Page 125 of The Alternate Captain
It’s when I’m skating back to the bench that I spot her. My eyes lock onto hers, a grin spreads across her face, and there’s fucking evil behind those eyes as she stares at me from a few rows behind the bench. I wouldn’t have noticed her, except she’s the only person sitting down.
My stomach lurches as I tear my eyes away from Sarah. And then my concentration is stolen by her request, hanging over me like a bad smell.
By the time the clock runs down the second period, I’m buzzing with an anxious energy, and I’m pissed off.
The third period trickles by, but I block six shots in the first ten minutes, and another four in the last eight, making sure I play my game with as much caution as I can. We’re leading 2-1 and I’m not in the mood to let this thing go to overtime.
As I’m skating back to the bench, with two minutes left on the clock, I spot Kelly, standing right at the top of the block—at least I think it’s her, anyway. She’s talking with a blonde—fuck my life. She’s talking to Sarah.
When the final buzzer sounds and we have to do all the post-game stuff, my eyes are flicking towards that spot, but neither Kelly nor Sarah is there. When we do the victory lap, I’m skating as slowly as I can so I can keep a lookout, but my blood is boiling with rage. Complete and utter rage.
I step off the ice first, snapping my stick over my knee as I exit, then tossing the remnants of it into the gutter of the bench. I don’t pay anyone any attention as I head for the dressing room and no one attempts to talk with me, probably out of their better judgement.
I’ve never turned myself around so quickly from post-game to fully dressed, but I’m striding past the guys, and past Vicky, who yells after me as I push the double doors open into the chilly December air.
I pull my phone out and immediately dial Kelly, but it goes to voicemail.
It goes to voicemail the following six times I try to call her, all while I’m driving to her place, but when I pull up outside, the lights are off, and the anxiety builds in my chest.
Just as I’m about to leave, my phone rings and Kelly’s name flashes up on the screen. Relief floods through me when I answer, but it quickly diminishes when she talks.
“Johnny, I’m at your place and you need to come home. There’s someone here to see you.”
“I’ve already told you,he’s on his way,” I say.
Though it’s clear from his expression that this fella does not want to wait.
I didn’t even want to answer the door, but he was pounding on it, probably having tailgated after someone because this building has controlled access and there’s no way anyone would willingly let this guy in.
“I’ve been waiting long enough,” he says through gritted teeth.
There’s an angry-looking vein on his forehead that looks like it’s about to pop.
I’m nervous as hell. He won’t tell me what he wants or why he’s here, just that he wants to talk to Johnny. Johnny, who should have been here ages ago, clearly didn’t remember that we’d arranged to meet here after his game.
“He’ll be here soon,” I say, my voice shaking.
I attempt to push the door closed, but before it clicks shut, the guy sticks his foot on the threshold and there’s no way I’m able to coax it away.
“I’d rather we didn’t close the door,” he says, leaning against the frame.
I wonder if he’s going to force his way inside, but he doesn’t. He stands still, foot unmoved, so I remain on the spot, trying not to freak the fuck out.
Mr Foot-in-the-door pulls his phone out of his pocket and taps away at the screen, putting it to his ear before hissing at himself when it rings. He does this several more times before he loses himself and moves away from the door enough, clearly shifting his concentration, and I take the opportunityto slam the door shut. My heart pounds in my chest as I press myself against the wall next to the door.
The pounding starts then, followed by swearing. Then I swear to God the door rattles.
“You better open this fucking door,” he yells on the other side.
But I’ll be honest, I want to open the door even less now he’s said that. I feel sick with fear.
Heavy footsteps. And then a moment later, the pounding resumes.
“If he’s in there and you’re hiding him... I’ll fucking—”
A phone rings. And then Mr Foot grunts. I take a chance and peer through the peephole in the door, and I watch him pace the corridor outside the apartment with his phone pressed against his ear. I can’t make out what he’s saying, but I’m grateful it’s causing him a distraction.
But it’s only a distraction for a short time. Because as soon as he slides his phone into his jeans pocket, he’s coming right at the peephole again to resume the pounding.
