Page 69 of Jaded

His words are a low murmur against my ear. “I won’t talk if you won’t.”

I follow him back to the holding pen. My heart beats too fast, mind racing, and I’ve no idea what I’m going to say until the door closes behind us. The words that escape my lips are simply, “Are you fucking crazy?”

Before he can so much as open his mouth to reply, we’re surrounded.

“Yo, you really play for the Dingoes?” Our no-longer teammate’s up in Olli’s face, and on instinct, I shove him off.

But there’s already someone on my other side, peering into my face— “Which one are you?”

I shove him away too, only to find myself face to face with another. “You gotta be Holland—”

“Devereaux—”

“No, he’s too big—”

“Who’s the new guy—”

“We know it’s not Everton. No dreads!”

“Too long since I been to a game—”

“What makes you think it’s just us?” Olli’s is the voice that cuts through the chaos. The room stills, and his grin tilts beneath his mask. “You think we’re so different from you? Maybe the whole team’s here.”

It’s quiet enough to hear a pin drop; the man certainly knows how to command a crowd. I know he’s full of shit, but I’m still drawn into his act. Eyes flicker around the room. Anyone still masked becomes a target of attention. A few hold up their hands, shake their heads.

Couple of others laugh, crack jokes. “Hell yeah, man. I’m a Dingo!”

“Dude, yeah, we’re all undercover.”

Olli’s gaze swivels towards him. “Right. Looking for recruits. Sussing out talent, you know?”

Whispers travel around the room in a fast-bleed diffusion like black ink in water, staining the whole crowd in an instant. “Ice Out . . . Dingoes . . . ?”

“Maybe you’ll just have to come to the game and find out,” Olli says. “Take bets on the crossovers . . . Heck, maybe I’ll even let you fight me after the game. See who can hold their own on topside ice against a pro.”

He pushes through the crowd to a bag in the far corner. I hustle to find my own shoes, because I’m not letting him vanish off into the ether.

I still haven’t processed the emotions fizzing my blood, so I trade my skates for Converse with thoughtless motions born of a lifetime of practice.

When I look up, he’s gone.

“Dammit.”

“You really a Dingo, Forty-Seven?”

I shove past the faceless man and into the back hallway. The faint, distant tap of tennis shoes tells me someone’s running up the stairs. Fuck.

There’s no way I’m in as good a shape as Olli, but I shoulder my bag and race after him anyway. My lungs heave as I take the stairs two at a time—really should smoke less—but when I finally duck into the frigid winter air, I’m surprised to find Olli standing halfway down the sidewalk.

Waiting.

“Figured you’d find me,” he says as I approach. “Might as well get this over with.”

I nudge him sideways, leading him down a side street, then into a narrow alley. The cold cuts through all the layers of clothes I’m wearing—my sweat-drenched jersey probably isn’t helping—but at least we’re protected from the wind here.

“Are you fucking crazy?” I ask again. I yank my mask up so he can see my face, read my expression. I don’t touch him, but the force of my presence drives him back against the wall of the apartment building comprising one side of the alley. “You could get arrested!”

Maybe he could tell me what’s written on my face. What I’m feeling. I still don’t know.

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