As they watch me, it’s clear they both have a million and one questions spinning around their heads.
“Thank you,” I say. “I really appreciate…this.” A pained sigh spills from my lips.
An awkward silence falls among us before Freya reaches into her purse, pulls out an old receipt, and begins scribbling on the back of it.
“Here,” she says, holding it out for me. “This is my number. Just in case.”
My fingers curl around it as my heart thumps in my chest.
“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice trapped by the giant ball of emotion clogging my throat.
“I hope you enjoy the game,” she adds before the two of them walk out, leaving me alone.
I stumble back, my ass hitting the counter before I raise my face to the ceiling.
In my back pocket, my cell begins vibrating.
I know who it is without looking. It’s the same person who has been sending messages every ten minutes since I left her in the atrium earlier.
Standing straight, I hold my head high and walk out of the restroom as if I have control over myself and my emotions. It’s bullshit; I have control of nothing right now, but it’s nice to pretend.
It’s not until I emerge that I realize I’m still up in the offices.
I look each way down the empty hallway, aware that I really shouldn’t be up here.
But I’m not the only one. The piece of paper that’s still in my hand crinkles as I lift it.
Freya Price.
I frown, trying to sort through all the research I’ve done recently to figure out who she is.
Freya Price and Casey?—
Oh shit.
15
BEATRICE
It soon became clear that I hadn’t been left alone to wander around the front office of the LA Vipers—a little down the hallway, a security guard was waiting to escort me back to where I should be.
He didn’t say a word, and neither did I. Mostly, I was just glad it wasn’t anyone who was going to fire a million questions at me.
The sound of chaos hits my ears long before the elevator doors open, and I walk back through to the entrance.
Vipers’ fans are everywhere. It is nothing but a sea of green and white. Chanting, airhorns, cheering. The excitement is palpable in the most electric way I’ve ever experienced, and it is infectious, too. After looking at my ticket, the security guy points me in the right direction, and as I make my way to my seat, some of my stress fades, allowing a little excitement in.
Tonight is a huge event, not just for the players waiting to make history, but for the entire state. Hockey fans have been waiting a long time to be Stanley Cup champions, and everything is riding on tonight.
My stomach knots as I think about what I’ve just done to one of their starting players.
It would be naive of me not to think the news will affect him. I just have to hope it’s for the better, because I’m not sure I can handle knowing I’ve disappointed the entire state.
“Oh my god,” Sienna squeals when she spots me making my way to the empty seat beside her. “I’ve been calling you. I was starting to think you bailed when he hit the ice.”
It’s taken every ounce of self-restraint that I possess not to look at the rink as I’ve made my way up here. But the second she points out that he’s down there, my head swivels, and my eyes scan the players, looking for him.
My breath catches when I find him shooting a puck back and forth with another player.
