Prologue
HALSEY
Over a year ago . . .
“Are those new loafers?” Posey asks as we make our way down the hallway of the Agitators arena toward our locker room.
I glance down at my probably year-old shoes, then back up at him. “No.”
“Huh.” He takes another sip of his Gatorade. “They look new.”
Levi Posey, one of my best friends and teammates. The self-appointed bruiser on the team acts like a devil in skates, but off the ice, he’s a cinnamon roll—all ooey and gooey on the inside. He has made it quite clear his first love is bologna, and his second love is hockey.
And he can be the most annoyingly invasive human being you’ll ever meet.
“Are you sure?” Posey puts the cap on his Gatorade. “They’re very shiny.”
“Positive,” I answer.
“Do you not wear them often?”
Jesus Christ, what is happening?
“Dude,” I say, stopping in the hallway. “What’s with the shoe talk?”
Posey stops as well and shrugs. “Just trying to make conversation with my buddy.” He pokes me in the arm. “My good old pal. Don’t you want to have a conversation with me?”
Yeah, not buying it one bit.
My eyes fall to where he poked me, then back to him. “What’s going on?”
“What do you mean?” he asks, looking anything but innocent. “Nothing’s going on. I’m just talking about shoes.”
“Did the boys put you up to something?”
He rolls his eyes dramatically. “I don’t know what you could possibly be talking about.” He goes to uncap his drink again, but I swat it out of his hand, sending the bottle straight into the wall next to us. “Hey!” he protests. “That’s for preventive cramping, treat it with respect.”
He picks up his bottle as I say, “Don’t bullshit me. Why are you being weird?”
“Can’t a man ask another man about his shiny loafers without being questioned?”
“No,” I answer.
He sighs and tosses his hands up in the air as if surrendering. “Fine, but if they ask, tell them I was smooth about this.”
Levi Posey is anything but smooth.
Also . . . I knew something was up.
“Sure. Now, what’s going on?”
Posey glances over his shoulder, looking around to see if we’re alone, then he leans in with a conspiratorial tone. “Well, we had a meeting the other night—”
“Who iswe?” I ask, a brow raised.
“Pacey, Hornsby, and Taters.”
Typical.
