Page 52 of Callous Shot

“I only call him Banks on special occasions. He doesn’t really like nicknames for himself. Anyway, so Ryker’s dad has this whole thing where he has high expectations, and he wants his son to be the best and bring honour to the family name, y’know—typical overbearing father. Except Thorpe Senior comes with fun psycho side effects. Long story short, he wanted to ensure the team would be better than Whelford, and his bright idea was to use his son to achieve that. Like Ry doesn’t already have enough family shit to deal with, without his dad’s bonus side quests on top of it. Then there was the fact that Volkov was gonna be on the team, and with the whole agreement thing…” I rubbed my palm across my face. Stop talking about shady mafia contracts, right now.

“Agreement? The marriage between your goalie and Thorpe’s sister?”

“Uh, yeah, not that any of that is relevant to this. So he signed Ry up for this intensive training regime, and me and Jay joined him in solidarity, and yeah…we found out we were good at it. I dunno, it wasn’t something I’d ever really thought about doing before, but when I got the hang of it, I realised that it was something I loved doing. Something separate from the rest of my life. It’s like…on the ice, for those three periods, all the other shit doesn’t seem to matter. It’s just you, the puck, and your team, all working together for the same goal, y’know?”

Lincoln swallowed hard. “Yeah. That’s how I feel too. It’s simple. There’s only one thing to focus on, and you don’t have to think about the outside world.”

“Except when you play me, and you remember that you have to see me off the ice as well as on.” I smirked at him, and he rolled his eyes, dragging me into another kiss.

“Shut the fuck up.”

“You shut—” A wide yawn cut off my words, and I slammed my hand over my mouth. It seemed to be contagious, because he yawned a few seconds later.

“We should go to sleep. It’s late.”

I turned my head to see the bedside table, where I’d left my phone. Shit, yeah, it was late or early, depending on your POV. Three twenty-seven, to be exact. I also needed to charge my phone. It was barely hanging on at twelve percent. RIP to my battery.

The tiredness hit me all of a sudden, and I yawned again, stretching out on the mattress. “Are you making up the bed?”

“Are you?”

“No. Not my house,” I mumbled, turning over and pressing my face into the pillow.

I thought he said something like, “Just sleep here,” but I couldn’t be sure because I was already drifting off.

Something woke me. A sixth sense, maybe, kicking in from the years I’d spent preparing for every eventuality. Ever since my dad had passed away, Neil and my mum had been paranoid about making sure we were all prepared for anything, to the best of their abilities. And so I listened, making sure my breathing remained slow and even, keeping my body still. The warm weight next to me had disappeared from the bed, and I could hear the soft tread of footsteps on the carpet to my left.

I carefully cracked one eye open.

When my vision adjusted, I saw Lincoln looming over the bedside table. What the fuck? It was a struggle to keep my breathing calm, especially when my default setting was to immediately confront him, but I needed to know why he was creeping around in the middle of the night.

His hand reached out, his fingers skimming over the surface of my phone. Then, he crouched down next to me.

Breathe. Keep breathing. Slow and even, I reminded myself over and over again, but my breaths stuttered when he picked up my phone and gently curled his finger around mine, pressing it to my screen.

I slammed my eyes closed as my screen lit up. I heard his breathing get faster, heavier, and when I dared to open one eye again after a few seconds, he was staring down at my screen with an unreadable look. He scrubbed his hand over his jaw, muttered “Shit,” softly, and then quietly placed my phone back on the table. With one eye still cracked open, I watched him fumble around on the floor for a minute, and then his hand reappeared, holding a cable that he plugged into my charger port.

Straightening up, he padded out of the bedroom and disappeared into the lounge area. It was only then that I dared to roll over. I stared at my phone, my heart pounding and my body on full alert.

What was he doing? There had been that moment in the gingerbread cottage when he’d looked at me as he’d taken his uncle out of the room, clearly to discuss me. Then there were the questions earlier. And now this.

I waited in the dark for an hour, until I was sure he’d fallen asleep on his sofa. Then as quietly as he had, I crept across his apartment and left.

Two things were clear. One—Lincoln Bellingham was up to something. And two—our temporary truce was over the second he’d picked up my phone.

24

LINCOLN

My phone vibrated. Again. Curling my fist around it, I seriously debated using it instead of a puck in our practice session. There was no point in trashing my phone, though, because it wouldn’t stop my father. He’d just find another way to contact me.

“Bellingham. Get a move on,” Coach snapped, and my head shot up, realising that my teammates were no longer surrounding me.

“Sorry, Coach.” I scrubbed my hand across my face before reaching for my helmet. Rising to my feet, I silenced my phone and then threw it into my cubby. “Let’s win this.”

“That’s the spirit.” He clapped me on the back. “I’m expecting you and Campbell to hold the line tonight. You’re our key defence.”

“I know. We won’t let you down.”