Heart of Thorns (Shadow Valley U Book 2)

“Damn it!”

Lydia winces when I curse. She does that a lot, and from her position on the couch, I’ve got a direct line to her expression. Wrinkled nose, flattened lips, closed eyes.

You know what else she does a lot? Scans the internet for a new place to live.

Scoring a roommate at the last second was probably a relief to her. Except, instead of getting a built-in bestie like most of the college girls who share an apartment, she got me.

Briar Hart.

The girl with a heart of thorns.

I used to be the girl everyone wanted to be around. Now, even I don’t want to be around me.

Lydia leans forward, closing her laptop. “Do you want hel⁠—”

“No,” I snap.

I rest my forehead against the living room doorway, a hiss escaping my lips. My bag is slung over one shoulder, and I’m ready to walk out the door. Crawling back into bed sounds so much better, but if I don’t physically force myself to get out of the apartment, I’ll stay here forever.

“I’m fine.” I soften my tone a little.

Lydia has been nothing but kind to me. She continues to offer help and does things around the apartment that she probably thinks I don’t notice.

Like when she rearranged the furniture to give me more space to move around, or how she always empties the trash, knowing I struggle with it. She turns the thermostat to near arctic temperatures without complaining because she knows I’d sweat to death before I choose to wear shorts or anything that shows off my leg.

She sighs. Setting aside the laptop, she grabs her hockey gear from the floor next to the table. “Fine. I’ll see you after practice?”

I nod, hiding my resentment with a neutral expression, and scoot out of her way.

There’s a twisted part of me that wants to hate her so bad, but it’s not her fault that I’m unable to play hockey this season.

After my surgery, I was told I’d walk with a limp for the rest of my life. The metal in my leg will cause arthritis and discomfort for years to come. The doctors told me there may even be a time when I opt for another surgery to accommodate my healing.

But they were wrong about the limp. I only limp when I’m extra sore. With weeks of intensive physical therapy—the sanctioned kind and the tips I found on the internet—I’m heading in the right direction.

They could be wrong about me never playing hockey, too, which is why I’m holding out hope for next season.

After half dragging my sore leg toward the table, I swoop up the remainder of my books and phone. I have a text from my friend, Marley.

Do I want a ride? Yes.

Should I get a ride? No.

Walking the two blocks to the arts building will hurt, but moving is the best way to stretch my leg. I need my agility and stamina back, especially now that school is in session. If I snag a ride with Marley to my art history class, it’ll be like taking the easy way out, and I refuse to do that.

I huff under my breath, which is practically a laugh. It’s the closest I come to humor nowadays.

Outside, I inhale the cool air and start down the sidewalk. It only takes one minute before I’m shouting at some jock for narrowly missing me on his run. He’s wearing a backward baseball cap that has SVU embroidered on the front. I’d bet my life that he is a baseball player.

Not because of the hat he’s wearing.

No—his bag is half open, and baseballs fall out every few seconds.

What the fuck is this? An obstacle?

Four months ago, I was weaving in between my opponents on thin ice, scoring goals and rushing the arena with my team. At the moment, I can barely navigate baseballs rolling down the sidewalk.

Dodging errant baseballs, I opt to walk in the street. If I step off the sidewalk, it’ll hurt. It’s the height difference… I wince and shut my eyes for a brief second. But instead of my toes touching asphalt, I’m jerked backward.

My eyes shoot back open, and I land with a thud on the sidewalk. My books break my fall as sudden hot rage bursts through me.

“What the fuck?” I practically shout.

And this is why I need hockey. I’m so prickly, all the time.

“My bad.”

I swear to God, if it’s the baseball jock, I’m throwing one of those balls at his head.

A large hand appears in front of my face, and I smack it away without even hesitating.

“Uh… okay?”

Not the baseball player.

But a jock nonetheless.

I can tell by the width of his shoulders and good looks.

Dark, chestnut-colored hair that’s tousled in this perfectly messy kind of way. Angular jaw that’s sharper than a knife. Tall but lean with defined muscles that tense when he reaches for me again.

I try to scramble to my feet, but that simply isn’t happening.

Damn it.

It’s really hard to act like this fierce, independent woman when I’m actually very fragile and in need of his sturdy hand that he’s shoving in my face again.

“I don’t need your help,” I grit between my teeth. I blow a piece of loose hair out of my face and attempt to haul myself to my feet. It’s awkward and slower than I’d care to admit, but at least I do it on my own.

He chuckles, but not in an arrogant way. More so in a yeah… okay kind of way.

Instead of helping me, he picks up my scattered items on the sidewalk and gathers them swiftly before handing them over to me. My Meloxicam rattles against the plastic pill bottle, and his eyebrows furrow.

He reads the label, because clearly he doesn’t care about privacy.

“Meloxicam?”

“Yeah, so?” My cheeks redden with embarrassment. So what if I take Meloxicam? It’s for joint inflammation. Lots of people probably take it.

Sure, they may be in their seventies with arthritis, but whatever.

“Make sure you take it for at least a week. It needs to get in your system for it to work.”

I snatch the bottle out of his hand and scowl. “Thanks for the unsolicited advice.”

He snorts and quickly moves out of my way so I don’t steamroll him.

Not that I’d make a dent. He’s much taller than me and stronger. Plus, with an ego that big? Nothing could harm him.

“No thank you?” he shouts from behind.

I refuse to look back. Instead, I flip him the middle finger and keep heading in the direction of class.