. I never act on it, but it’s nearly impossible to pull myself out of that state without help once I really start spiraling.

I’m wrecked. Ravaged by trauma. Used up and useless. So fucking broken I can’t even cut myself off when the tendrils of darkness wrap themselves around my mind and squeeze.

Fuck this .

Fuck Swayzee and every other man who’s ever looked at Sawyer and seen her as anything but perfect and flawless and out of their league and mine .

And fuck the asshole that shirt belongs to. I’ll figure that one out myself and ensure it never fucking happens again.

Thinking about that flannel again brings the rage inside me closer to the surface. But there’s one bright spot keeping it at bay: If Atty goes out on Thursday night, Sawyer and I might finally get some time alone.