Page 9

Porter

Sweat coated my body as I skated back and forth, stick in my hand, blades scraping on the ice. It had been a bad session, so our pissed off coach had us skating suicide drills back and forth across the rink.

“This is bullshit,” Parrish, our team captain, muttered in heavy pant beside me.

To the other side of him, Cohen, the right winger of our line grunted. “Shut up before coach catches us chatting.”

Yeah, we didn’t want him to add more time to this punishment. I’d been exhausted this morning and it had shown. Not sure what Parrish and Cohen’s excuses were, but the whole line had put on a shitshow performance today. And fuck me, all I hoped was that we’d get out of here soon and I wouldn’t be too tired to tackle Nash back onto the nearest mattress. Maybe, talk him into moving into my room—or at very least, my bed. We could come up with a new roommate deal. One that involved us together as a couple.

“George,” Coach bellowed. “Keep up!”

Shit. My thinking had caused me to lag behind Parrish and Cohen. I scrambled to keep up with them, keeping my mind where it should be for the next fifteen minutes.

My whole body ached by the time we were sent to the showers, and for the first time in my life, I knew I’d be happy not to see my hockey gear for a week. That wouldn’t happen. I’d be back on the ice tomorrow, without a real break until Saturday.

“Midnight Java?” Parrish asked over the wall between us. Often, we headed over to the coffee place after Sunday practices, but I shook my head.

“Heading home. Got something to do.”

“Or someone,” Cohen said from the stall farther down. “How the date go last night?”

I rolled my eyes. Both Parrish and Cohen knew about the fake date setup to ward off my cousins matchmaking, and Cohen had bet that something would happen between me and Nash.

“Yeah, yeah,” I said before rinsing my hair. “I owe you a coffee and a pastry. Just not today.” Yeah, our bets were laughable, but we bet about everything, so we needed to keep the payouts small.

Parrish and Cohen started arguing over Parrish owing Cohen too, since he’d bet that Cohen was wrong. I ignored them. Ten minutes later, I was out the door and jogging toward home, despite my aching body.

My brow furrowed when I entered my eerily quiet apartment.

“Nash?” I still called. It was midmorning, but after last night he could still be asleep. I wished I was. Grinning, I headed toward my bedroom, but my bed was empty. It took me about two seconds after that to realize Nash wasn’t there. I didn’t see a note anywhere, either. Which made sense. We’d never left each other notes before now, and if he were stepping out for a few minutes, why would he start now?

Well, maybe, I could urge him to hurry home. Grinning at the prospect of what we could get up to for the rest of Sunday, I pulled out my phone to called him. Ringing immediately started in his bathroom. Curious, I followed the sound. Nash’s cell sat on the corner of the vanity. I’d never known him to leave it anywhere. He always had it nearby in case the Nerd Patrol got a project.

Without thinking, I picked it up. I wasn’t his only missed call. The lock screen showed a call from someone named Knox, and my dad had called him a couple times, as well.

The fuck…

Sitting on Nash’s bed, next to the pile of clothes I’d left there this morning, I dialed my father.

“Why are you calling Nash?” I asked as soon as the line connected.

“Porter,” he greeted. “Hello to you, too. I rather thought it would be your boyfriend calling me back.”

“He’s not here.” I glanced around seeing his laptop missing and one of his drawers open. A couple hangers lay on the bed—hangers that hadn’t been there this morning. Unlike me, Nash was always so neat about his things. It was why I’d so carefully folded his clothes and stacked them on his bed this morning.

Dread sank into my gut, knotting so painfully I bent over my knees. “He…” I rasped. “He left.”

“Fuck. That’s why I’ve been trying to call him back.”

“Call him back?” I echoed. What did my father say to him?

“I wanted to let him know… Fuck. I told him I knew about his father and we should talk. When I thought about it, and he didn’t call me back, I figured I’d phrased it badly. I’ve been calling to let him know we have his back and I don’t hold his father’s actions against him. Nash has proved over and over through the years that he’s a good man.”

“Over the years? Father—”

“You know I do background checks on your friends. I did one on Nash as soon as you were going to be roommates.”

“So you threatened him?”

“I didn’t threaten him.”

“Must have been damn close for you to scare him off. What did you say to him?”

“Your Nash doesn’t seem like one who’d be warned off by a phone call. Like I said… I just told him I knew about his father and I wanted to talk. His dad’s con man and in prison for his role in trying to rob a casino—job went bad and it ended up in someone dying. Before that, he had a rap sheet longer than most books. Nash and his younger brother were sent to foster care. Mother nowhere to be found.”

“So you were warning him off, because—”

“No. I already told you I wasn’t. No wonder your coach had you running suicides all morning. You don’t listen.”

“How did you—never mind.” I didn’t really want to know how he knew about my practice. His eyes were everywhere at the university, and I swore he knew my grades before I did. I only hoped for more privacy after I graduated and was fully out on my own.

My father sighed and I heard his fingers tapping on his desk. “Look, let me see what I can find out about where Nash went. If he uses a credit card, it shouldn’t be too hard to track him.”

“Okay.” I didn’t ask how he’d make that happen. I knew all he’d tell me was connections .

* * * *

Three days later, I stared at the wall in the apartment feeling like hammered shit and wondering what the fuck to do.

Nash had flown to California on Sunday. He was at a hotel there, in a room reserved for two occupants. And I wanted to know who the fuck he was with. He was mine damn it. Unfortunately, no one could tell me that.

I’d stewed. Gone to practice. Got the shit kicked out of me at a scrimmage. Gone to class. Stewed some more. Then repeated it all.

This morning, Wednesday, I hadn’t bothered. And tonight, I’d fly to California and track Nash’s ass down. My phone clattered across the coffee table as I tossed it down after making a reservation. I didn’t even care enough to pick it up off the carpet.

I was staring at the cell, willing Nash to call, when I heard a key in the lock of the front door. I flew across the room body-slamming Nash into the wall the second he crossed the threshold.

“Where the fuck have you been?” I demanded. “And the fuck have you been with?”

I didn’t wait for an answer. My hand fisted in his hair and I crushed my lips to his, demanded the answers I needed from his body and not his words.