But in the dark corridor that leads out past the TVs and the couches, the exit doorright there,I hear something.
And here, there’s no half-lights.
There’s nothing to see by.
I freeze, shifting my shoulders and the weight of my backpack with them.
It was a footstep.
A creak.
But it was… not in here? It sounded further away.
My eyes narrow in on the door ahead. It connects to another corridor which eventually spills out onto the ice. Theoretically, at this time, anyone could come through if they had a key card. Players, coaches, staff.
Maybe the janitor?
I pull my phone from my pocket.
It’s ten, so not entirely too late.
I squeeze the phone in my fist, grateful for the eternalDo Not Disturbthat won’t allow any notifications to come through except Mom’s, then I leave.
I might not be the only person here, but I don’t think it’s anyone trying to stalk me.
Not that I haven’t had my fair share of weird encounters the past two years. The fans aren’t just brutal in Toronto for the pros.
The temperature past the locker room drops and I hunch my shoulders as I head to the exit reserved for players.
I push open the crash bar and step out into the private parking lot.
My BMW is at home in the three-car garage, considering it only takes me ten minutes to walk here if I take a back path.But as my breath clouds in the cold under the moonlight and the arena’s outdoor lights, I kind of regret not driving.
For a second, I think of the new kid, Sylvan. The team cracked jokes about him driving his G-wagon here, and he rolled his eyes all charming-like, but as my shoes crunch over the frosted grass once I get far enough away from the exit door, taking a slight shortcut, I think he was smart.
Sylvan Connor. Number thirteen.
Tall, lanky, blond, blue eyes. All-American, from New York. Right wing. I’m always the first person he looks at when he scores.
Considering I’m left D, it makes sense, but there’s something innocent in his eyes that makes me want to let him know he did good.
I don’t, though. Not beyond what I should.
He’s spoiled, good-natured, light.
At least that’s what he wants everyone to think.
He’ll get eaten alive eventually if he keeps playing that role. Might as well start now.
I turn the corner of the arena, still in the grass, close to the massive gray building, and I nearly collide with someone.
Hands come to my chest, jolting me back, and my fingers instinctively find thin wrists to stop whoever it is.
But they were running, and when I looked down,she’slooking up.
Green-brown eyes, long lashes, her pink lips parted in a surprisedO.
Our bodies are too close, and I feel her pulse race under her skin.
