[ He hears the commotion while his ass is sat on one of those benches, trailing smoke through his nose and lacing up the skates, but he doesn't look up. His motions are pretty rote, his brain elsewhere. Stuck on curses and second chances and how fucking bullshit that sounds. Like he'd get to go home. Like he'd be able to face Max or any of them.
He hears his name and his head jerks up, blue eyes sharp and glaring. And it is — well, Steve Harrington. Who crashed into his Camaro with a Cadillac. Yesterday? For him, yesterday.
Billy throws his head back and laughs. He's so screwed. But he stands, skates toward the divider, looks at Steve like he's a ghost even though Billy's the ghost. He hasn't checked yet. Maybe they're all ghosts, that's why he's screwed. ]
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He hears his name and his head jerks up, blue eyes sharp and glaring. And it is — well, Steve Harrington. Who crashed into his Camaro with a Cadillac. Yesterday? For him, yesterday.
Billy throws his head back and laughs. He's so screwed. But he stands, skates toward the divider, looks at Steve like he's a ghost even though Billy's the ghost. He hasn't checked yet. Maybe they're all ghosts, that's why he's screwed. ]
Shit, Harrington. Did I get you killed then?
[ He looks out into the rink. Then back. ]
You fall on your ass?