I’m sorry, Ky. Really, I am.
“Rook,” she pleads. “Please. Don’t.”
I step in, pin her arms to her sides, and lift her over my shoulder. She fights me—kicking, twisting, screaming—but I don’t slow down.
“Rook, no!” she gasps. “Put me down!”
I don’t.
Her heart beats faster as my brothers and I take her toward the Suburban with haste.
She screams and fights and cries, and I grind my jaw against the discomfort without slowing my stride.
In this moment, she believes she’ll die at my hands if she doesn’t escape.
What she doesn’t know is how much she’ll suffer under theirs if she does.
Kylie
Wham.
A face slams against the plexiglass before sliding down dramatically, and the brute who sent the poor soul into it skates away while chuckling to his teammates.
I tighten the laces on my skates and sigh before stretching my neck from side to side. I’ve been skating at the Concordia, Massachusetts, rec rink on Saturday evenings since I was five years old—nineteen dang years ago—and still, I’m never prepared for the violence the rec hockey league brings with it.
The Fighting Fangs and the Iron Knights are finishing up a game, and per usual, as I’ve been getting ready, I’ve drawn more than a few stares. It’s as if they’ve never seen a woman before.Wide eyes, gaping mouths, the whole nine yards.
I stand and bounce on my toes to make sure there aren’t any pinch points in my new skates, then pull my sweatshirt over my head and toss it in my bag.
As the final whistle blows, I move onto the ice as the men move off.
“Hey, Ky.”
I glance over to find one of the more harmless oglers named Holland looking at me, his slightly goofy smile drenched in sweat as he slides to a stop at the glass next to me.
“Hey,” I reply, my responding smile friendly.
“How’s it going? Skating alone tonight?”
Normally, my best friend Alyssa would be lacing up her skates as we speak, and a little bit of the attention would be split between us.
“Looks that way.” I shrug. “Alyssa has an assignment for her master’s program due at midnight tonight. Chronic procrastinator, that one.”
He laughs, nodding like it confirms something. “I could hang out if you want. Keep you company.”
“Uh…that’s nice of you…” I pause. There’s something about the way he says it—too casual, too easy—and I shake my head as an overwhelming burn blooms across the back of my neck. I spin on my skates to face him and start slowly skating backward toward the center of the rink. “But no thanks. I’m good. Just going to do some drills and then head home.”
“Yeah. Sure. See you next time,” he offers with a salute and steps off the ice.
I watch him head toward the locker room with the other guys on his team, and unease flickers through me for no real reason. I tell myself it’s nothing. I tell myself that, for the love of God, I need to get some good sleep tonight. Work’s been a real kick tothe gonads lately, and the hours I’m putting in on a weekly basis—pushing seventy—are really starting to get to me.
I do a slow spin to test the texture of the ice—only to screech to a stop when I nearly collide with something solid enough to feel like a wall.
Grumpy. Serious. Glaring.
The Garbage Man.Mygarbage man. The one I chase down the street every Tuesday morning with my bin while he waits beside his big truck, arms crossed, looking like my existence personally offends him.
Rook Slater.
