“Shit, wow.” He puffs out his cheeks and his hands end up on his hips. He’s older than me. Than that girl. Maybe late twenties? Early thirties?
I should just walk around him.
Go home.
I’m tired in my fucking bones.
Friday is two days away. Game day, and I want the Lynx’s to fucking suffer. Lanell University is full of a disproportionate number of handsy, American assholes.
So I need sleep, and besides, I don’t have to be nice to anyone, fan or not. Not right now. I’m not on the clock.
The man snatches his hat off his head and squeezes it between his fists. He’s got a shaved head, pale olive skin, and his gaze keeps darting between me and the spot over my shoulder.
He’s looking for her, and it’s annoying me.
“I would ask you to sign my hat but…” He trails off.
I don’t offer anything.
He swallows.
“I’m looking for my girlfriend. Neve?” He says her name like he thinks everyone knows her. “Blond, tall.” His cheeks flush pink. She’s taller than him and I can tell he hates it. “She was wearing a white sweatshirt?” He’s studying me now, waiting for me to say something.
Hisgirlfriend?I fucking doubt it.
“Did you happen to see her, man?”
I don’t respond for a second. Two. Three.
She doesn’t want him to find her.
She wasn’t playing a game.
And he doesn’t look like he’s going to sweep her off her fucking feet when he gets his hands on her.
“Sorry,” he mutters in my silence. “I’ll just…” He puts his hat back on and gestures toward the back of the arena.
Then he tries to step around me.
And I know I should fucking let him go.
Let them deal with their shit.
She didn’t look injured. She was running, yeah, but I’m not sure she was running for her life.
He steps past me.
I squeeze my eyes tight shut.
But just as I pop them open and move to shoulder check the guy, another—familiar—voice startles me.
“Nah,” Sylvan Connor says from behind me. “I don’t think she wants to be found.”
When I turn my head, Sylvan is shoving the guy back, full on, in the chest.
Intome.
Sylvan meets my eyes over the guy’s head, and a dimple pops in his perfect face as he asks, “Does she, Faust?”
