Page 6 of Arrogant Puck

“We’d like to offer you the position,” she says at the end of our call. “Can you start Monday?”

Monday. Four days from now.

“Absolutely,” I manage, trying not to cry with relief.

Now I just need somewhere to live.

The Facebook group for Hawthorne University area housing is my lifeline. I scroll through posts about shared apartments, studio rentals, people desperate to fill empty rooms. My budget is pathetic, but I post anyway:

Recent graduate starting new job at HU. Clean, quiet, responsible. Looking for affordable room ASAP. Can provide references.

The responses come quickly. A few guys offering basement rooms that sound sketchy as hell. An elderly woman with a studio apartment that’s twice what I can afford. And then…

Hi! I’m Emma, also in my early twenties. I have a two-bedroom apartment about ten minutes from campus. Rent would be $450/month plus utilities. Clean, safe neighborhood. Let me know if you want to see it!

I message her back immediately.

Emma’s apartment is the third place I look at, and the moment I walk through the door, I know this is the place. The living room is bright and airy, decorated with plants and fairy lights that make everything feel warm and welcoming. The kitchen is small but functional, and she’s already cleared out half the cabinets and fridge space for a potential roommate.

“The room comes furnished,” Emma says, leading me down a short hallway. “Previous tenant left the bed and dresser, so you wouldn’t need to worry about that.”

The bedroom is perfect—small but cozy, with a window that looks out over a tree-lined street. After three nights in progressively grimier motels, it looks like paradise.

“I’ll take it,” I say before she can finish the tour.

Emma grins. “Okay.”

“This is perfect. Thank you.”

We shake hands, and for the first time in days, I can breathe properly. I have a job. I have a place to live. I’m three thousand miles away from Tyler and Marcus and everything that happened in that hotel room three nights ago.

I need to put that behind me and move forward.

That night, lying in my new bed in my new room in my new life, I finally check my phone. Seventeen missed calls from unknown numbers. Text messages from more unknown numbers getting progressively more threatening. Voicemails I’m too scared to listen to.

Unknown: You can’t run forever, Sage. I know people everywhere.

My hands shake as I unblock his original number and change his contact name to FUCK YOU. Then I type out the message I should have sent days ago.

Sage: You’re never going to see me again. Leave me the fuck alone!

I hit send and immediately block the number again.

Tomorrow, I start over. New job, new town, new life. Tonight, I’m just going to lie here and pretend that three thousand miles is enough distance to keep the nightmares away. Pretend that I’m finally safe.

Chapter 3

Hawthorne Arena smells like sweat and bleach.

Not fresh bleach, either—old, like it soaked into the walls a long time ago and gave up trying to be clean.

I stand just inside the service entrance, fingers curled tight around the strap of my duffel. It’s six-fifteen a.m. Too early for players. Too early for staff. Perfect.

The cold air cuts through my hoodie as I step farther inside. The rink is dark, mostly, just emergency lights on around the edge of the ice. There’s comfort in that. Shadow over spotlight. Empty space over noise.

I hear the low scrape of a blade against ice, so I stop.

The sound comes again—long, sharp, clean. Someone’s skating. Fast.

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