Page 11

The air is crisp and chilly. I pull my jacket around me tighter, suddenly grateful for Cassidy’s earlier dress code warning. Beside me, Cassidy skips along the sidewalk, the cold barely fazing her as she chats animatedly about something that happened yesterday in class.

We walk into the stadium, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen a hockey rink in my life.

“Let’s get some food and then take our seats,” she says, so I follow her through the crowd and wait in the line to get food.

I glance around, trying to find anything regarding Jack but there’s nothing.

“You okay?” she asks, noticing that my head is whipping around like I’m looking for something or someone.

I chuckle. “Yeah, being cold does not help with my anxiety.”

She nods. “Tell me about it. I think I’m nervous and it turns out, I’m just shivering from the cold.”

I smile, grateful to have a friend I can talk to about stupid shit like the weather.

The overwhelming noise drowns out my anxious thoughts, the constant spiral of worry that’s been gnawing at me. I follow Cassidy up the steps to our seats with our hands full of food.

We settle in, the seats she chose–a small way from the transparent barrier that separates us from the ice–offers me a good view.

I watch as players from both teams glide onto the ice for warm-ups, their movements swift and confident, and I can’t help but feel a rush of adrenaline as the crowd begins to chant.

A player makes his way across the ice. My eyes follow him, tall and lean, gliding across the frost like he was meant to. As he passes the crowd, he raises his stick above his head, pumping his free hand in the air.

These guys don’t look like they just lost a teammate.

The rest of the players get onto the ice and some follow Ezra’s lead, getting the crowd pumped up as they warm up, skating hard and showing off their skills, I watch them glide across the ice almost hypnotically, getting caught up in their synchronized movements, powerful strides, the sound of their skates cutting through the ice.

I can’t see their faces from where we sit, but I can see all their broad shoulders and athletic builds that exude power.

There is something magnetic about these players, a confidence that radiates, drawing me in even as my anxiety creeps back.

Jack would be here if it wasn’t for me. He would be in this arena, skating around with these guys.

Shit.

Coming here was a horrible idea.

My heart starts to race, guilt is starting to rise at the back of my throat. I glance up and see a photo of Jack on the screen. I swear to God it wasn’t there two seconds ago.

I quickly wipe away the tears pricking my eyes and stare at the players.

As if sensing my gaze, one of the guys suddenly looks up, his intense eyes scanning the stands. I can’t see their color from where I am seated, but when our eyes lock for a fleeting moment, I feel a jolt run through me, a hit of major anxiety.

I quickly look away, my heart racing.

“Did you see that?” Cassidy nudges me, her excitement bubbling over. “Thatcher totally just looked at you.”

I shake my head, trying to dismiss it, but the heat creeping up my cheeks betrays me. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say. I take another bite of my hot dog.

Cassidy smiles but thankfully doesn’t say anything. Her knowing smile lingers, though. I can feel Thatcher’s eyes on me again, and I don’t dare look back.

She nudges me again, clearly happy from the attention, but I focus on the ice, pretending to watch the other players. My heart is still hammering, though, and I can’t shake the feeling of Jack’s face on the screen. The guy I accidentally killed.

“Oh my God! He’s looking again,” she whispers, her voice filled with excitement.

I can feel the weight of his stare without turning my head. My heart thuds loudly in my chest, the air suddenly feeling too thick. I force myself to keep my eyes on the ice, trying to concentrate on anything but the pull I feel for him.

“Stop,” I mutter. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?” Cassidy grins, clearly enjoying this. “I don’t think so, babe. He’s practically laser-focused on you.”

I sneak a quick glance toward the rink, and sure enough, his eyes are on me, dark and intense, like he’s studying me, searching for something. My stomach twists. I look away again, hoping Cassidy didn’t notice the shiver that just ran down my spine.

As the final whistle of warm-ups blows, I feel a wave of anticipation wash over the crowd.

The players gather for a final huddle, and Thatcher stands at the center, radiating confidence.

I can’t help but wonder what the actual hell is going on right now.

Maybe it’s my paranoia, but I’m suddenly very uncomfortable.

The players stand in a circle as the lights dim. My heart is racing as the announcer comes over the speaker and starts talking about Jack.

“If anyone has any information, please come forward.”

I stare at my hands, completely tuning out the words being spoken.

I keep my head down as if I’m saying a prayer for him, but in reality, I’m trying not to sob out of guilt.

My ears start to ring, and I don’t think I can stay to watch this game anymore.

I’m surrounded by a stadium of people, so I need to suck it up.

I need to not cry. Maybe I should get the hell out of here.

This was a shit idea.

When I glance towards the rink, lost in thought, those same eyes pull me right in. The same guy, Thatcher, is fucking staring at me. I cock my head to the side, wondering if I’m right. I look behind me, and there’s no one looking in his direction.

Cassidy smiles at me, and then she places a hand on mine. I pull away with a smile, rubbing my hands together.

When I look forward again, I expect Thatcher to be focused on something else. But no, the asshole is still staring at me.

The game goes by in a blur. Honestly, I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but it doesn’t matter.

I’m physically here, but my mind is replaying that night, replaying the announcer’s word of begging someone to come forward with any helpful information.

I’m no longer in this realm of reality. I’m lost in my mind, not knowing what will be able to bring me back.

The crowd is booming and roaring, but I’m just sitting here. Cassidy can feel it. I hope she only sees it as depression, nothing more. I don’t need any more questions.

Finally, the game ends, but I don’t want to move. I could sit here forever, and that would be okay.

Cassidy jumps out of her seat to clap with the crowd. She pulls me up, and I’m no longer lost in my thoughts as I clap for the winners.

The team takes a victory lap across the rink, soaking in the crowd’s adoration and cheers.

As they skate, I watch them tug off their helmets, shaking out tousled hair. My admirer’s hair is brown. Swallowing hard, I tried to focus on something–anything else, but my eyes keep drifting back to him.

The crowd cheers louder as he reaches the bench and pulls off his gloves.

His movements are unhurried, deliberate.

The crowd is still cheering, but my focus narrows on him.

He pulls at the collar of his jersey, and for some reason, my pulse quickens as he casually slips it off over his head, revealing the tight short sleeved shirt underneath that clings to him like a second skin, outlining his built, muscled frame.

He lifts his arm to wipe sweat from his brow and that’s when I see the black band of indecipherable words that wraps around his bicep. The sight makes my stomach drop, a cold rush of recognition washing over me.

It’s the same tattoo, the one that has been haunting my every waking moment since Halloween, the one I would never forget in a million years.

My thoughts spin as everything clicks into place. Jack plays hockey. These guys are his teammates. Thatcher was there that night.

Thatcher is the masked stranger.