Page 1

one

Paisley Anton

For the record, I’m not a mosh-pit girl.

My glasses easily slide up when I adjust them—again—as the bridge of my nose is slick with perspiration. My pores are leaking like a sieve. I’m dead center in the middle of a mosh-pit brawl, and I’m sucking air as I leap the highest my petite little legs will shoot me.

I was told this was a charity sports gala—but this is clearly not what I had envisioned. I had thought of a relaxing Friday evening with classical music. Not this event. This is a high-cardio concert with a live rock band. All I can say is I’m glad I opted for my trusty combat boots with my dress.

While we are getting things on record, I will say I’m not a dress girl either. The dress is the same garment I wore to my great aunt’s funeral last month. It’s black—the hue of rebellion I always wear—and void of any embarrassing ruffles or form-fitting stitches.

I had left my hair down in long waves until I got so sweaty that I forced it into a messy bun by haphazardly shoving a pencil through the top of a twist in aJurassic-period-style bone hairclip.

It’s clear I’m not here to enjoy this mosh pit.

I don’t mosh pit, and I definitely don’t dance.

I’m the invisible girl behind the camera, who is on an undercover assignment.

Now I’m jumping for my life.

Elbows fly at me from every direction, and I tuck my camera protectively in my armpit like a football. It’s the magazine’s new Canon, and I don’t have enough for even a down payment to replace it. I cut my gaze to the left, pining for an exit.

These people are giants, creating a canopy of arms and hands boxing me in. It feels like one hundred and eighty degrees here, and all the brutes are hogging the oxygen. I cut my gaze the other way, hoping I can duck out of this pit. My chest constricts as panic seeps into me.

I’m surrounded.

“Excuse me!” I yell at the couple in front of me with the assertive tone of the strong woman I am. It’s a guy I don’t recognize standing behind a girl. They are jumping in unison, and I’m not surprised they don’t hear me. I don’t know how anyone can hear when we are about three feet from the massive speakers.

My breath grows shallow as the air gets weaker down here.

I need to get out!

I inhale deeply and step forward until I’m butting up against a woman. Before I can explain that I’m only trying to maneuver around her, some massive person moshes into my back, knocking me down, my glasses flying off my face and out of reach.

You’d think the immediate circle of people around me would scatter, but they don’t notice as they continue to mosh, trapping me down. I weave my hand around sets of ankles, grappling for my glasses, but people keep shuffling, and I’m blocked. Sweat pours off my forehead. I crawl forward, barely missing my glasses as someone nonchalantly kicks them out of reach again .

This was a terrible idea.

I pant, inhaling a deep breath, and stretch my arm in aim for my blacked-framed glasses once again, but this time a big shoe finds my palm and stomps down on it like it’s a landing pad. I cry out in pain, waiting for the crunch of my fingers, but by some miracle, none of them break.My sobs fall on deaf ears, drowned out by the ear-splitting music. Desperation sets in and I try to stand, but I get shoved back down by the waves of people pushing forward. I open my mouth to scream for help when a set of strong arms wrap around my waist and tug me up. At first I freeze, bracing for impact again. I’m thinking it’s another blow.

“Guys, get out of the way!” a mysterious deep voice hollers. “There’s a girl on the floor.”

It's as if the mysterious-voice guy knows the magic words, commanding instant respect, and the crowd parts. He drapes my arm over his shoulder and props me up, yelling in my ear, “Lean on me, and I’ll get you out of here.”

My breathless body flops forward, fully allowing my rescuer to drag me out of there. The crowd behind us quickly closes the gap as if I was never there.

The invisible girl behind the camera.

The one who captures all the moments but is never in them.

How fitting that they don’t even notice when I leave.

We burst through the ballroom’s double doors, with me still hanging onto this guy’s neck like one of those ragdoll doorknob hangers. My hero looks at me with warm auburn eyes.

Eyes I’d know anywhere.

I’ve shot them many times.

Horror music hums in the background of my mind.

Dun dun dun.

It’s Noah Miller, winger for Granite Ice.

The one everyone calls the pretty one.

He obviously knows it too because he’s a huge flirt.

I glance up at him, taking in his thick dark hair and a steel-cut jaw I could cut a perfect bagel on. For a hockey player, he leans on the trim side but has the usual broad shoulders. He is the most handsome player on the team— too bad I’m dead-set on destroying his career.

I’m visiting Mapleton as an intern for my dad and his sports magazine Sports Era . It’s more of a mission to put together a spread for Granite Ice, a barely known but up-and-coming AHL team. That sounds normal, but where it gets interesting is Granite Ice is owned by my dad’s arch-nemesis—Bill Baker.

This is the chance I’ve been waiting for my whole life—a chance to impress my dad, who has always treated me as his invisible child. I am the only girl out of four kids in my family, and my brothers followed in his footsteps to play hockey. I love hockey, but I’m not built to play it. I took up photography to get involved, taking shots of all my brothers playing, but even though I was always right outside the rink, I yearned to see that proud gleam in my dad’s eye that he offered my brothers.

He says he’s proud, but it has never been with the same tone he gives my brothers.

“Where do you want me to take you?” My hero’s gruff voice pulls me from my assessment.

Embarrassment shoots to my face and heat radiates through my cheeks. I have nowhere to look but away. Thankfully, he’s not one for chatter, and his gaze sweeps back to the ballroom as if he’s in a hurry to get back inside.

“Oh, ah . . .” I nearly choke on my saliva as I scan the empty hall, squinting without my glasses. “Here’s fine.” I point to the wall, allowing my body to slide against it all the way to the carpet floor. I’m still a little too woozy to stand, and my head feels as if it’s spinning.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” He hikes a curious brow and patiently waits. The tips of his hair appear damp with sweat from the heat of the dance floor. I zone out, staring at them, wondering what it would be like to run my fingers through them.

Cough.

What was I thinking? Boy, I really did almost lose my sanity in that mosh pit. I would never do that!

He’s a classless jerk, like all the rest of the guys on his team as evidenced by how they all nearly killed me by stomping me to death.Who has a mosh pit anymore anyway?

My dad’s right.

I lock my jaw forward, lowering my eyebrows into my mad face.Someone needs to put a stop to these arrogant jerks. I force out a strong voice. “I’ll call a friend.”

“Take it easy.” He slides his foot away, and I watch him strut back through the door. Even though he’s fully clothed in trousers and a blazer, his arm muscles annoyingly protrude out, showing off his sculpted biceps, and the ripples keep rippling all the way up to his neck.

Nobody needs that many muscles.

I shake my head as disgust builds in my chest. He shouldn’t be allowed to casually walk around with all those muscles.He’s going to hurt someone with those. I bet they aren’t even real. He probably has one of those inflatable muscle suits underneath his jacket just to be a showoff.That’s all these Granite Ice guys are. Just fake balloon muscles with no brains. I seethe, as my hand still pulsates from getting stomped on. I can’t even flex my fingers.

As soon as he’s gone, I drop a giant sigh of relief.

So glad he’s finally out of my sight.

Cradling my hand, I scan the hallway. My head jolts all the way back. I don’t have my camera! My hand flies to my face. Or my glasses!

My gaze cuts to the door, but I’m not going in there. I’ll never come out alive. I suspected this sports gala was going to be interesting, but I didn’t think it would ignite this fire in my gut to get even. My blood nearly boils as I think about how all these guys had no problem stomping on me as if I was a lifeless rug.

There’s only one thing I can think of.

These brutes must be stopped before they kill someone.