Page 6 of Wyatt

She might have blown it when she’d shouted the Blue Ox cheer—Thin the herd!That emerged in English, pretty loudly, during a lull in the game, right after the fight, but that Polish player, Number 32, had taken a cheap shot at Wyatt.

Her goalie had come up bleeding, wearing a lethal expression. But after the scuffle, he’d tucked it back inside and fielded what seemed like a thousand shots on goal.

Including that last one. Coco still couldn’t believe it had dropped out of his glove.

He’d deserved the save.

The stands were thinning as she watched Wyatt pick up his stick, his face mask, his glove and head toward the bench in long, slow, dejected strides.

Her chest ached.

She’d just follow him back to the hotel, make sure he wasn’t being tailed. Then…

Then what?

Just knock on his hotel door? Um, she’d tried that once and didn’t want to think about the rest.

She loved him more than her very breath.

He most likely thought of her as a one, no-, two-time fling.

And really, she couldn’t blame him.

Wyatt Marshall was a big deal. The Hottie of Hockey, according to the Twittersphere. Was dating Miss Minnesota, by the looks of it.

He’d long ago moved on from the angry young man who needed comfort.

She’d fallen not for the strong, steely-eyed athlete who stood alone between the posts, not the cover-model hockey player, the one who made a few pin-up and most-eligible lists on social media, but the rare, quiet man inside who tried to sing country music, donned a cowboy hat, and took her riding. The man who listened when she was hurting and asked for nothing.

But gave her everything when she asked.

Wyatt left the bench, walking back down the tunnel to the locker rooms, and she moved out with the crowd. It was better not to be jostled, anyway. She still held her arm close to her body over the wound in her abdomen.

She’d lost part of her small intestine, but after two weeks in the hospital, York guarding the door, she’d discharged herself and headed east.

To Siberia.

Outside, the evening bore the early scents of autumn, the oak and linden trees along the boulevard that led away from the arena already turning. The sun had splashed down beyond the Amur River, leaving a deep, simmering hint of red along the horizon. The red-bricked Russian Baptist church cast a shadow over the square, on a hill overlooking the arena parking lot. Flags fluttered overhead.

She slipped around the side of the building, past the three stories of steps, and toward the back entrance, hiding herself in a shadow.

Prevyet, Wyatt.

No. English might be better.

Hey, Wy…I heard you were looking for me.

She shoved her hands into her pockets. Maybe she’d simply get on the elevator with him, see if he recognized her—

What if hedidn’trecognize her?

She hadn’t considered that, but hello, that was the point of her disguise, right? And what if he hadn’t been looking for her, but…

Except she’d read his postings on the board.ISO Kittycat1. Pls contact me. Scooby87.

She couldn’t exactly reply. She had no doubt that Damien had access to her computer, knew her alias, had probably even drained her bank account.

Of course, she had her own security backups, but if she wanted to make sure that proof of RJ’s innocence got into safe hands, she needed to do this the old-fashioned way.

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