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Chapter fifteen

Daxton

I can’t stop the infectious grin that stretches across my face as I flick through the pictures on my phone for the tenth time since I’ve been back in my dorm room. After Trayton more or less bolted out of the shop after throwing some cash at me, I tidied up and headed out front where Max was chilling. Apparently, Trayton had exited so fast he didn’t even notice Max manning the counter. I had planned to suggest to Trayton that he show Max, but clearly, he had other plans. I ended up showing Max the photos, and even though it’s mainly just an outline at this stage, I couldn’t stop beaming with pride. Max even mentioned that he thinks it’s going to be one of the best sleeves ever done at the studio. Compliments are something I’ve rarely received in life, so I was mortified by the way my cheeks burned with embarrassment when he said that.

“I take it the tattoo went well,” Cope observes, walking out from the bathroom. He returned from the gym about half an hour ago and headed straight for a shower, so I haven’t had the opportunity to tell him about it yet.

“Really good,” I reply with a broad grin. I can feel Cope’s eyes fixed on me, and I glance up to meet his gaze as steam billows from the bathroom, swirling around him as he stands there with just a towel wrapped around his waist. “What?” I ask, my smile faltering slightly. His smirk is laden with an expression I can’t quite decipher.

“Nothing,” he says, biting his cheek as if trying to prevent the grin from spreading further. He then saunters over to his bed, leaving me confused. I narrow my eyes at him, suspicion creeping in. “Seriously, what’s that look for?”

Cope shrugs, but the smirk doesn’t leave his face. “It’s just nice seeing you… smile, I guess.”

I feel my cheeks heat up again, and I turn my attention back to my phone, scrolling through the pictures once more. “It’s a big deal, okay? This tattoo means a lot to me. I mean… designing the tattoo means a lot,” I correct.

“Oh, I’m sure it does,” Cope says, his voice filled with something that sounds dangerously close to knowing. “And I’m sure the person receiving it had nothing to do with that grin, right?”

My head snaps up, and I meet Cope’s gaze. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He holds up his hands in mock surrender, the towel slipping slightly. “Nothing, nothing at all. Just an”—he waves his hand in the air like he’s trying to find the right words—“observation.”

I roll my eyes, trying to play it cool despite the heat creeping up my neck. “You’re reading way too much into this, Cope. It’s just a tattoo design.”

“Uh-huh,” he replies, clearly unconvinced. He flops onto his bed, arms behind his head, still wearing that infuriating smirk. “And I’m sure you put this much effort into all your drawings and designs, right?”

I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. He’s not entirely wrong. I’ve been obsessing over this particular design for weeks, tweaking every little detail until it was perfect. But it’s not because of who it’s for. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

“Look,” I say, attempting to regain some composure. “It’s my first tattoo. It’s a big deal for me. That’s all.”

Cope seems to let it go, but I still catch that smug grin lingering on his lips. “How was your archenemy today, then? Do I need to have words?”

“Words?” I question.

“Yeah, was he rude to you?” he asks, speaking so nonchalantly it almost sounds like he would truly march up to Trayton and confront him if he caused me any trouble. Cope has been friends with Trayton for years; why would he prioritize me over Trayton?

“And what if he was?” I probe, curious to see his reaction.

“Then I’ll beat his ass on and off the ice,” he declares.

I tilt my head, scrutinizing Cope’s expression to detect any hint of sarcasm. But he simply furrows his brows and mirrors my gesture, tilting his head back at me. It’s as if he can sense the turmoil his words have stirred within me. His eyes soften, and he shifts his position, sitting up straighter as his towel slips dangerously low, prompting me to avert my gaze rapidly.

“I know it’s hard for you to believe, but people really don’t hate you, Dax,” he says, his voice gentle. I fixate on my fingers, tugging at the loose skin around my nails, a nervous habit I can’t shake, one that had me nibbling all morning.

“I know not everyone does,” I acknowledge quietly. “Just a few,” I finish, my voice barely above a whisper.

“No, just Trayton, and even then, I’m not convinced,” he counters. So much for avoiding his gaze; my head swivels to face him so quickly I half expect to hear a crack.

“Not convinced?” I repeat in amazement, my voice rising. “How much convincing do you need to know that guy thinks of me as nothing more than dirt on his shoe?” I laugh bitterly. “The feeling’s mutual too,” I agree, lifting my chin defiantly. I don’t care that Cope is Trayton’s friend. I want him to understand the depth of my resentment. “Scum, remember?”

Cope chuckles, that smirk making its usual appearance in the last few minutes. “Sewer, remember?” He laughs. “Solid comeback, by the way. A few of the boys were talking about that for a week.”

“Yeah, well, he needs to know I’m not the same person I was last year; he’s not going to bully me the way he used to.”

“Good for you. But even though I don’t know you that well, I think I see you already, Dax. You’re not a horrible person. I can tell you’re not into all this drama with Trayton and don’t enjoy throwing insults around,” Cope says, with his arms crossed. I shrug, trying to look unaffected. It’s true—I’d do anything for a peaceful life where Trayton just walked by without a word, maybe a nod at most. But that’s not going to happen because he’s holding on to a misunderstanding that’s blown out of proportion. I made a promise to Bex to keep that secret locked away, and there’s no way I’m explaining things to Trayton or even Cope, not when it would mean betraying the one person who stood by me when everything went dark.

“It is what it is,” I reply, my voice flat.

“Mmm, well, you should step out of this room and see how many people actually like you. Come to the bar with us?” Cope suggests, a hint of a friendly smile on his lips.

“When?” I ask, curious.

Cope picks up his phone from the nightstand, the screen casting a soft glow on his face. “In about an hour. We’re heading to Brewtap, but if you don’t have ID, I can tell them to meet us at Pythons. Tray’s brother can get you in.”

“Brother?” I frown, confusion knitting my brows. Since when did Trayton have a brother?

Cope nods, “Yeah, half bro, they’re not exactly close, but he helps Tray out by letting people in without IDs. He’s on security there.”

“Oh, I didn’t know that,” I say, the new information settling in.

“So, do you have ID?” Cope asks, raising an eyebrow.

I relax my shoulders and roll my eyes. “Do you really have to ask? Me and Bex spent most of our time in bars.” The words slip out before I can catch them. I usually avoid talking about the past with Bex, worried about how people might judge me. But when I look at Cope, he doesn’t even flinch.

“Well then, get ready,” he says with a wide grin, dropping his towel casually. I quickly avert my gaze to the wall, my cheeks flushing. What is it with hockey guys always being so casual about nudity?

“I can’t come,” I say, my eyes stubbornly fixed on the wall. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Cope turn to face me.

“Trayton won’t cause trouble; I’ll make sure of it,” he assures me, his voice firm and reassuring.

“It’s not that,” I murmur defensively, though I know it really isn’t. Despite my reluctance to spend an evening in a bar with Trayton, there’s something comforting about Cope’s determined effort to include me. After years of feeling invisible, it’s a welcome surprise to have someone want to be around me—something I haven’t experienced since Bex, the one person who always made me feel seen. I clear my throat and nervously scratch the back of my neck as I fumble for words. “I… erm…” I begin, my voice faltering under the weight of the moment. “Have a date,” I finally reveal. A surge of heat rushes through my body, and I feel my cheeks ignite under the intense gaze of Cope, who’s caught a glimpse of my flushed face from the corner of his eye. I make a mental note to search for some kind of cosmetic fix—maybe face injections—to keep my skin from turning beet red; it’s starting to feel downright ridiculous.

Before I can lose myself in anxious thoughts, Cope ambles into view. He strides over to my bed, casually throwing himself onto its end. His eyes sparkle like mischievous sequins, and his grin widens in a way that instantly melts away some of my tension. “Do tell,” he urges, leaning forward so that his gaze locks onto mine, pushing me to share details I’m not entirely ready to admit.

“Just a date,” I reply, trying to sound nonchalant.

But Cope isn’t one to let simple answers go unchallenged. He fires off questions like a rapid volley: “Name, age, favorite hockey team?” His tone wavers between genuine curiosity and playful tease. When I hesitate, he interjects with a theatrically smug, “It best be Devil Hawks,” before teasingly correcting himself with a wink. “Oh, wait—does he go to Hawksview?” His banter leaves me momentarily stunned, my eyes widening in amused disbelief.

“You’re like a fucking girl.” I laugh out loud, the sound of humor mingling with relief in the space between us. And as we both dissolve into shared laughter, a warmth floods my chest, a stripped-down, genuine joy I haven’t felt in a long time.

Once the laughter subsides, Cope’s tone shifts to something more serious. “Hey, I need to know if he’s worth your time,” he presses, his smile softening into genuine concern.

“And supporting the Devil Hawks really figures into that?” I tease, arching an eyebrow in playful skepticism.

“Uh, duh,” he replies with an exaggerated girlish lilt, standing up, pushing his hip out, and planting his hand on it. I bite my lip, trying to stifle another bout of laughter, but we both break down again. Soon our chuckles fade, leaving us with a moment of quietness. Leaning in, Cope asks, “No, but seriously, Dax. Who is he?”

I exhale slowly, grounding myself before saying, “Some guy, Mike. I don’t really know much about him. That’s what tonight is for.”

Cope scrunches his face in that delightfully teasing expression, his eyes crinkling with a mischievous glint. “Where are you meeting him?” His tone switches back to curiosity.

“All right, Dad,” I joke, though the familiar banter does little to mask the underlying anticipation.

“No, seriously. There are some weirdos these days,” he warns with a half-smile, half-serious tone that only deepens his concern.

“Just grabbing a drink at City Sip,” I explain, trying to sound more confident than I feel.

“Fancy,” he remarks, raising his eyebrows, then adds, “Well, message me when you leave, and I’ll come meet you. I won’t be out too late. I’ve got a big gym session tomorrow.”

“Okay,” I say, nodding, as a genuine smile tugs at my lips. In that moment, everything starts to align: the excitement of a date, doing my first tattoo inked onto skin, and the comforting feeling of a friend who genuinely cares. I inhale deeply, determined to enjoy this turning point rather than fall prey to the relentless echoes of doubt whispering in my mind.

Still, as this new joy unfolds, a nagging thought whispers in the back of my mind.

When will it all come crashing down? Because deep in my core, I know that eventually, everything always does.