The puck deflects off his stick, and Silas has to adjust his route to compensate. It's minor. Most people wouldn't clock it.
But I'm not most people.
I watch him through the rest of practice, cataloging each micro-failure. His reaction time is off. His positioning is reactive instead of predictive. His focus is divided.
You don't get soft in the middle of a war.
Coach blows the whistle for a water break, and I skate to the bench, grabbing my bottle and watching Beckett across the ice. He's talking to Silas, but his body language is tight. Defensive.
He knows I'm watching.
Good.
I don't confront him because I don't need to. The warning I gave him in the locker room two days ago was clear enough. If he wants to ignore it, that's his choice.
But choices have consequences.
I drain my water and toss the bottle back onto the bench, skating back onto the ice for the next drill. We run through power-play setups, penalty kills, and two-on-one rushes. I execute each one with precision. Hockey is simple when you break it down. Physics and geometry. Angles and velocity. Read the play, exploit the weakness, capitalize on the opening.
People are the same way.
After practice, I drive back to my apartment in silence, no music, just the hum of the engine and my thoughts.
I park in my assigned spot and take the elevator to the eighth floor, unlock my door, and step into the controlled chaos of my space. Everything has a place. Everything serves a purpose.
I drop my keys on the entry table and walk to my desk, pulling open the bottom drawer.
The necklace sits exactly where I left it, coiled like a snake atop a stack of encrypted USB drives.
Pink Swarovski crystal. Delicate chain. The kind of sentimental bullshit that rich girls wear because it costs too much money not to.
I pick it up, letting it dangle from my fingers, the crystal catching the late afternoon light and throwing tiny rainbows across the wall.
I remember the night I took it. The way she slept so peacefully while I stood over her bed, the weight of the pliers in my pocket, the satisfaction of cutting through that delicate chain without waking her.
I remember her counting later, tied to that chair, her voice shaking with terror.
One, two, three, four…
She was supposed to break.
Instead, she bonded.
With Beckett.
The thought irritates me more than it should.
Not because I'm threatened. I'm not. Beckett is useful but replaceable. And Adela Kalkaska is just a pawn.
But she was mine to dismantle.
Beckett doesn't get to rebuild her.
That's not how this works.
I drive past campus on Tuesday afternoon, no particular destination in mind. Just circling, thinking, planning my next move.
That's when I see them.
