The Cruelest Kind of Hate (Riverside Reapers Book 3)
The Cruelest Kind of Hate: Chapter 35

GAGE

A few days later and everything’s still a blur. After my doctor performed some CT scans on my brain to make sure there wasn’t any internal bleeding, I had a very peaceful recovery period of low mental concentration. He told me that as long as I got some rest and monitored my symptoms, I’d be fine to go home.

And after I got wheeled off the ice, the Reapers secured another win under their belt. So thankfully, it was all worth it. Kind of. Okay, it was bad, but it could’ve been a lot worse. The headaches have ebbed for the time being, which is good news for me because I wasn’t really a fan of the whole alien-life-pulsating-shit going on in my whack-ass brain.

The minute I got kebabbed by those players, all I could think about was Cali. Granted, I wasn’t allotted a lot of time to think much of anything before my life flashed before my eyes, but still. I followed her voice back to the present—a sliver of light at the end of a tunnel, guiding me to safety past uneven terrain and rain-filled potholes.

There’s no way in hell I’d ever leave her or Teague. Not without a fight. And to know that she stayed by my side the entire time…I’m going to hold that over her head for the rest of her life.

Calista Cadwell loooves me. She also likes my cheesy compliments. And my jokes. And my kisses. Getting head trauma was so worth it to hear her admit that.

She opens the passenger door for me and helps me out, making sure to handle me with care as we make our way to the house’s entrance. Now that winter’s well on its way, the brown of the surrounding foliage has been overtaken by the first vestiges of snowfall, dusting powdered sugar over barren lands.

I overestimate one of the steps on the porch and knock into a pillar, feeling pain niggle at my shoulder. “I’m really gonna miss that hospital morphine,” I groan.

Cali grimaces. “Sorry. Should’ve told you there was a step there. Though I didn’t think I’d need to since you’ve lived here for years.”

I successfully climb the last step standing between me and my glorious, non-chemical-smelling bed. “You’re really mean, you know that?” I grumble.

She makes a face. “I’m not mean; you’re just dumb.”

The silence ironically speaks for itself.

“Ohhh. I hear it now,” she says.

“As my primary caretaker now, you have to be nice to me. That includes no name calling or insults to my intelligence.”

“How can I insult something you don’t have?”

A roguish grin quirks up the corners of my lips. “Every time you make a hurtful comment about me, I’ll be keeping track of how many orgasms you owe me.”

Cali snorts, rolling her eyes in the way that makes my dick pitch a family-sized tent in my pants. “Please. You’re seriously going to keep track of how much head I’m indebted to give you?”

I trace my finger along the coast of her jawline, ending my expedition at her bottom lip, where I gently part it from the top with a flap. She stares at me the entire time, lust torching her eyes like a gasoline-fed fire.

“No, Spitfire. I’m keeping track of how many orgasms I’m going to give you,” I clarify. “As of right now, we’re at two.”

Her mouth stays open in shock, goading a shiver to bullet down her spine, and a blush now backdrops those cinnamon freckles of hers. “Care to make it three?” she purrs, threading her arms behind my neck.

I pull her flush against my chest with more strength than I’ve probably used in the last few days. My hands skate down the curve of her spine, saying a quick hello to her adorable dimples before making their way over her perfect, perky ass and squeezing. “I can make it however many my girl wants.”

She arches the slightest bit into my palms. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

Cali takes one of my hands and redirects it to the small of her back, slipping it under her shirt and over what feels like a scar on raised skin. It takes me a second to realize what it is, and I run the pad of my finger over an infinity-like symbol.

“Did you…?”

She nods before turning her back toward me and showing me the very permanent tattoo she’s gotten in place of Fulton’s number. A small eight is inked into her skin, and I’m both relieved and overjoyed that I won’t have to kill my best friend or live the rest of my life as my future wife’s torture victim.

And yes, I said future wife. Because that’s what Cali is. Maybe five years out or so—for her sake rather than mine since I could make this decision right now—I’m going to rent out the rink and propose to her. She’s the only person in this world who I want to give my forever to…well, aside from the adorable child she’s eventually going to pop out. I’m hoping they’ll have her fiery head of hair. And maybe her ocean-blue eyes. And maybe her constellation of freckles. And I mean I wouldn’t be opposed if we had a few more kids, because that just means there’ll be more tiny versions of her for me to love.

Oh, God. Am I crying again? I feel like I’m crying. Come on, man! Get it together.

She turns back around to face me, reclaiming her previous position with her fingers on my nape and my fingers flirting with the possibility of a cheeky display.

“I think your allergies are acting up again,” she comments, a humorous half-smirk rounding her lips.

“It’s actually just eyeball sweat this time,” I joke, feeling tar coagulate in my throat the longer she graces me with those big, blue beauties of hers.

Cali laughs, and the dulcet sound is a solar flare in my veins, shaking the foundation of my bones and hurtling warmth toward the center of my heart. And then, this foreign shyness alters the firm set of her shoulders.

“So you like it then?” she asks in a small voice.

Do I like it? DO I LIKE IT?

“Cali, I fucking love it,” I respond, picking her up in my arms and swinging her around, pulling more of those heavenly giggles from her. She clings to me like she’ll go flying if she doesn’t, nose pressed against the slope of my neck, hands grabbing fistfuls of my shirt. The motion should hurt the bruised state of my body, but it doesn’t. Nothing hurts when Cali’s with me.

When I set her back down, curls of her hair straggle around her slightly pink face, and there’s a permanent smile bringing out the divots of her dimples. She looks breathtaking in the low light of the afternoon, visible puffs of breath twisting from her mouth in smoke-like tendrils. The tip of her nose is reddening by the second, and I have to get her in the house before she freezes.

“You know you didn’t actually have to get my number tattooed on you, right?”

“I know. I wanted to.”

I test the weight of her words against my tongue and love the taste they leave behind. She wanted to. If my heart wasn’t already bloated to twice its size from her love, it would probably blow out of my chest.

Cali’s eyebrows go skywards, digging little furrows in her forehead. “You’re not going to say something like”—she lowers her voice, which I’m assuming is supposed to be a hilariously inaccurate imitation of me—“why would you do that if we might break up one day?”

“First off, I’m flattered you think my voice is that deep. And second off, that’s never going to happen.”

I can tell her thoughts are going absolutely batshit in her head, so I cut through that tumultuous sea like the propeller of a boat chopping through waves. “Get out of your head, baby,” I coax, brushing the back of my hand over her cheek.

She grabs my hand, the tremor in her fingers matching the one in her voice. “How do you know that?”

“Because I just know these things,” I assure her, winking. “When things are meant to be, they always work out. And we’re meant to be, Spitfire. There’s no doubt in my mind about that.”

She opens her mouth, but I shut down her rebuttal with another kiss, swallowing those little buds of self-doubt before they’re given the chance to sow their seeds. While I lose myself in the swipe of her tongue and the mintiness of her breath, I fish for my keys and blindly unlock the front door—my movements accelerating the moment Cali’s hips press into my now-awake cock.

When the partition finally clicks open, I’m expecting a dark and uninhabited house, but I’m greeted with the exact opposite when there’s a flashbang of light and a synchrony of excited voices.

“Welcome home!” they all shout, causing my stomach to freefall to my ass and sweat to break out in places people shouldn’t sweat.

I scream at a decibel level that only dogs can hear, very officially losing my manliness card—though if you ask Cali, she’ll tell you I never had it.

I did. I did have it.

I grab the ever-living life out of Cali to shield her from whatever masked intruder’s been waiting for us to get home, but once my vision adjusts, the only “intruders” we see are the guys.

There’s a large banner hanging from the second-story railing that says, CONGRATULATIONS ON NOT DYING, and balloons occupy the ground, poorly taped streamers sagging from the ceiling. Fulton, as always, misses his mark with a confetti popper, and there’s a sad little noise that fires into the ensuing silence.

Once I’m certain my heart won’t make the same sputtering sound, I turn to Cali. “Did you know about this?”

A hint of devilry in her eyes. “Maaaybeee.”

Fulton drops the cheap cylinder and comes careering into me, nearly knocking me back into the wall as his arms squeeze the last of the breath from my overworked lungs. “I’m so glad you’re alive. I thought you were going to die,” he cries into my shoulder as I pat his back.

“This has happened like two times before. And I’ve survived every single time.”

“Yeah, but your bones are so brittle now after your hip!” he exclaims way too loudly.

There are some sniggers from the guys, and I stare them down with dead, mirthless eyes, negating their laughter. Dicks. All of them.

“I didn’t want to lose my best friend,” Fulton whispers, and my brief dance with irritation is replaced with a love so strong that it could topple cities—a love that’s been amplified by Cali. A love that I can now share with the rest of my team. A love that strengthens this family bond even more.

“You’re never gonna lose me, Ful.”

I feel a tiny set of arms attack my leg, and I look down to replace Teague attached to me like Velcro, his cheek squished against my thigh. “I missed you so much, Gage!”

Fulton lets me go so I can pick the little guy up and properly embrace him, my heart pounding out a stampede in my chest that can probably be heard over the residing sniffles. “I missed you too, Little Man.”

“You didn’t leave us,” Teague sobs, the pain in his tone leaden like the weight of a hundred sandbags, and it kills me to think that he’s been carrying the burden of all these suppressed emotions on his fragile shoulders.

I’m never going to let him carry that kind of pain ever again.

“I’d never leave you guys,” I coo, rubbing circles and easing the tension between his shoulder blades. “Never.”

After Teague snotifies my shirt and refuses to let go for a full five minutes, he eventually peels himself off me so I can hug the rest of the guys, exchanging murmurs of gratitude with them for staying by my side and planning something so unnecessary, yet so heartening at the same time. I missed being home. Yeah, I was only gone for a few days, but mysterious hospital Jello-O and old reruns could never compete with the camaraderie that’s been home-grown in these walls for the two years I’ve been with this team.

After doling out hugs and thank-you’s, I bring Cali into the side of my body, loving how she fits perfectly like the last missing piece to my puzzle.

And dare I say it, my tears are acting up again. “Thank you, guys. Again. For doing all of this and being here for me.”

“There’s nowhere else we’d rather be,” Hayes says.

“We haven’t even gotten to the best part yet!” Kit squeals—yes, squeals—and drags me over to the couch, making me plop my ass down as the rest of the guys join me. There’s a sudden burst of light illuminating the vacant space in front of us like that of a high-powered spotlight, and it takes me a second to notice that the coffee table’s been moved to the side.

Confusion spumes inside me. “Uh.”

A grin lays claim to Kit’s face—a grin I don’t trust. “Shh. Just watch. You’ll love it.”

Oh, God. As I walk the thin tightrope stretched precariously over a net of panic, I search for the one person who constantly keeps my blood pressure in check, but she’s missing from the couch. Where’s my emotional support Cali?

Then, as if I’d willed her into existence, she comes trotting out with two other girls and Aeris, and her little entourage are all wearing my jersey.

I’m officially on board with whatever I’m about to witness. They all take their positions with Cali being front and center, and then the starting notes of Katy Perry’s “Teenage Dream” start playing.

Oh my God. She’s going to dance. For me. I’m finally going to see her perform a full, choreographed dance. I’m finally going to see the last vulnerable side of her that I’ve tried so hard to catch a glimpse of.

She starts to sway her hips along to the catchy beats—her choreography dulled down to a kid-friendly version for the youngest member of the audience—and I’m having a hard time even focusing on her moves because I’m too in love with watching the pure joy on her face.

She steps forward and swings her right arm in front of her head, whipping back around to step together before taking a wider stance. Then she pops her hip to the side and throws her head back at the same time, that slender body of hers undulating to the music. When she comes back to standing, the rest of her posse goes low as she extends her leg perfectly straight in some crazy side tilt.

While the other girls perform some floorwork, Cali’s owning that fucking stage with every enthusiastic facial expression and clean, hard-hitting movement. Her solo is art in motion. It’s everything I could’ve ever dreamed of. She flicks her hands above her head and twirls around, stopping seamlessly in a half-bent pose before rolling back up again. She flings her hair behind her like a trail of fire, and her next move consists of two bent arms pumping in front of her chest.

The rest of her crew joins her in the sequence and mirrors her, and when they come to a halt, all of them do three consecutive turns on one leg. None of them fall out of sync. They’re perfect.

Cali’s perfect.

She resumes the upbeat dance by lowering her center of gravity into a half-crouch, keeping her left knee bent and arching her spine to the same side. And when the chorus rises again in the song, the girls give her some space as Cali does a crazy cartwheel type thing without using her arms. She flips into the air with her perfectly pointed feet, body vertical to the ground, and my tongue practically lolls out of my mouth like a rolled-out red carpet.

I knew she was an incredible dancer, but holy shit. I can’t believe she did all of this for me. She went out of her way to put on this huge production for me. Nobody’s ever done anything so thoughtful for me before. Then again, nobody’s been Cali.

Fuck. I grow more in love with her every passing day, which is goddamn impossible because my love for her has exceeded all metaphysical bounds of reality. It’s immeasurable. And at this rate, I’ll be a goner when that five-year mark comes around. I’ll be surprised if I even last five years to wait to propose to her.

If I thought she was beautiful just simply existing, she’s even more beautiful when she dances. There’s no sight of the tortured girl I met three months ago. She’s not overthinking or trying to contort herself to please everyone’s expectations. She’s not punishing herself for things out of her control. She’s free. And I helped make that possible for her.

I haven’t done a lot of things in my twenty-two years of life, but what I have done is shown the best person on this fucking planet how incredible she is. And that’s an accomplishment greater than a Stanley Cup.

When Cali ends the jaw-dropping routine with a pose on the ground, applause explodes from the couch, and I rush to her as fast as my legs will carry me. She rises up to meet me, shock giving leeway to cashmere-soft vulnerability.

“I can’t believe this is what you’ve been hiding from me all this time,” I exclaim, feeling my cheeks pinch with a Cheshire grin. “I always knew you were a beautiful dancer, but fuck. That was—I want to watch you dance for the rest of my life.”

Maybe it’s because she’s still catching her breath, but she fails to produce any words, the wideness of her eyes speaking volumes more than the aborted response on her tongue. So I bridge the silence and take her in my arms, dip her, then kiss her with raw abandon. I shatter into unimaginable colors, dark and light playing in a chiaroscuro over my eyelids. Unconditional love and undying reverence merge together to fuel the bass-like cadence of my heart.

And when I grant her a second to breathe, she eschews it and pulls me in closer, rejoining our lips as if the sun’s never promised to set.

I think I could get used to this.