Page 17 of Something to Prove

Well…that wasn’t quite true.

At all.

I didn’t trust Walker, but until I was sure he wasn’t playing some underhanded trick, I was going to keep a close eye on him.

No, I could do better than that. My plan to go Sherlock Holmes on Walker’s ass and dig up some dirt on him was already in the works. Everyone had a skeleton in their closet and the ones who liked to dish other people’s stories usually had something juicy under wraps. At least that was how it worked onCSI.

Intrepid investigators uncovered crazy shit like gambling debts out the wing-wang, mafia connections, DUIs, spouses indifferent countries—you get the gist. I didn’t think Walker was half that exciting, but I’d bet there was something.

Two could play the sneaky-little-fucker game.

Commence the Woodrow investigation.

I’d asked a few fellow students and a couple of retail clerks in town for their opinion on Smithton’s affable redhead, and apparently, everyone freaking loved the guy.

Shar, my favorite waitress at Bear Depot, grinned like an infatuated schoolgirl. “Aww, he’s so sweet. Walker might be the most genuinely friendly person in Smithton. And he’s a big tipper!”

Mel and Darya, the baristas at Coffee Cave, gooped all over him too.

“Walker’s the best. If he’s doing your interview, you’re in great shape,” Darya had assured me.

“Absolutely,” Mel had chimed in. “Walker’s a great guy.”

“The best,” Vincento concurred.

“A pleasure to have in class,” Professor Aaronson had commented.

Great. Walker had Smithton convinced that he was a local hero, and I just didn’t buy it. There had to be more to the guy sitting in the stands with his head buried in his cell.

He’d arrived at the rink during our high-tempo drill and chosen an unobtrusive spot in the shadows. But with that hair, it was hard not to be aware of him—even through a brutal practice.

Sweat dripped from my helmet into my eyes faster than I could wipe it away during what felt like ninety minutes of sprint skating. All I could think was that someone must have pissed in Coach Beekman’s Gatorade.

My knees wobbled as I gulped a gallon of water, nodding along to Coach’s spiel about focus.

“Rule number one: protect the puck,” he barked. “You need eyes on the back of your heads. You get blocked, pushed, laid flat on your ass…so what? You still better know where that damn puck is. This isn’t a foreign concept and it’s not something we need to debate. It’s Hockey 101. You can’t expect to beat St. Mark this weekend if you let your guards down. I mean it. Your passes have to be on the money. None of this flinging shit at the boards and hoping your teammates bail you out. None of this…”

I tuned Coach out. Hey, I respected the hell out of him, but man, I was tired, hungry, and my quads were on fire. I wanted a shower and a double beef burger with fries—regular and sweet potato. Pizza sounded good too. A meat lover’s with extra sausage…mmm, sign me up.

Brady elbowed me. I thought he might have been warning me to pay attention till he angled his chin meaningfully at the stands. “What’s the redhead doing here?”

I shot a glance at Walker, puzzled by the spike in my pulse. “He wants to interview me.”

“No fucking way.” Brady snorted in disbelief and jumped a second later as Coach bellowed his name. “Sir. Yes, sir.”

Coach’s razor-sharp stare wasn’t for the weak of heart, but Brady managed to hold it like a champ before Coach dismissed us for the night.

I snickered at Brady’s audible sigh of relief. “Did you wet your pants, buddy?”

Along with Langley, Brady was one of my closest friends on the team. And he was my roommate.

Brady was a lanky forward with dark-blond hair, blue eyes, and a crooked nose, courtesy of a jab to the face his freshman year at Smithton. Blood everywhere. I’d witnessed the whole thing and let me tell you, it hadn’t been pretty. But Bradywas. He had boy-next-door good looks and a habit of asking a question with every sentence he uttered. It could have been annoying, but you got used to it after a while.

“Fuck off.” He peeled his practice jersey off and flopped onto the nearest bench to unlace his skates. “So what’s the deal? I thought you hated that guy.”

“I don’t hate him. I just don’t like him. There’s a difference.”

Brady snorted. “If you say so. Meet us at the Depot?”