My fingers shake as I fan through the small stack, and I recognize every single photo. These are my photos. It’s everything I lost on my memory card, and every single one of them is taken from an angle that makes the guys and the whole team look terrible.
Nausea rocks my stomach. I drop the photos to my lap and cover my mouth with my hand. Who has seen these?
Does Noah know?
If he does know, how could he possibly not hate me?
Questions pelt me like bees, each one stinging more than the last.
Sliding down in my seat, my brain still in shock, my gaze slides outside my window, and I search the dark shadows.
Is someone watching me?
A lump forms in my throat and my body stiffens. I slide my finger to my door lock and click on it. No longer feeling safe, I jerk my car into gear and speed out of the parking lot, my mind running with so much fear.
Headlights flash on behind me, and a car pulls out. Maybe it’s a coincidence, or maybe my mind is running wild. Whether they are following me or not, someone has my memory card. That someone knows what I was up to. They apparently don’t want to be quiet about it anymore.
But why?
eleven
Noah
Paisley: I’m running late. Still coming.
I reread her text and lower my phone to the table, loosening my tie to allow in more air. It’s banquet night, and the entire team and their families are stuffed in a hotel conference room with long tables that are squished together with zero air flow. I reach for my water glass, and I bounce my leg up and down underneath the table.
Paisley is still not here, but guess who is?
The woman Bill invited for me.
Yep, forgot about her.
Katie or Kinsley . . . I can’t even remember her name. She’s smiling at me from across the table, and every few minutes she bats her lashes and tries to make small talk. It’s not her fault she got swept into Bill’s plan.
This is what he does.
“I watched all your home games this season.” Once again, she leans forward, flashing me a big-teeth smile. Even if Paisley wasn’t on her way here, I don’t want to flirt with this person.
“Hmm?” I grunt out, barely looking in her direction. What am I supposed to say? That this is a mistake? She needs to go home. Sweat beads on my brow as I scan the room for Paisley again.
We finish listening to Coach Carlson give his welcome speech. It wasn’t his worst one, but it also wasn’t anything I haven’t heard before. Coach takes his seat, and now it’s Bill’s turn to ramble. Bill’s the only guy in the room not wearing a tie as he opted for a Granite Ice Polo shirt and trousers. I guess you can set your own dress code when you own the team.
“Good evening, everyone.” Bill nods a few times from his place at the podium.
As I stare at him, I can’t help but feel a tinge of resentment. I’ve never felt this way about him before, but it almost seems like I’m thinking clearer now than I ever have. Maybe it’s because I’m off my meds, but who knows.
Karen, or whatever her name is, flicks her hair over her shoulder, trying to get my attention. I wonder if Bill paid her to sit by me and act like that? It’s not above his character if there’s something in it for him, especially since he’s done it before. Needing to sulk, I slide my elbow onto the table and drop my chin into my palm. I think it’s time to move.
Move to a different table where it’s not so crowded.
And I need to move out of Bill’s house.
And if it was up to me, I would move to another team.
The crazy thing is that I almost got signed into the NHL, but I was so worried about leaving my mom that when the scouts came, my anxiety went through the roof. I couldn’t handle the pressure, and I purposely blew a few too many passes. As I slouch down in my chair and survey the room, I feel my mistakedeep in my gut. This team is going nowhere. If I stay for another year, I’ll be stuck and nobody will ever take me seriously.
My gaze hitches on a black shape outside the ballroom doors. At a second glance, I confirm it’s Paisley. She always wears black, and her long hair hangs down, fanning all around her. I flash a silent two-finger wave and scoot my chair back. There is no way I’m going to have her come over here and get the wrong idea about Kayla or Kitten or whatever her name is. Speaking of what’s-her-face, she stares at me with wide eyes, and I freeze before I mumble, “Ah, sorry, I’m not feeling the best.”
