Heart of Thorns (Shadow Valley U Book 2)

I can’t stop thinking about that girl. The snarky one. She just—she stared at me with vitriol, and it was a rush I wasn’t expecting. I was going to apologize for earlier, on the sidewalk, but then she practically bit my head off.

Is there something wrong with me that I found it refreshing? In a school full of people who would love to bend over backward for me and my last name, she clearly has no desire to do so.

I want her to do that again.

But she left before I could so much as call out to her. I don’t know her name or anything about her. So, in a rather interesting turn of events, I’ve kept my eye out for her.

Parties are not my priority, but the other night… well, how could I let the opportunity of another sparring match with her pass me by?

Tonight is the same story, different day.

Another party, but the same people.

Except she isn’t here. And I don’t really know why I thought she would be. I spent all day getting distracted, fucking up in class, nearly falling on my face in practice. I’m only here because I need a distraction…

Okay, no, that’s a lie.

If she was at that party last night, then maybe she’ll be at this one.

Right?

I’m not crazy. I’m curious—there’s a difference.

Someone calls my name, and I head deeper inside. Rhys has yet to show himself, even though he promised he was here. There are some of my other teammates scattered around the house, along with an even mix of hockey players and lacrosse assholes.

The person trying to get my attention waves, and I change course slightly for the couches in the living room.

“Hey.” I look down at my cornerback, a guy whose height and weight belie how fast he is. Opposing receivers never stand a chance against Stephen McDowell.

He’s got two girls on him, one under each arm, and doesn’t seem bothered by their seeming competition. In fact, I’d guess he was encouraging it.

“Was wondering if you were gonna show.” He frees an arm and slaps my hand. “Good to see you, Thorne.”

The girls perk up at my name, and I bite back my sigh.

“You see Rhys?” I ask.

I flex my other hand. The one that touched her skin the other night.

Stephen chuckles. “Either the kitchen or in a room upstairs.”

Great.

“And that, uh, that girl who scowls a lot? Have you seen her?” That really makes it clear I have nothing else to go on. Besides the fact that her hair is pretty and seems soft, and her lips are plump even when she’s flattening them in annoyance, and her eyes are…

Well, maybe I shouldn’t think about her eyes.

One of the girls wrinkles her nose. “The burned-out hockey player? She was at the party last night?”

I pause. “What?”

The other one giggles and pushes at her. “Don’t.”

“She literally burned⁠—”

McDowell covers her mouth, shaking his head. “We haven’t seen her around, dude.”

But she’s a hockey player? Or was. Burned, though? What the fuck does that mean?

I say goodbye and check the kitchen, then sigh and scope out the upstairs for Rhys.

Nothing, except closed bedroom doors. And while I’ve got no problem checking them, I’m not sure I want to see my best friend in that position. So I shoot him a text that says I’m out of here, then make a beeline for the exit.

Kind of like how she did yesterday.

Why was she running? Did something happen?

I lick my lips and replay her walking away, both times. The first earlier yesterday morning, then away from the house. Both times, there was a slight hitch to her step.

It’s a mystery I’ll solve another time. Those girls with McDowell sure knew, though. So it’s gossip. Shit I try not to pay attention to…

Or I’m missing something obvious.

My thoughts revolve around the girl. The fact that I don’t know who she is is driving me nuts. Isn’t that sad?

Okay, maybe not sad. I could’ve probably found out her name if I pushed harder. Or asked the right people.

What I need to do is… forget about her. And since going home would paint me as the biggest loser on campus, I head to the football team locker room to grab my tennis shoes. Nothing some exercise can’t fix…

The walk in the cool night air wakes me up. I take deep breaths, and the crispness is invigorating.

I tap my ID at one of the doors to the stadium. The tiny light on the scanner turns green, and there’s a click as the door unlocks.

This place has always been my safe haven. The dark halls are familiar, and I navigate the shadows easily. When I enter the locker room, I pause.

The lights are on—not necessarily unusual if an equipment manager was staying late for some reason, or the janitor was cleaning.

I don’t see either guy, though.

What I smell is paint.

I scowl and follow my nose. If Crown Point football jerks snuck down here and spray-painted our lockers⁠—

Nope.

A girl stands on a ladder. Her brown hair is in a bun on top of her head, exposing her slender neck. She’s wearing a paint-spattered long-sleeved shirt and similarly distressed jeans.

And even from the back, I recognize her as the girl who keeps snapping at me.

I smile before I can stop myself.

She’s painting something, but I can’t make out what it is around the shape of her body. There is a lot of red, which isn’t too surprising. It’s the school’s primary color. Still…

“Didn’t think I’d see you again.”

I anticipate her startled movement. Her knee seems to give out, and she pitches off the ladder. But I’m already there, grabbing her waist. My fingers brush her bare skin, and my mind short-circuits.

Touch is not my thing.

But this…?

Why do I want more of it? I could slide my hands higher under her shirt, put my palms on her back. Her skin is cool, and I’m suddenly on fire.

She rights herself and jerks out of my hold. She stares at my shoulder, and a grimace of pain flashes across her lips. Then she snorts.

“I’m not sorry.”

I tilt my head. “About?”

She points with the paintbrush still in her hand.

There’s a spatter of paint across my shirt. It kind of looks like blood, and I cough to cover my sudden laughter. She got me pretty good.

“Stop laughing,” she orders.

“You can laugh, too, you know.” I catch the paint on my finger and reach out, fast as a whip. I drag it across her cheek.

Her eyes widen. “You asshole.”

I shrug and step away before she can get back at me. “I didn’t go for your tits. I think that makes me a gentleman. And why are you⁠—?”

My focus swings to the wall.

Where my face has been painted, along with half my jersey. The outline of my number—thirteen—is visible on my chest.

I open and close my mouth.

Did I totally misread this chick?

Is she actually a stalker?

“It’s not what you think.” She sets down the brush and crosses her arms. “I was commissioned⁠—”

“Please save the lame excuses.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I thought you were normal, mystery girl. But breaking in and painting my face is a weird way to get my attention.”

I feel… oddly let down.

I take a step back, then another.

At the last second, I remember my tennis shoes and go straight for my cubby. Her gaze burns into my back, but I can’t do it. Short of her coming at me with a knife and literally stabbing me, I can’t be bothered.

Ridiculous.

I locate the shoes and leave the locker room without a backward glance.

So much for trying something new.