Sylvan tracks her movements like he’s a predator, not bothering to look again at the corpse behind him. But time is ticking, and if we don’t call the cops immediately, this is going to look worse for us.
I glance at the stadium to our side, scouting out the cameras. It’s a slim possibility they don’t have them out here, the towering gray building lurching toward the stars, no parking lot and only a wooded area beyond the clearing on this side of Sky Arena. But it is possible. Either way, we have to make the fucking call, and that means my night just got ruined. A night of lying in bed waiting until three o’clock to roll around so I could finallyslip into a few disastrous hours of sleep, but it was better than no sleep at all. Better than dealing with questions, being in the news, and spending any more time with Sylvan Connor andNevethan I have to.
Maybe I’m not the outgoing, rallying captain my team deserves, but at least hockey was the only drama I involved myself in up until this point.
“I didn’t do anything to him.” Neve’s voice has gained some strength. She sounds pissed now, which is good. Better than the whimpering girl who was in my arms. That one couldn’t put a cohesive story together for the police.
I glance at her as she darts her eyes from me to Sylvan and back again. Some of the outdoor lights glint over her hair. It’s blond everywhere, but some pieces seem white, others more like golden wheat. It’s gorgeous, if I’m being honest, but a slow shake of Sylvan’s own ultra-light blond strands takes me out of my admiration.
I don’t have time for this shit.
And I’m done with him speaking all cryptic, trying to scare her. I don’t know if he thinks that kind of talk is impressive, but it isn’t. In fact, I preferred him when he wasn’t speaking around me at all.
“Connor.” I growl his last name.
His spine straightens, even if he doesn’t look away from the girl.
“Get your phone out and call the police.”
Slowly, his frosted eyes drag their way to mine.Frostbite.I’ve seen girls holding signs with the nickname. I see it now.
The girl’s gaze is on the side of my face. If she knows we’re hockey players, she doesn’t show it. Or maybe she just doesn’t care.
Uncommon, but I like it.
I keep my gaze locked on Sylvan.
Like too many freshmen, he walks around with swagger and bravado that he hasn’t earned at this level. Eventually, someone will knock his ass out on the ice and he’ll learn his lesson. But for now, I’ll teach him that for all his smooth talking, he doesn’t have rank here.
I do.
And slowly, reluctantly, like he hates it, he pushes his hand into the pocket of his bomber jacket and slips out his phone.
There’s a tightness to his jaw I don’t like as he watches me even when he holds his screen in front of his face to unlock it.
And for a heartbeat, the image of a man on his back, dead, behind my teammate, I wonder if hehadsomehow killed him.
Logically, it doesn’t make sense: We both told the guy to leave, and we watched him walk away. We heard a truck, and I’m sure we both thought it was him heading out of the parking lot. And Sylvan hasn’t left my side since he insisted we look for the girl.
There was no time for him to stab a man between the ribs. And there’s no blood on his hand, no weapon. I guess he could be hiding it in the bomber jacket but again, when would he have done it? All the way over here? He can’t fucking teleport, no matter what my mom says about people have special “abilities” in this world.
She always told me those years I didn’t speak, she could easily communicate with me without any sort of language, except from the heart.
It’s a nice sentiment, but in my world, I’ve never seen anything but good hockey skills and great love. The former from myself, the latter from my mother and Rachel.
That might be a magic of its own, but it didn’t leave Sylvan with any time to stab a guy he seemingly doesn’t—didn’t—know.
But as he dials 9-1-1 on his phone, never looking away from me, his gloved thumb over the call button, I look at Neve.
She still has her palms up, her arms trembling.
And I don’t see any blood, but then again, she’s wearing a black sweater and…
My heart slams around in my chest.
That’s not what she was wearing when she knocked into me.
Was it?
