Page 100 of Jaded

I’d rather be at a cold rink out in Colorado, watching the game. Following hockey on the radio isn’t the same, but it’s easier when every other word isOlliorJamesand my ears automatically tune in. My mind conjures up his image . . . the desert fades away.

And I’m seeing him out on the ice all over again.

At the Ice Out, arms lifted to the crowd.

At the Dingoes’ game, his face drawn in hard lines of concentration and determination.

At drop-in, a smile never far from reach, lurking at the corner of my vision.

But even more than that, even more than all the little pieces I’ve acquired, he’s still the mysterious ghost, the boy from the bar without a name.

Soft brown eyes, soft skin beneath my fingertips, soft lips I can’t stop tasting. Why can’t I stop seeing him, in blurred edges and stolenglimpses, the swell of a bare shoulder, the curve of unblemished knuckles, the lean cords of tendons through his forearm?

Olli James.

My little ghost, always, always, hovering on the edges of my periphery.

Listening to the radio announcers exclaim over him every other play, listening to him assist two goals—Dev and Charlie—and net one of his own . . . I know it. As sure as I’ve known anything.

Olli James will turn this team around.

The sudden sharp buzz of my phone from the center console jerks my thoughts back down to earth in a sharp tug of reality. I expect JB, maybe someone from the rink—

Syd’s name flashes across the screen.

Instant panic wells up inside me, and I slam the phone against my ear. “Syd? What's wrong?”

Of course something’s wrong. She’s seventeen. She doesn’t call.

“Dad?”

“Talk to me, Syd.” I’m already jerking the truck to the side of the road, jobs forgotten. Whipping it over the red desert dust to turn the fucking thing around. Foot too heavy on the gas as I head back towards town.

“Okay, don’t get mad, but—”

“Just tell me.”

She exhales in a wavery sigh that tells me everything is far, far from okay. “It’s Avery. He . . . I think he might get into trouble.”

“Tell me where to be, Syd.”

“Michelangelo’s,” she says, and I slam my foot all the way to the floor. Thank God I’m only a few short miles out of the city, and Michelangelo’s sits a little north of downtown. Still takes me a solid fifteen minutes to get there.

My heart’s racing as I shove through the door and into the crowded bar. Michelangelo’s on a Saturday is usually pretty busy; easy enough to see how a few teenage kids might have slipped through into the pressof people around the bar—some of them even cheering on the Dingoes game overhead.

Might have made it more challenging to find Syd and Avery, but the snarl of people at the back makes me think I know exactly where they are. There’s a shout from the tangle, followed by a thud—like a body colliding with a wall.

Shit.

A fight.

Shit.

I’m already pushing through the crowd towards the source of the disturbance. A big blond man at the middle of it shoves somebody smaller. Pinning him to the wall. More large men cluster around him. The smaller man’s yelling—

“Shit,” I say again as I recognize the teen. My fingers curl into fists at my sides. And it’s less a thought than a deep inherent knowledge, that if this man does anything to Avery, I will hurt him.

I shoulder my way through the press of people to Avery’s side. My eyes scan his face for blood, for bruises, come up empty. “Whatcha doing here, Avery? Where’s Syd?”

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