My throat feels tight—I’m lucky it didn’t bruise, as hard as Will squeezed it. Explaining to Cyn would’ve been too much.
There’s a text though. Just received.
S.C.
I see you.
I take a breath in through my nose and look up, but before I can find him, a guy who is vaguely familiar is right in front of me.
“Neve!” He comes in for a hug, but I shoot out my free hand and stop him. He smells like beer, and it’s making me think of Jackson, and I can’t remember where the hell I know this guy from anyway, but I don’t want him all in my face.
“What’s your name again?” I ask, my voice clipped. The alcohol is wearing off and I’m hungry and moody and I don’t know where the hell Sylvan is, but I certainly can’t see him with the broad, black-haired boy in my face.
A look of hurt creases his brow but he quickly recovers.
“Edmond, from our Abnormal Psych course? Dr. Patrick?”
Recognition clicks in my head, but Edmond and I have exchanged nothing more than a handful of words all semester, and most of those were in discussion about Jung and Freud and what they would think of modern-day psychopaths. It’s not like we actuallyknoweach other.
“Right,” I say coolly. Edmond and I are not on hugging terms. I don’t need any more men intruding in my life.
“Anyway, what a game, hey?”Thisis the accent most Americans think of when they imagine someone from Canada.
I nod once. “Yep.” I’m growing more anxious, wondering where Sylvan is spying on me from and why he hasn’t revealed himself yet. Too royal to walk among the rest of us peasants? Does he not want anyone to see us talking? That actually makes sense, considering what happened Wednesday night and how police could be lurking, but I’m done waiting around like some sort of simpering fan while he hides in the shadows.
“I hope you have a good night, Edmond.” I smile tightly, then push past him when he doesn’t back up. The crowd in the entranceway is dwindling and out of the corner of my eye, I see a few staff members telling people it’s time to leave. The food stands have all shut down and no one is waiting in line anymore.
But Edmond reaches out and catches my wrist, which sends a bolt of irritation rushing through me. I turn to tell him to fuck off when a body knocks past me, and shoves Edmond backward.
Spinning completely, I’m shocked to see Faust Darling’s broad back to me while he says, voice low and calm, “Don’t touch her again.”
I can’t see Edmond at all beyond Faust’s black sweater, and I’m surprised the hockey player smells so damn good, like a crisp fall night, pine and woods and soap. His dark hair is raked back, wet at the ends, and I see the golden and silver chains around his throat that I must have missed the night we met.
Edmond says something in a faint voice, then adds, “Good game, man,” but he’s edging out from behind Faust as he speaks.
Edmond glances at me with wide eyes and mutters, “Sorry, Neve,” under his breath. I don’t turn to look at him as he slinks past me, no doubt ready to get the fuck out of here. Two assholes in one night are probably two too many for him, and Sylvan hasn’t even showed up yet.
Slowly, Faust turns to me.
His deep brown eyes are so dark, they almost meld with his pupil. He’s got a silver ring around them, a contrast to all the depth, and there’s a bead of water on the end of his broad nose, probably from his wet hair.
He’s fucking handsome and ridiculously well-dressed, in a white collared shirt beneath his black sweater. He’s wearing what looks like tailored pants but I think they’re joggers meant to appear more formal, and he has on blacked-out Air Jordans.
The chains on his neck dips down under his collar beneath his white olive skin.
I swallow hard and glance down at the leather duffel he’s got clenched between the fingers of his right hand.
“You did good.” It’s the only words that come out of my mouth and I realize I’m echoing what Edmond said, but he wasn’t wrong. It was a good game.
“I saw you,” Faust says quietly, his eyes studying mine, then roaming over my face, down my jacket, to my pants, stopping at my heels. He lifts his eyes again. “In the stands.” He speaks softly, and I realize we must be one of the few people left because it’s quiet at our backs. The scent of popcorn and beer iscompletely overtaken by the scent of him. It’s intoxicating. Hard to think.
When I shift my eyes past him to the glass surrounding the entrance of the arena, I see there aren’t many fans left, but there are some, and a few are taking photos right now.
Of Faust’s back, and me, standing in front of him.
“You had a silver cup.”
I dart my eyes back to him, ignoring his words. “People are watching us,” I whisper.
