“Barlowe.” The voice oozes smug satisfaction, like he’s been waiting for me to slip up. “Trevor Gaines. Finally caught you, huh? Been chasing you for months.”
My hand tightens on the pen until my knuckles ache. Gaines. Christ. The guy has been circling since the day I got cut—calling, emailing, and leaving messages I never answered. A vulture waiting for me to die so he can pick apart what’s left.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter. “Lose my number.”
“Come on, Clay.” His voice gets that false-friendly lilt reporters love. “People want to hear your side. You disappeared. You cut your agent loose. Everyone’s wondering what happened with the knee, the suspension, the release. What’s next? Is it true you’re interviewing for a coaching job? Kolmont’s got an opening at the end of this season, don’t they?”
I grit my teeth so hard my jaw pulses. Around me, a family in matching plaid pajamas poses for a selfie in front of a fake tree covered in silver ornaments. A group of college kids stumble past with Santa hats tilted sideways, laughing like they don’t have a care in the world. The whole place reeks of holiday cheer.
And here I am, spitting venom into the phone. “You think I’m gonna hand you headlines just for you to twist every word to fit your narrative? Find someone else, Gaines. I’m not your story anymore.”
I hang up before he can answer, the click of the line cutting through the noise like a crack of thunder. My pulse is pounding.
The phone buzzes again immediately.
This time, it’s Mom.
I let out a breath through my nose and swipe to answer. “Yeah, Ma.”
“Did you read my texts?” Her voice is already wound tight, like she’s been pacing the kitchen since I boarded. “Clay, there’s a storm heading your way. They’re saying flights might be grounded for days. You need to be careful.”
I glance at the departure board. A row of red letters blinks back at me: Delayed. Delayed. Delayed. Flights out of Kolmont—and across the rest of the East Coast—are backing up like dominoes.
“Don’t stress,” I say, switching the phone to my other ear as the rental clerk rifles through a drawer. “I’ll drive.”
“Drive? Honey, that’s hours in bad weather. And you—”
“I’ll be fine.” My flat tone is sharp enough to cut off her panic before it spirals. It’s the only way to get her to give it a rest. “I’ll call when I get close.”
I hang up before she can argue, sliding the clipboard across the counter. The clerk scans it, then types something into her computer. Her expression flickers.
“Looks like you’ve got the last vehicle available.” She spins the monitor toward me. On the screen is a bright red sports car, sleek and impractical, the kind of thing someone buys in the middle of a midlife crisis.
I blink. “That’s a joke, right?”
She winces. “Afraid not. We’re cleaned out with the holidays. Everyone booked weeks ago. You’ll have to take what you reserved.”
Perfect. Just perfect.
Families load into SUVs, luggage stacked high and holiday music blaring. Meanwhile, I’m gearing up to take on icy backroads in a car built for speed, not snow. Mom’s probably glued to the Weather Channel like it’s Game 7 of the Stanley Cup. And Trevor Gaines? He’s somewhere with a half-written story, just waiting for me to screw up so he can finish it.
And me? I’m standing here with the keys to a ridiculous red sports car, wondering how the hell I went from NHL defenseman tothis.
Chapter Two
Tessa
“C’mon, you stupid piece of crap.” My voice comes out strained as I wrestle my suitcase free from the avalanche of clothes and boxes jammed into my closet.
It jerks once, twice, before finally toppling forward and smacking against my shin. “Ow.” I grit my teeth and drag it onto the floor. A hanger snaps under the wheels, but I ignore it.
Organization has never been my strong suit. Actually, that’s an understatement. I’m the definition of disorganized. I lose things constantly, wait until the last minute, and usually show up late. My life is one big blur of chaos, and anyone who knows me has learned to accept it.
But today is not the day for chaos. First, my mom called to say flights were delayed, knowing I would’ve shown up at the airport completely clueless. A storm’s barreling straight toward us, and her solution? Clay. Turns out he’s back in Kolmont, and our moms got together and sorted out a plan for us to drive together. Like it’s the most normal thing in the world. I argued, obviously, but she didn’t budge. And now here I am, scrambling.
Sweat trickles down my forehead, and I swipe it away with the back of my sleeve. The radiator has been blasting for hours, making the air in my dorm feel like August instead of late December. I tug at the collar of my T-shirt, fanning it against my skin as if that’ll help.
I heave the suitcase onto my bed, the springs squealing under the weight, and start tossing things inside—makeup bag, toiletries, several pairs of jeans, a handful of sweaters, and way too many shoes. I almost forget my black flats, the only remotely “responsible” shoes I own, and fling them on top before the thought escapes me again. It’s a disaster of a packing job, but aslong as the zipper holds, I’m calling it good enough. At this point, I don’t care.
