Page 22 of Their Obsession

He’s here.

Behind me is my masked stalker. He’s standing in the open doorway, the heavy curtain held in one hand. The same mask he used to wear when we were kids in high school covers his face.How did he find me?He cocks his head, assessing me in my skimpy little outfit. His other hand bunches into a fist at his side, so tight the knuckles turn white. My breath gets caught in my throat, and I feel like I’m slowly drowning on dry air. Instinctually, I spin.

Nothing. No one. I’m all alone.

He’s gone. Or maybe it was all in my head?

Throwing the curtain open, I scan the hall outside. My hair flies in my face as I wildly whip my head back and forth. He’s not here. The only person here is Emily. She looks up from her phone, concern painted across her face.

“Hey, girl,” she begins to stand as she notices my unease. She holds up her full hands in a submissive way, as if trying to calm a scared and cornered animal. “What’s wrong?”

“Where did he go?” I pant as I attempt to calm my raising heart.

“Where did who go?” Emily asks in confusion.

How could she not have seen him?

Tears prick my eyes. I am so sick of being haunted by the memory of a ghost who left me long ago. I was so happy. I just want to have a fun, carefree day. I want so badly to move on.

“I saw him,” I whisper. I don’t need to say who. Emily has known me long enough to know who it is that my mind alwaysseems to conjure from the depths of my repressed obsession.

“It was just your mind playing tricks on you, babe,” Emily tries to reassure me as she ushers me back into the protective space of the dressing room. I wipe the looming tears from my lash line as the fear morphs into embarrassment. “He’s not here. He moved on. And it’s time for you to move on, too. Noah’s really nice and really hot. You deserve that.”

I nod, saying nothing. She’s right. Maybe my mind is so used to letting my past get in the way of my prospective happiness that it conjured up visions of the monster who used to stalk me. Maybe he really has moved on.

But what about the rose in my apartment?

I don’t know what to believe anymore.

“You’re right. I’m ready to leave him in the past. Really,” I confirm as she gives me a knowing look. “I really like Noah, and I want to give this a real shot.”

Just thinking about his warm smile and stormy grey eyes makes the corners of my mouth tick upward. My panic immediately starts to ebb, replaced with warm happiness as I think about him. He’s everything I need and nothing I’ve ever allowed myself to have before.

“Then let’s find something that will really blow him away!” Her excitement is intoxicating, and I can’t help myself from chuckling as I agree to try on the next set hung up on the rack.

I smile and try to relax, but no matter how hard I try to ignore it, I can’t shake the feeling of being watched.

TWELVE

NOAH

Lilly has made my life lighter than I ever thought it could be. She’s like a warm ray of sunshine that falls across your face on a gray day. I’ve dated plenty of women before, but nothing has ever felt likethis—this easy and carefree. With her, I can just relax and be myself. We’ve been officially together for just a few weeks, but after wanting her for years, I’m not about to take things slow. She’s mine. I feel it deep in my bones, in my fucking marrow. She’s perfect, and our lives mesh together so seamlessly. I don’t have to explain the whole being on the road for away games routine or the ridiculous practice schedule to her. She not only understands the demands of my job, she’s in it with me. It makes spending pretty much all our free time together conveniently easy. At this point, she’s essentially moved into my place, and I do not mind at all. We never spend much time at her place, and honestly, I’m not sure when the last time she was even at home for more than a fewminutes.

“Kolgrim!” Coach Karr yells from the sideline, dragging me from my thoughts.

It took a few weeks of physical therapy to be back at one-hundred percent but a little sprain wasn’t going to keep me down for long. My injury was the first of several that a certain angry Russian superstar has caused lately. The league’s golden-boy seems to have hit a dark streak. He’s injured an opposing player in every single game that he’s played since our match-up. Rumors have been swirling that his coach even threatened to bench him if he didn’t stop spending most of the game in the box. I guess I got off lucky with a small injury; some of the other guys he’s set his sights on won’t be back on the ice for the rest of the season.

“The boss wants you in his office,” Coach yells as I skate over to the bench. “Now.”

My stomach sinks. I instinctively look to the stands for my Sunshine, my strength and light. But of course, she’s not out here right now. It’s just practice. She sits front row, right next to the bench, for every single game. She’s even started wearing my number. I play harder, better, when I know that my woman is sitting there watching me with my number emblazoned on her back. It’s a rush unlike anything I’ve ever felt before. But during the day, while we practice, she has to work. She’s probably back in her office right now.

Sliding across the ice, I lift myself over the boards and onto the bench. My skates sink into the mats of the tunnel as I make my way back towards the locker room to change. This can’t be good. The GM doesn’t want to talk to me about the weather. What if he’s trading me? Would Lilly come with me? I can’t ask her to uproot her entire life for a relationship of just a few weeks.Can I?Would she say yes if I asked her to?

My mind is reeling, thoughts spiraling, as I absentmindedlychange out of my practice gear and into my regular clothes. I don’t even bother to shower. I’m not sure I need to be clean in order to hear that I’m traded, or let go, or whatever they’re going to say. As I walk towards the hallway that leads towards the back office, I take one final look around the room.

This was my first team, my first professional locker room, my family, my home. The thought of it all slipping through my fingers causes bile to rise in my throat. I know players get traded all the time and that it’s part of the game. But rational thought isn’t really helping me feel any better currently.

My feet are heavy as I make my way towards Mr. Whitson’s office. It’s upstairs with all the other higher ups—the men in suits who run our lives like pawns on a chessboard. And I have a feeling I’m about to be the team’s gambit. The lights are brighter up here; the carpet is more plush.

---