Errrrt!
A sharp crack of impact slams us forward. Koren screams, her hand flying in front of her face. The airbags explode, releasinga white cloud of powder into the car. My eyes squeeze shut out of instinct. As soon as I realize that, I force them open and slam my attention back to the road. Unsure of where my car is on the road, I slam on the brakes.
Blinking hard as more adrenaline pumps through my veins, I manage to steer onto the shoulder, out of the path of oncoming traffic.
“Are you okay?” I turn toward Koren, placing a hand on her leg. The heat from her thigh radiates up my arm, nearly immobilizing me. If not for the adrenaline firing through me, I might have frozen completely.
“I’m fine.” Her breath comes in little, choppy puffs. She tosses a look over her shoulder to check on the other car. When I see her neck move in that manner, I release a shaky breath of relief.She’s probably okay.
It hits me.
I just wrecked a brand-new car I’ve owned for less than fifteen minutes. You’ve got to be kidding me.
My dad is going to kill me.He’s going to be so irate, I honestly can’t think about it or I’ll be sick.
Waves of tension radiate up my spine as I focus on Koren again. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah.” Her wide eyes dart another glance behind us. “Just startled, but we should check on that car.”
“Good idea. Why don’t you stay here, and I’ll go exchange information with him?” Heart hammering in my throat, I open my door and slide out, turning my focus to the car behind me. The newer silver SUV is pulled over on the shoulder too, parked right behind me. It’s smoking slightly from the front end.
I take a few wobbling steps toward it, trying to catch my breath, just as the driver’s door opens. Out steps an older man. Granite Ice sweatshirt. Aviators. Rich-man salt-and-pepper hair. His mouth is already moving.
“Is anyone hurt?” he calls out, glancing around as if expecting reporters to leap from the bushes.
“No,” I say tightly, letting out another sigh when I add, “Just the car. Did you not see me?”
“Well, yes. No. I knew you were there, but I took two seconds to look at my text messages. I—” He cuts himself off as he walks around the side of my car, looking it over. “I’m sorry. We’ll get your car fixed. Quietly.”
I pause, pondering how odd it is to say the wordquietlyin that sentence. I’m about to pull out my phone to call the cops, but he turns back to me and says, “So, here’s the deal. Let’s just handle this without the police. I will pay for everything. If you need to go to the clinic to get checked out, I’ll pay for that too, but we need to be a little quiet about this.”
“Are you drunk?” I blurt out. That’s the only reason I know not to call the cops.
Checking over his shoulder as a car passes in the left lane, he waits, then says, “No, I haven’t been drinking. I just have a few too many speeding tickets.”
Confusion buds at the front of my brain. If he’s sober, why wouldn’t we call the police? It’s going to cost a fortune to fix these new cars out of pocket. Even if he loses his license, it won’t be forever. Who has tens of thousands of dollars just lying around?
Wait a second …
I check the logo on his shirt again—Granite Ice. He’s way too old to play hockey. Likely too old to coach. There’s someone else associated with our local hockey team who is old and very, very rich—a local billionaire, in fact. I step closer, sizing him up. “Wait. I know you. You’re Bill Baker, the owner of Granite Ice, right?”
He stiffens, glancing back toward the road to check traffic before returning his gaze to me. He clears his throat and says quietly, “Can we just keep everything between us?”
Of course! I nearly smack the side of my head. The secrecy makes sense now. Rich guy with too much to lose in bad press. Bill Baker is pretty much famous for always being up to something. Bad PR is practically his middle name.
“Sorry, sir,” I say quickly, blinking in disbelief, still trying to connect the dots. “I’m a big fan of your team.” I jab my hand through my hair and look toward the road. Just a few miles up is the arena where they play. It makes so much sense now why he’s here. Never did I think I’d meet Bill Baker, especially not like this.
“Fan?” He smirks, like I’ve plucked the perfect spot on his ego. “What’s your name, kid?”
“Elijah.”
“Elijah,” he repeats, eyes narrowing as he sizes me up. My face heats under his scrutiny. “Jonas?”
“Yeah.” My voice is small. It’s super creepy he knows my last name.
“I know you too.” He wags his finger at me. “You aren’t just a fan. You were a senior forward at Mapleton High School. I read about you all the time in the newspaper. You were always lighting up the ice. I never did hear what college you signed with.”
Dropping my eyes to the ground, I fight the urge to pretend I don’t care—because it still stings that I got passed over for college scholarships. “Ah, none.” I struggle to keep my voice from cracking. I don’t understand it. I played hard my entire career, but when it came to college recruitment, I was invisible.
