There’s another pause, and my phone dings again.
Direct transfer. 7,500. From Sidney Burrell.
Of course he gave me more than I asked for.
You shouldn’t have moved, Shiloh. But hopefully that will help keep your lights on.
I roll my eyes, but type out a reply.
You’re a lifesaver.
I toss my phone to the side before I have to read another message. I have a few clients like Sidney. Rich assholes from all around the world who get off on buying expensive things because they’re expensive. He’s definitely the most regular, but it’s because I used to be able to hand-deliver the art.
Now he’s going to have to wait for shipping like everyone else.
I lie there for another few seconds before standing. I know what I’m doing before it happens as I reach for my wallet and pull out the little card I’d taken from Donovan earlier.
The photo doesn’t do him justice. I’m not sure that the mess of art I did earlier managed to capture the warmth in his eyes any more than the image in front of me.
It doesn’t stop me from lying back against my bed, the scent of paint and the soft undertones of copper still filling the air… and it doesn’t stop me from lifting the card up so I can stare at that face.
Warm brown eyes.
Soft red hair.
Hm.As much as I wasn’t sure before, I think I need to see him again.
I have to figure out what I want from Donovan Myers before he bleeds his way onto another canvas where he doesn’t belong.
CHAPTER EIGHT
DONOVAN
“For fuck’s sake,”I mumble as the red light goes off above my head. With a sigh, I scoop the puck out of the back of my net with my glove and pull myself up off the ice. The crowd boos behind the glass, and I give the noise a split second more attention than I should, their jeers prickling in my head like a wound. I should know better by now, but I can’t stop myself from listening sometimes. It sucks to be in this position when I’m supposed to be the last line of defense, but everything is fucking falling apart in front of me. The ref skates over and I push the booing to the back of my mind, focusing instead on the sheet of ice I’m standing on.
“You good?” the ref asks.
I nod, opening my hand so he can take the puck. I went down hard on that save attempt, but no damage was done aside from my bruised ego. The ref skates away, and I turn to grab my water bottle from the back of the net as the Springfield Wildcats celebrate their fourth goal of the game.
Yeah. Their fourth. The wheels fell off early in the first period, and I’m just lucky it’s only four that have gotten past me. My team? One. One single goal tallied by Tucker early in thesecond period. An unlucky bounce I’m sure their goalie would love to have back, but at least he won’t get a shutout while I flail around like an asshole over here trying my damn hardest to keep them held to four goals on the other end of the ice.
I finish my sip of water, then turn and pull my mask back down onto my head. Rocko, a defenseman, skates by and taps me on the pads with his stick, mumbling an apology for fucking up and letting their forward get past him. I nod, but I don’t offer any words in return. While I’m not here for the blame game—we win as a team and we lose as a team—tonight I’d kill for some actual defense in front of me and he knows it. I may have lost my shit a bit in the last intermission and told them as much, watching as they nodded and let me carry on with my ranting. Coach didn’t say much afterward, but there wasn’t much left to be said after I was done letting them know that I need them to wake the fuck up and stop hanging me out to dry. To get the fuck out of my face and let me use my damn eyeballs for more than staring at the backs of their helmets because they’re in my way.
Okay.
I’ve gotta calm the fuck down.
This game is all but over, and playing pissed off never works well for me. Some goalies can hunker down and get shit done with rage flowing through them, but I’ve never been that type of guy. I need to stay calm. Be zen or some shit.
With a deep breath, I settle down into my crease, waiting for the puck to drop again so we can get this whole game over and done with. I narrow my focus down to the sticks and skates of the players on the ice and take another deep inhale, forcing it in through my nose and out through my mouth. What I don’t do is look at the crowd, no matter how much I find myself wanting to check in with Shiloh. He’s there, I know. Sitting in the stands just to my right, nestled between two men in Snakes jerseys who’ve been screaming at me all night long. He’s gotmy hoodie on again, the green strands of his hair melting into it like a waterfall and his chipped fingernails gripping the cuffs of the sleeves tight. He blends in with the people around him, each wearing various pieces of green clothing, while at the same time he stands out like a beacon to me. I’ve glanced his way during every stoppage in play, wondering what he thinks of what I assume is his first hockey game, and wishing I was giving him more than an epic loss to watch. I wanted to win for him so damn bad. Maybe even more than I wanted to win for myself, but I won’t ever admit that out loud.
My eyes trail away from the players lining up for puck drop, threatening to seek Shiloh out once more. I have to force myself to focus on the ice, to settle down into my knees and grip my stick a bit tighter in my gloved hand. If I turn my head, I can see him, but at the same time, if I look at him right now, I’m just gonna get riled up again and that won’t be good for anyone. Even now, just thinking about him watching us lose this game is threatening to make me see red.
Zen, motherfucker.
Find it.
There are only a few minutes left in this game, and there’s no point getting all heated up again. Instead of looking at the crowd, I look quickly to the bench, wondering if I should go. Now is about the time in the game that I could be pulled from net so the team can send out an extra forward, but Coach Bob gives me a curt head shake that indicates I’m staying right where I am.
