Page 6 of Make Me Yours
Even though I’m outside with the chilly fall breeze whipping at my cheeks, it still feels like everything is closing in on me. Any moment, I’m going to have a panic attack.
I squeeze my eyes tightly closed and focus on drawing air into my lungs, holding it for a few beats before gradually releasing it back into the atmosphere. I do that over and over until my heart rate settles and I’m able to think clearly.
Only then do I pull my phone out of my pocket and order a car before noticing a slew of texts and missed calls from Steele.
I wince.
He’s probably frantic by now.
For just a second, I consider calling him, but then I shove the phone back into my pocket. The moment I hear his voice, I’ll end up breaking down. And that’s the last thing I want to happen. This conversation is something that needs to be done in person.
As soon as the vehicle rolls up, I slide into the back seat and rattle off the address.
2
STEELE
Itighten my gloves and roll my shoulders before taking my position at center ice. The energy in the Kingston Landry Arena is electric. It’s the kind that usually rushes through my veins and sharpens my focus.
But tonight, something’s off.
I can feel it in my bones.
My gaze flicks up to the suite where Lilah always sits, only to find it empty.
I tell myself it’s nothing.
That she’s just running behind or maybe got stuck at work. Although she never mentioned she’d be late when we touched base earlier this afternoon. I’ve spent the last six years tracking her presence with the same precision I use to find the back of the net.
Tonight, she’s a no show.
She hasn’t missed a Railers home game since we both moved to Chicago after college.
“Lock in, Sanderson! You skating or sightseeing today?” Coach barks.
I’m already in motion, my stick connecting with the puck as I send it sailing past Laiken’s shoulder into the goal.
Our starting goalie swears.
Normally that would be enough to make me grin.
I glance at the clock. There’s eight minutes until the puck drops. Both teams are running through final warm-ups as the crowd files in. My stomach knots in a way that has nothing to do with pre-game jitters.
Knox McNichols, our right wing, skates up beside me. “You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“That thing where you pretend you’re not looking for Lilah.” He taps his stick against my shin guards. “While very obviously looking for her.”
“I don’t—” The protest dies in my throat as Evelyn Kingston, one of the team’s owners and Lilah’s godmother, stares down at me from the suite.
Alone.
Oliver Van Doren falls in line beside us, smacking his stick against mine. “It’s almost showtime, Sanderson. You ready to wipe the ice with these guys?”
I force a smirk. “Couldn’t be more ready.”
The lights drop, and the crowd erupts into cheers. Twenty thousand fans rise to their feet as our intro video lights up the jumbotron. It’s the same one I’ve seen a hundred times before, but tonight the highlight reel feels distant. Like I’m staring at it through a tunnel. I can’t shake the worry that continues to eat me alive.
