Page 54 of Arresting the Hockey Player

“Maybe?” I shouldn’t even question it. The guy is bad news. Befriending him isn’t in my best interests.

“Depends on if you’re getting out, hotshot,” he says, sizing me up.

I laugh under my breath. “Maybe I’ll see you there, assuming you get out,” I say, trying to turn the tables on him. I don’t even know what he’s accused of doing.

“I have good lawyers.” There’s a smugness to him, and he folds his arms across his chest, pleased with himself.

“What are you in for?” I ask.

He chuckles. “Rule of advice. You don’t ask a fellow prisoner that unless youreallywant to know.”

My mouth goes momentarily dry.

The officer wouldn’t have thrown a murderer in the drunk tank with someone accused of hurting a child, would they?

My hands ball into fists at my side. Every breath becomes louder, more labored, and pronounced. I try to keep my cool, pretend I’m not the least bit intimidated, because I fight guys on the ice nearly every damn day.

But this is different.

It feels different.

“Attempted murder,” he says, staring at me, keeping his cool. His voice is even and low, unwavering. “This guy touched a hair on my daughter’s head. Thought he could lure her into his van with the promise of a new puppy and lollipops. Do you think I let him walk away after that?”

My voice catches in my throat.

Attempted murder may be one of the charges, but the guy is clearly guilty as sin. He doesn’t look apologetic about it, either.

Although, if someone tried to lure Zayn into a van, I can’t say that I wouldn’t lose my cool and go rogue. Who knows what I’d be capable of doing in that exact moment to protect my son?

“How old’s your daughter?” I ask, trying to hide the stampede of my heart pounding wildly in my chest.

“She’s four,” he says. He unfolds his arms and glances down at his hands, revealing the nameKirainked in cursive on his skin between his index finger and thumb.

THIRTEEN

Charlotte

The little boy is seated on my lap as I’m left waiting by an officer’s desk to give my statement.

It’s been an hour since Noah’s arrest, and every second feels slow and painful, like there’s an elephant on my chest.

But I know that I did the right thing. I needed to get the little boy away from his abuser. That’s all that mattered, relationship be damned.

“What’s your name?” I ask the little boy, and he finally gives me a weak smile.

“Zayn,” he whispers and points at me, “Your name?” The words run together and sound more like one syllable coming out of his lips.

His words are difficult to decipher, but I try to make sense of them. “I’m Charlotte,” I say.

He cuddles into me. “Want Mama,” he says, and I wrap my arms around him protectively.

“I know, little man. We’re trying to find her for you.”

A female officer who had been on the scene but whom I hadn’t met comes over to us and takes a seat at the desk. “I’m Officer Bradley,” she says.

She has a notebook in one hand and flips the page back, reading over her notes briefly while opening her desk drawer. She hands Zayn a lollipop, removing the wrapper for him.

“And you are Charlotte, and this is Zayn,” the officer states, making sure she has the information correct.