Shadow Mutation (Book Seven) [UNDER MAJOR EDITING]

Chapter 8: Meeting His Match

He wishes he was just angry. He wishes that rage was the only thing burning in his chest, day in and day out, but it's so much more complicated than that and so much harder to handle. His head is a tangled mess of grief, sorrow, and guilt that he can't even begin to unravel.

It's like the world is completely shrouded in black, like there's a veil encasing him that he just can't break through.

There is something he can break through, though, and that's the back entrance to the hockey arena. The lock is old and if you jimmy the door just the right way...

He smirks as the door clicks open. He slips inside, shutting it behind him and heading for the rink. His footsteps echo on the linoleum floors and already, he can feel the chill of the endlessly-cooled rink waiting for him.

One of these days, he's going to get caught for trespassing. He just hopes today isn't that day, because he needs to hit something and he needs to hit it hard.

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Casey skates in tight circles, twisting and turning on the sleek ice as he works his stick-handling magic. He skates back and forth across the rink, slamming pucks into the net every time he gets near it. The echoing snap of wood against vulcanized rubber surrounds him.

He wishes his mind would just go blank, but each pass across the rink is another five seconds to remind himself of another shitty thing and pile it on.

He has school tomorrow. School. He wanted to leave Roosevelt High feeling gratified and free. He wanted to look back on his high school years and go, yeah, that was fun. Thank God it's over, right? But instead, he's still there, stuck in this endless stupid loop surrounded by kids that just keep getting younger.

He skids to a stop, sending a spray of shaved ice up from his skates, and he pictures the school. Before he failed (twice) he was an outcast and he didn't care. He had April, Taylor, and eventually Annalise, and they were his group. His team. He didn't have to be anything other than himself with them.

Now, he's...a ghost, haunting a place he should have left long ago.

He throws down a puck at centre ice and strikes it with a shout. There's a loud crack as the puck flies, hitting the net with a solid thwump, and Casey curses. His stick hangs on by a few splinters, bent away at an awkward angle.

"Damn it," he mutters.

Without bothering to retrieve his pucks, he skates back to the box, hoisting himself over the boards and landing on the old black padding. He sits down and plants his stick on his lap, grabbing a roll of black athletic tape from his bag and starting to wrap it.

"Yeah, why don't you just break too?" he demands as he forces the stick to lay flat and straight. "Stupid thing."

He stiffens as a sudden breeze rustles his shaggy black hair, tickling the back of his neck and sending a tingling, crawling chill straight down his spine. He's felt this cold before, clinging to him. Someone is watching him.

"Okay, who's there?" he demands, getting to his feet and wielding his stick. The roll of tape dangles, swinging like a pendulum.

No response. His eyes narrow as he scans the arena. The cold still seems to linger, a tingling stripe on the back of his neck that won't leave. A stupid thought crosses his mind and his shoulders hunch.

"Dad?"

He doesn't know why he expects a response, maybe hopes for it. He's seen a lot of crazy things over the past years. If mutants exist, ghosts could too, right? He'd give just about anything to see his dad again, even if it was just long enough to apologize.