“I think Aspen has a stalker.”
My announcement is met with silence.
Greyson and Knox exchange a glance, then focus on me. Greyson is no doubt remembering last year, and Violet’s troubles. Miles seems more concerned, his brows drawing down. Jacob, a graduated senior from last year, also occupies our couch. He’s got a few days off and decided to join us. Coach asked him back, I guess. But he’s gracing us with his presence.
“Her sheet music was stolen,” I add. “And I’m thinking I fucked up with the website. It probably led to someone trying to get in touch with her. When that didn’t work, they escalated. I don’t know.”
For the last four days, I’ve been scouring campus, around her apartment building, the whole freaking neighborhood, for signs of disruption. Or an outsider lingering around Aspen where they shouldn’t.
Instead, I’ve found absolutely nothing.
Knox frowns. “Has she said she thinks she has a stalker?”
“No.” I cross my arms. We’ve got hockey practice soon, and it’s rare to find everyone all together nowadays. “I just feel like something is off.”
“So, what’s the plan?” Greyson grabs his bag and swings it over his shoulder. “How are you going to catch a phantom stalker?”
“I’m working on that,” I grumble.
But it means more watching Aspen. Which, all in all, isn’t a bad pastime. I just know if someone wants to take her from me, they’re going to have a hell of a fight on their hands.
“Let’s head over,” Greyson urges. “We’ll mull it over on the ice, yeah?”
The others climb to their feet and get their stuff. I’m glad that they didn’t outright laugh, even if they don’t believe me. I’m not even sure I’m right—I just know that when Aspen thought I took her music binder, it felt wrong. Like someone wanted her to suspect me.
Well, why wouldn’t she?
My love comes out like torture—it’s luck that I found someone who enjoys that sort of thing. Humiliation, pain. The desperate sort of shame I crave.
I’ve always known there was something wrong with me. Something fucked up in my brain that just wouldn’t let me have a normal relationship. Having sex with girls, sure. Most of the puck bunnies who followed the team even let me do some out-of-the-box stuff. Or, in the box, maybe. Tie them up, spank them.
Aspen understands.
She and I are cut from the same cloth. We need the same things.
But if the stalker wanted her to suspect me, it means they want to frame me. Right?
Which means they have a vendetta against me as well as her.
I pile in Greyson’s truck with the other guys, Miles and Jacob and me squashed in the back together while Knox claims the front. In no time, we’re parked at the stadium and heading inside.
“Maybe move her into the house,” Knox suggests. “She might like it more now that you’re regularly fucking and not trying to make her cry.”
I huff. “I didn’t want her to cry.”
Knox rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.”
“That was the original plan anyway, wasn’t it?” Miles eyes me. “I don’t give a fuck, by the way. Have her stay. We both know you’re going to end up moving out anyway.”
I grumble. Having her in my bed would solve a lot of problems. But there’s no way she’d go for it—she already balked after I told our parents she’d move in with me. Which is why she hasn’t… and I haven’t made her.
Not sure why.
Maybe I like her independence.
It hasn’t stopped me from staying at her place every night this week. Massaging the backaches away, giving her toe-curling orgasms that stave off the cramps. Being generally… I don’t know. Boyfriend-like.
I wouldn’t even call myself her boyfriend. We’re together, sure, but boyfriend is too weak a word for what I am to her. And what she is to me.
“If something bad happens, I’ll never forgive myself,” I say under my breath. I don’t want to voice the rest: that I know something bad is going to happen. As surely as I know the sun will rise tomorrow morning. I can feel it in my bones.
Greyson sits beside me, clapping me on the shoulder. “It’s not going to come to that.”
Yeah.
Maybe.
“You could put a tracker on her phone,” Greyson suggests.
“Or under her skin, maybe?” I open my phone and reveal the tracking app—similar to the one he uses to keep tabs on Violet, but a little more… more. The tattoo isn’t the only thing I gave her when I drugged her at the party last week.
“Dude.” Greyson leans in for a better look. “That’s ballsy.”
I shrug. “Rhodes gave me the tech.”
We both look across the locker room at Jacob, who’s standing in the doorway with his skates already on, talking to one of the juniors. Unlike us, he’s forgoing the pads today—I think his role is purely demonstrative.
“He’s all sorts of fucked up after that professor left,” I say. “He’s got access to quite a lot because of his dad, and he said he can’t find any trace of her.”
If anyone is a stalker, it’s Jacob Rhodes. Not that I blame him—his obsession with his professor last year ran deep. Until she up and disappeared without so much as a trace. It left him not quite sane, but I think that’s why the NHL wanted him. Because he became ruthless on the ice, and recruits took notice.
Anyway, it worked out for him, minus getting the girl.
“So even if something happens, you can find her,” Greyson assures me. He finishes lacing his skates and rises. “Let’s go put on a show for our fans.”
I sigh and rise. Miles is almost done with his full pads—the gear goalies wear always cracks me up—and Knox is helping him secure the last pad on his leg. He’s got his helmet under his arm, a water bottle in his grip. I grab my stuff and follow everyone out.
We set our bottles on the bench. I stuff the mouthpiece past my lips and fit it to my upper teeth, then step out onto the ice. Coach is already out with Jacob, standing near the penalty boxes. There’s already a ton of pucks on the ice, waiting for our warm-up. I palm my stick and head toward them with Greyson, picking off a few and sending them flying toward Knox.
Our warm-up has always been seamless. Before games, before practice, we do the same thing. Shooting drills, passing. Stretching. The rest of our team comes out onto the ice, and we cycle through shooting. Miles takes his position in the goal.
A cheer goes up from the stadium when he stops one.
I cast a glance in that direction, frowning.
It’s not unusual for the diehard fans to show up to practice, trying to get players to notice them. I secretly think they’d like us to lavish them with attention, although a wink or a smirk works. The glass doesn’t hide their reactions from us either. Especially if they’re close enough.
I do a double take.
Aspen sits off to the side, her feet on the back of the seat in front of her. She’s not looking at the ice, but she’s impossible to miss. Her dark hair is fanned out over her shoulders. She’s wearing her jacket and a fuzzy blue scarf.
She’s alone.
Why did she come?
“O’Brien!” Coach yells. “Get your head out of the clouds!”
I snap to attention. Most of the team is staring at me from near the wall. Coach must’ve given an order while I was fixating on Aspen—no surprise there.
Jacob claps me on the back. “No worries, Coach,” he calls. “O’Brien can help me demonstrate this move.”
I raise my eyebrows at him, but he just grins. It’s a bit manic, and I have a feeling this is going to hurt. With a sigh, I go where he points me. Miles stays in the goal, at the ready. I flex my fingers and adjust my grip on my stick.
Sometimes being a defender sucks. Jacob was the starting defenseman with me last year, so he knows the ropes.
Now, he winks and controls the puck in front of him, then comes charging at me. I bite my mouth guard and skate forward to meet him. He dips his shoulder and slams into me, knocking me flat on my back.
It happens too fast.
One minute he’s in front of me, the next he’s faking a shot at Miles and then putting the puck in the net.
Silence from the rest of my teammates.
And then Jacob looms over me, and he offers his hand.
I swat it away and rise on my own. I punch his arm.
He skates out of reach, grinning at me. “What’s wrong, O’Brien?”
“You asshole,” I hiss, tearing off my helmet. It rolls away on the ice. I drop my stick next and shed my gloves. “What the fuck was that?”
I glance over at Aspen again. She’s staring at me.
Jacob shoves me. I whirl back around, surprised that he’s even in my face.
“Get your head in the game.”
“It’s fucking practice.” I swing at him.
He grabs me by the front of my practice jersey and yanks me closer. He shakes me back and forth like a freaking rag doll.
I punch him as hard as I can.
His head snaps around, his grip loosening.
Coach is suddenly between us, pushing Jacob away and forcing me in the opposite direction. “Are you out of your goddamn mind?” he screams at me. “Get out of my fucking sight. GO!”
I circle around Coach, too pissed to even say anything, and collect my helmet, stick, and gloves from Knox. I hurry off the ice and into the locker room, throwing my helmet into my locker with a short yell.
Fuck.
I pull out my phone and text Aspen.
ME
I’m hunting you tonight, sweetheart. Better run.
Don’t think hiding will work—I’ll find you either way.
I let out a slow breath and crack my neck. My undershirt is soaked with sweat for no goddamn reason. But the thought of finding Aspen, of chasing her down, eases some of my anger. Tamps it, however temporary.
