My heart flutters and I bite down on my bottom lip to stop from screaming as I erase everything I typed.
Why are you so worried about me?
I see the three dots pop up to indicate he’s typing, then they vanish.
Then appear again.
Then vanish.
Finally, as I hold my breath, his text comes through.
33
I don’t know but let me be.
When Cynthia gets inside,she hugs me on the couch where I’m watching Lord of the Rings, and I smell the vodka on her breath, but she’s not stumbling around or slurring her words, which I count as a blessing.
She goes off to bed soon after though, saying she’ll catch me up in the morning. I’m half-asleep as is, but once I’ve turned the TV off and gotten out of my nest of blankets, I cautiously, foolishly walk to the window again.
And I see him.
My phone is on DND again, and when I swipe down for my notifications, he’s texted me.
33
That was her?
I chew the inside of my cheek as my heart swells. He watched her let herself in.
Yes. Go home, Faust.
A moment later, I watch the red BMW leave my parking lot.
SIXTEEN
FAUST
Istare at my phone in the dark and watch the time change from 2:59 to 3:00 am. It’s not unusual, staying up all night, even before the second back-to-back game—and this one is Queens, so it’ll be more brutal than last night—but what I’m looking at on my phone is certainly not typical.
I rub my thumb over the glass and stare at Sylvan Crispin Connor.
Crispin.
For some reason, I never knew that. Then again, it’s not like I’m the most involved captain in the world. Why the team and Coach thought I deserved the C this year baffles me. I stay quiet, keep my head down, do my job, and yeah, sure, maybe I get the puck in the offensive zone better than most D and my stick handling is the thing that got me the contract I haven’t signed and sure, I’m calmer than anyone else on the ice but involved? Not really. I’d rather spend my free time with the kids at the hockey clinic than the ones I skate beside.
More than that, I’d rather spend my free time alone.
The reality is, I like most of the team. A lot. Our goalie, Lynsky; Ryles the center; Zaulks—even if the left winger’s nameis too close to mine. I’m closest to Ryles personally, and I do more work with Connor professionally, but clearly, I don’t give him the time I should’ve outside of the ice.
Now as I look at him beaming in a press photo from a few hours ago after the game—thankfully they didn’t ask him any fucking questions—I wonder just what secrets he’s hiding. Those light eyes, his blond hair damp with sweat under the helmet he’s still wearing, stick in his gloved hand.
What the fuck do you want with Neve?
And what is it she said?“You don’t know him at all.”
He lied to my face, didn’t he? About sleeping with her?
Unlessshe’sthe liar.
