Page 56

Chapter thirty-seven

The roar

Zoe

T he Matchstick isn’t crowded, which I’m grateful for. A few people sit at the far end, heads down, caught in their own world. Dim lighting flickers over dark wood and matte brass, and I tuck my coat tighter around me as I slide into the booth.

Nate’s already here—Storm cap on and the same half-smile I’ve passed in the lobby a dozen times.

“Hey,” I say, trying to make my voice sound casual. “Thanks again for meeting me.”

“No problem,” he says, shifting slightly as I settle in across from him. “I figured you might want to deal with this off the record.”

He smiles and lets his eyes drag over me.

Usually, he’s a little too friendly, especially when Chase is around, but right now his eyes feel sharper and more deliberate, moving over me and assessing.

But when you’re a woman who grew up with that kind of gaze trained on you your whole damn life, you learn to pick your battles.

And tonight, I want that damn recording.

“I really appreciate it,” I say, sliding my gloves off, fingers stiff from the cold. “Honestly, if this means it’s shut down before it spreads, I owe you.”

Nate shrugs, waving the server over. “It’s nothing. Anything to help my guy Chase out… He’s had enough going on lately.”

I blink. “You think so?”

“Yeah,” he says. “The media’s all over him like they don’t get how much pressure he’s under.

” He glances at me. “Honestly, I thought he was doing better. Less drama and all-night parties at that rooftop club in LoDo. He seemed more settled once you were around, apart from this week. But that’s what happens I guess, when people start getting too comfortable. ”

That strikes me as oddly perceptive, but die-hard hockey fans usually follow their favorite players off the ice, too.

Or maybe I’m being paranoid because I’m so hyper-aware of the shitstorm that could break under this elevator footage situation.

I glance at the server as she sets down two drinks—vodka cranberry for me, soda water with lime for him.

Nate takes mine from her, sloshing it slightly as he does so, and sheepishly apologizes as he wipes the edge and hands it to me. “Saw you order this once after a Storm game, figured it was your go-to.”

I pause for a fraction of a second, my fingers tightening around the glass.

He says it like it’s nothing, as if it’s normal to remember what I drink when I’m out, off the clock, not paying attention.

“Right,” I say, taking a sip. “Thanks.”

He smiles again, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

We chat for a bit about the weather and playoffs, and the security protocols at the condo building. He tells a story about someone slipping past the lobby once, and I laugh—too loud, too sharp—but it seems to relax him, even though my body still feels on edge, bracing for something I can’t name.

“So,” I say finally, setting my drink down. “You said you had the footage?”

Nate taps his lapel pocket, then reaches into his coat, pulling out a flash drive and holding it up between two fingers.

“I figured you’d want it in person,” he says. “Too risky to send digitally. You never know who’s watching.”

My spine prickles. He says it like a joke, but there’s something else underneath that makes it feel like a warning. I reach for it, but he doesn’t let go right away.

“You really care about him,” he says softly, the shift in his tone snapping every nerve in my body, and the hairs on my arms lift.

“I do,” I answer, voice clipped.

He nods once and lets go of the drive, leaning back like we’re settling in for a second drink.

“That’s good,” he says, almost admiring. “Just—some of us, we’ve been around longer, you know? The real fans, watching since the beginning. We know what he looks like when he’s locked in, what messes him up. And what kinds of things ruin good players.”

My fingers curl around the flash drive, clutching it in my fingers, and my mouth goes dry. Something in the way he says it makes my stomach lurch. Not the words, more the tone. It’s fervent in a way it shouldn’t be. Possessive, like he thinks Chase belongs to him.

“Right,” I say, offering a smile. “That makes sense.”

He doesn’t notice that my voice is thinner than it was before, less warm. Or maybe he does—maybe that’s the point. He leans forward again, elbows resting on the table.

“You know, it’s always interesting, seeing who gets close to them,” he says, swirling the lime in his glass with one slow finger. “Some people don’t belong in that world. They climb their way in, all smiles and fake stories, but we see through it.”

His gaze sharpens, his smile hollow. Then his eyes dart down to where I’m carefully zipping the flash drive into my purse, and he tilts his head.

“That’s a nice nail color, by the way. Suits your skin tone.”

The back of my neck goes cold, and my pulse slams behind my ears.

I know that line.

It’s one of the messages I brushed off weeks ago. From a throwaway username and a too-vague threat, back when I was still convincing myself it was just internet trolling. But now, hearing it out loud in his flat, simmering tone makes my skin crawl.

And suddenly, I know exactly what this is.

I'm not safe.

My hand, which had hovered over my drink a moment ago, falls back to the table. He’s watching me too closely now, cataloging every flicker of emotion across my face.

"You're quite good at hiding what you're thinking, aren't you?"

I force a laugh, but it catches in my throat. “That almost sounded like a threat, Nate,” I say, aiming for light and teasing, but the wobble in my voice betrays me.

He smiles.

It’s not friendly, not the kind of smile you give your neighbor in the elevator. It’s too calm, like he’s already decided how the next ten minutes will go.

“It’s not,” he says. “Just saying—people can only pretend for so long, then the cracks start to show.”

I swallow and nod, sitting here a second too long and weighing options. Pretending I’m not rattled and this is still fine.

But it’s not, none of this is fine.

“I should head out,” I say abruptly, pulling my coat up with fingers that aren’t quite steady. “Long day.”

He stands immediately, too fast and way too eager.

“I’ll walk you out. You parked out front?”

I shake my head too quickly. “No, it’s fine. I took a rideshare.”

He nods. “I’ll drive you back.”

Just like that. No pause, not a question. Just a decision he’s already made for me.

I force a smile that's tight and overly polite as I pull on my coat. “I’m good, thanks. I’ll just order one.”

His eyes flick over my face, searching for something, but I’m already slipping out of the booth. My legs are steady, but the bar feels louder than it did a minute ago, like all the conversations have turned up a notch. The air is thick.

I head straight for the door, my boots hitting the sidewalk as the cool air slaps me in the face. It helps a little, but something’s off. I’m a fraction too warm and my skin feels wrong.

I dig into my bag, pulling out the zipper I always keep closed, the one where I keep my phone.

My breath catches as I realize it's not there. I check again. Then the main compartment, the back one. Nothing.

Shit.

I must've left in the cab on the way over. I glance over my shoulder at The Matchstick. I’ll go back in, ask them to call one for me. It’ll be fine.

I turn back toward the door—and nearly collide with him.

Nate.

He’s already outside, but I didn’t even hear him come out.

“Problem?” he asks, all calm concern.

My heart kicks hard. “No. I just forgot my phone. Think I left it in the first cab.”

He hums. “That’s annoying.”

“I’m gonna go back inside, ask the bartender—”

“I’ll drive you,” he says smoothly. “It’s not a big deal. My car’s just around the corner.”

The sidewalk tilts slightly beneath me, or maybe it’s the world. I blink hard, steadying myself. My limbs feel slower now, heavier than they should.

I try to smile as my heartbeat ratchets up, tight in my throat.

“I’m okay. Really.”

But even I don’t believe it. My voice is too thin and off-kilter, my words slurring faintly at the edges.

Nate watches me, head tilted. He steps toward me, all polite confidence. His hand grazes the small of my back, lower than it should be. It’s not aggressive or overt, but it feels wrong , and I flinch.

He doesn’t acknowledge it, doesn’t apologize, and certainly doesn’t pull back. He just keeps walking, guiding me down the pavement. I feel the panic building under my ribs, tight and electric.

As we walk, his words blur together like static and white noise. Something about Chase’s career, the Storm, how badly he’s been playing, and how “real fans” always see the whole picture.

I nod at intervals, trying to keep up the illusion, but my legs feel heavier with each step. My thoughts fuzz around the edges, like my brain’s underwater.

My drink.

He's drugged me.

My pulse spikes, and I try not to stumble as I keep pace beside him, coat shifting as I move. That’s when I remember—the backup phone. The one Chase insisted on, the one he ordered and loaded and showed me how to use.

Just in case, sweetheart.

I’d rolled my eyes when he handed it over. Called him paranoid and obsessed with me. But I tossed it in my coat pocket anyway, which is where it’s been ever since.

I’ve never been more grateful for anything in my life.

Sliding my hand slowly into the pocket as we walk, my fingers brush the cool metal and plastic. The weight of it is grounding, and the significance of it isn’t lost on me. I count the presses in my head as I move—slow, silent, concealed by the fabric.

Three clicks. Pause. Two more.

I pray to God the SOS system activates. Pray my location is sent and that my emergency contact—Chase—is notified. I don’t look to check, because I can’t. Because Nate will see, and I don’t know how he’ll react. I just hope Chase is looking at his phone.