Page 95 of Her Name in Red

The glass shows only me, standing alone in the corridor.

“Maren,” I say again, louder this time, feeling stupid and exposed.

Nothing but my own reflection staring back at me.

“Maren.”

The air shifts behind me. My reflection is no longer alone. She's there, her dark hair falling across her face, lips curved into that smile that's always meant trouble.

“Think I'm a ghost?” She asks, her voice sliding over me like honey and hellfire.

“I think you're the devil I'd die for,” I tell her reflection, meaning every word.

I grab her wrist and spin her around, backing her against the glass wall with my body pressed against hers. My hands find her waist as her back meets the cool surface.

“You think that's funny, don't you?” I growl, my lips hovering just above hers. “Sneaking up on me like that?”

Her eyes dance with mischief. “Your face was worth it, and you did speak my name thrice.”

I capture her mouth with mine, desperate and hungry, like I'm drowning and she's oxygen. Her fingers thread through my hair, pulling just hard enough to hurt in that way that drives me crazy. I press her harder against the glass, my hand sliding up her ribcage.

When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard. Maren puts a hand against my chest, creating an inch of space between us.

“Golden boy,” she whispers, “you have practice in twenty minutes.”

“Fuck practice,” I mutter, leaning in again.

She turns her face slightly. “And I have Abnormal Psych in fifteen.”

I groan, dropping my forehead to her shoulder. “Skip it. Come watch me instead.”

“Can't. I actually like this class.” Her fingers trace patterns on my neck. “Professor Miller’s lectures are interesting.”

My head snaps up, something hot and ugly coiling in my gut. “Miller? That new guy? The one who wears those stupid fucking sweater vests?”

Maren raises an eyebrow. “What's it to you?”

“The way he looks at you,” I spit out. “I've seen him. If that pretentious asshole keeps eye-fucking you during lectures, I swear to god I'll pop his eyeballs out and use them as fucking pucks at practice.”

“Jesus, Riggs.” She laughs, but it's not a denial. “Graphic.”

“I'm serious.” I press my palm against the glass beside her head, caging her in. “Is he why you won't skip? You got a thing for professors now?”

“Don't be stupid.” She slides her hand up my chest to my jaw, her touch gentler than her words. “I don’t have a thing for anyone but tall, annoying blond hockey players with little scars on their eyebrow.”

I kiss her again, softer this time. “Go to class, then. But I'll be waiting after.”

“You better win today,” she says against my lips. “I hate fucking losers.”

“It’s literally only practice, but for you? I'll crush them.” I finally step back, letting her slip away from the glass. “Don't let Miller get too close. I wasn't kidding about the eyeballs.”

She walks backward down the hall, with that smile that haunts my dreams playing on her lips.

Practice is a fucking bloodbath.

The second I hit the ice, I'm looking for someone to destroy. My whole body is so full of rage, thinking about Miller’s eyes on Maren while she sits there taking notes, hanging on his every pretentious word.

When Parker cuts in front of me during drills, I cross-check him so hard his helmet flies off. He crashes into the boards with a satisfying thud.