Breaking The Rules

Chapter 35

My phone clattered to the floor as I threw it across my bedroom.

I heaved out a heavy sigh, staring up at the ceiling in a poor attempt to forget the comments splattered on social media. I squeezed my eyes shut. With any luck, when I opened them back up, I'd wake up from this nightmare.

The blinds were drawn as far down as I could get them, casting my room in a shadow that swallowed me whole. I could count how many times I'd left my room on one hand over the past few days. Most of my days blurred together now—scrolling through social media, regretting it the moment I saw another message calling me a useless piece of shit. Anonymous accounts, full names, faceless profiles—they all had something to say. My inbox was a cesspool of accusations, disgust, and self-righteous judgment.

The worst part about it? My hands were fucking tied. Even if I responded, or made some sort of post to clear my name, none of it would matter. I was condemned before I even had a right to a fair trial.

To be fair, I had made it worse.

Images from the video that was taken of me outside of Mila's house flashed through my memory like a slideshow. It was bad. It was so fucking bad. Observing the situation from the lens of some stranger's phone camera I looked every bit as crazy as people accused me of being. The wild look in my eye, the way Booker and Cole had to pull me back from the front door...if someone told me that guy was a fucked up abuser trying to scare their victim into silence I might have believed it too.

The images in my mind flashed by again and I threw my forearm across my face in a poor attempt to stop it.

Earlier that day, my father had called. His voice was light, the way it always was when he asked how things were going. I'd lied to him. Instead of admitting that I would likely soon need a lawyer, I told him everything was fine. It crushed me––not because I was in the habit of telling him everything, but because for once in my life I didn't have anyone I could turn to. There was no one I could go to with this who would understand. Not without thinking I was a monster first.

I'd never felt more alone.

I couldn't even bring myself to say the words. Hell, I couldn't even leave my room. The only time I ventured from those four walls was to eat, shit or shower, forcing myself under the hot spray just long enough to scrub off the layers of apathy clinging to my skin. But even that had felt like a monumental effort, and I was back in bed within ten minutes, lying on top of the covers in the same clothes I'd worn the day before.

A knock at the door broke through the quiet. I removed my forearm from my face, but that's all I could manage. I didn't move, staring at the ceiling as if that would make whoever it was go away.

"Maverick?" Celeste's voice was soft, but it carried through the darkness.

I swallowed, my throat tight. I didn't respond, hoping she'd take the hint and leave. The brief strolls I had taken throughout the Hockey House were at times where I knew I would be able to avoid the rest of my housemates; bathroom breaks when they were all at class or late night snack-escapades at three o'clock in the morning. Because while I didn't have the energy to face any of my teammates, I really didn't have the heart to confront Celeste.

The door creaked open anyway, and the faint aroma of something savory drifted in. "I brought you dinner," she said as she stepped inside, a beam of light entering along with her.

A heaviness settled in my chest, as much as I wanted her there I needed her to go even more. I remained frozen, blinking up at the ceiling as she approached the side of my bed. Through my peripheral I took in the mound of food she brought in on a plate. My mouth watered, but I said nothing.