“It’s just a study!”
“And Dexter was just a blood spatter analyst!”
“It’s nothing, I swear.” For some reason, the thought of showing her made his skin crawl. He never showed his art to anyone. No one ever understood it. No one ever got his obsessive need to draw and explore through art. No one in his family ever had, and he’d learned to hide it long ago.
“Well with that attitude, I think we’re heading for a divorce,” she said, glaring at him. It was the same glare she used on the track, and it startled him to see it. Game-Chelsea was a whole different woman than the one he knew.
“You want to talk about attitude, then?” he challenged, gesturing back at the auditorium where he could hear music playing as the halftime show continued. “How about the one-woman wrecking ball out there?”
Her hands went to her hips and she scoffed at him. “You don’t know shit about derby. You’re supposed to be aggressive.”
“There’s a difference between being aggressive and frightening your own teammates!”
She licked her lips, seeming uncertain for the first time. “I’m just a little off this week. It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine. You’re going after everyone out there like you have something to settle.”
“He’s right,” someone called out and skated past Chelsea, swatting her ass with a towel.
Chelsea scowled and moved closer to Sebastian. Her voice dropped to a low whisper so no one would hear them. “Look. Derby is my therapy. I get a lot of stuff out of my system on the floor out there.”
“What the hell can you possibly need to get out of your system that requires attacking so many other people?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “You don’t make sense, Chelsea. I know we’re friends and all, but damn if you aren’t confusing the hell out of me. You want to be platonic but crawl into my bed. You leave the lights on like a scared toddler and have a stage name like a stripper. You hide something that’s totally awesome like the derby, but you attack your teammates. I don’t understand what all this is adding up to—”
She leaned in close, her teeth gritted, fists clenched. “I. Was. Raped. Is that what you want to hear?”
It was like a splash of cold water on him. He took a step backward. “You . . . you what?”
Her breasts heaved, her expression emotional. “You want to know what I need to work through? Three years ago, I was roofied at a bar and when I woke up, I was in a Dumpster. Discarded like trash. So if I seem a little too ‘aggressive’ on the track”—she did air quotes around the word—“you don’t know the fucking half of it, all right?”
“Are we going to jaw all night or are we going to fucking talk some strategy?” A man in a purple shirt called from the next room. “Get the fuck over here, Chesty. Potty break’s over! We need to have a team talk.”
“I have to go,” Chelsea said to Sebastian in a flat voice. “Still got half the bout to go through.”
“I’ll see you when you get home,” Sebastian said. “Then we’ll talk.”
She skated away, not answering him.
And that was just fine. Because he couldn’t really put together coherent words at the moment. She’d leveled a grenade at him, an emotional grenade that had torn through his scaffolded hopes for what their relationship might turn into.
The derby he could handle.
The thought of Chelsea being traumatized and roofied? When who knew what happened to her?
It made him feel helpless. Angry. He understood why she skated like she was on a mission now. Why she flung herself at others, heedless of her own safety. Why she body slammed herself through every jam.
He felt like doing the same at the moment.
But he couldn’t, so he turned around and stalked out of the stadium.
He needed to think. To process.
Something.
Chapter Thirteen