You ran away when it came out.
No more running.
My vision blurs. Not from tears but from overwhelming fear and blood rushing through my veins. My head, pounding harder than it was from a hangover.
No. No, no, no.
This isn’t the same as before. This is specific. Someonethat knows details. My fingers crumple the paper. A sharp spike of panic hits my chest, fast and suffocating.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Control it.
Use your training. Breathe in and out.
I’m fine.
I glance around the quiet street. It’s still and empty but that’s not how it feels.
It feels like I’m being watched, observed, and my skin prickles. I turn slow and deliberate, scanning the houses, trees, parked cars.
Nothing.
Yet, something shifts in the distance. A flicker of a movement. Gone before I can focus on it.
My heart slams harder. I throw the wadded up paper in my tote bag, my movements now a little erratic trying to flee. I roll up the windows, lock the doors and peel out. Go.
When I get a mile away, I reach for my phone. Parker’s name sits at the top of my messages. My thumb hovers. Tell him. I mutter, “You trust him. Tell him.”
But my brain shuts it down. Not yet. Not until I know more. Not until you can control this. I lower the phone and slide it back into my bag and force myself to go to the office.
I can’t shake the feeling that I wasn’t alone and feels like whoever left the note was close enough to watch me read it.
TWENTY-FOUR
PARKER
The hotel room smells like detergent and stale air conditioning. The same recycled air. Everything about it is temporary. Just like the feeling sitting in my chest.
I toss my duffel bag onto the bench, at the foot of the bed and run both hands through my hair, pacing once across the room before I realize I’m doing it.
Concentrating on tomorrow’s game should be simple. Stick to my routine.
Team dinner.
Sleep.
Shower.
Team breakfast.
Meet with Matt.
Game.
Catch the damn ball.
But my brain won’t stay there. It keeps drifting back to her—Anna, Annika, whatever version she wants me to see. Does it matter? I can feel myself falling for the firsttime since sophomore year of college. Have I had sex with women? Sure. But none that I want to talk with for hours about everything and nothing. Her love for watermelon juice. She despises big box stores and misses her small town in Novadia where the streets are filled with independently owned boutiques, cafés and bookstores.
We haven’t seen each other in a few days, but we talk daily. I haven’t told her about the picture that Witt found or the article. He’s still digging. I just can’t help but think there’s more to this than what she’s telling me.
