And an unknown number, too. A text.
I have the wild urge to run after Sylvan, tell him to stay while I read it, which is pathetic and something I’d never actually do.
But I tap the message immediately, worried it’s my stalker again. Or maybe it’s just Will, and he lied to me.
Yet when the message opens on my screen, it’s not the same anonymous number, and it feels like a different tone.
Unknown
Tomorrow night, baby girl. Don’t make me come back here.
ELEVEN
FAUST
Ikeep my head down, the walking lunges burning my inner thighs, causing that painful release to spear through my lower body. “Fearless” by PRESIDENT is playing through my brown Marshall’s headphones, drowning out the sound of the rest of my team in the crowded hallway right outside our locker room. The scent of deodorant and sweat mixes in my nose, but all I’m focused on is one foot, right angle, next foot, repeat. I flex my wrist, the black tape straining along both of them, making me feel secure. Ready. Do I really need the tape? No, but by now, it’s built-in muscle memory, half superstition, a reminder of what comes next.
I nod to Drew Lynsky, his flaming red hair out of place even in a hallway full of red and black. He’s the only redhead on the team. And go figure, he’s our number one goalie.
His expression is serious; he knows what’s coming, but he jerks his head in response, doing his own pre-ice warm-up, getting his hips stretched out as he stands against the wall.
Then I’m back in my own world.
Some of the guys are nervous, jittery. I’ve always found, even before I was captain, or any good at all, that being silent helpedme the most. It’s not like I ran through potential plays in my head or thought about our opponent too heavily. All of that would come when we stepped onto the ice. But I couldn’t talk through my nerves. Not just for hockey.
For anything.
I think of Mom’s text before I changed into my warm-up gear—gray joggers and a black short-sleeve compression shirt.
Mom
Don’t get hurt, and please win.
A smile curves my lips but I bite it back. She comes to a few games, but mostly the ones against arch-rival teams. Otherwise, she’s still in Sudbury, but she’s not alone. After she left Dad—he’d slept with his personal assistant one too many times—she got enough money in the divorce to buy herself a house big enough for Rachel to move in, too. I swear they’d be together if they weren’t born straight.
But I’m glad she’s not alone.
Glad, too, that Dad moved to Alberta with his PA. He calls, sometimes I answer. If it wasn’t for his money, I wouldn’t be as good as I am. But if it wasn’t for Mom and Rachel, I’d never have gotten to the ice in the first place.
I clench my jaw, then relax it, forcing myself to focus as “Fearless” plays again, set to repeat on a loop.
Another lunge, another, then I reach the end of the hall.
I glance at the red dragon splashed over the black wall and refuse to think of two nights ago.
The Man Who Deserved to Die.It plays like a book title in my head but I’d never speak that out loud. I can see it though, thriller-style letters and all. I like to listen to audiobooks, usually at night to help me sleep and drown out all the other voices I might hear, and the narrator starts in, inside my mind.
And tonight, a case like no other.
The man who got what he deserved.
I shake my head once and lift my eyes as I circle around to continue my lunges. I’m afraid someone will have seen the nonsense that plays through my brain, and as captain, I don’t need to look like I’m losing it.
When I pivot, Sylvan Connor is directly in front of me.
He’s in a white long-sleeve tech shirt, long black shorts, all-black Nikes with deep red laces. No tape. He’s got a backward black cap on, and his blue-gray eyes don’t leave mine as we face each other for a moment, the rest of the hall full of quiet movement and low voices.
I notice Sylvan has white corded EarPods in, the wire snagging down his chest, his phone in the pocket of his shorts, creating a bulge at his muscular thigh.
