Page 70 of Hooked
Hockey player?
Hunter wascompletelydressed in his gear. Jersey, shoulder pads and all. He even had his hockey pants and leg pads on, and sweat trickled from the ends of his drenched hair.
“What the hell are you doing here, Hunter?”
“Honor!” he panted. “Get in.”
“No!After you embarrassed me in front of my coworkers? And the rest of theentire world? Why the hell would I?”
“I didn't do that,Honor! I was hacked!”
“Hacked,” I repeated with a cynical laugh. “Really, you expect me to believe that?”
The bus' horn bellowed impatiently behind us like a foghorn.
“Just get out of that poor bus driver's way already! Sheesh, Hunter.”
“Get in and I will.”
I rolled my eyes, but I jerked the passenger door open and begrudgingly climbed in.
Hunter pulled forward, and the enraged bus driver hurried around us. “Honor, I swear I didn't share those pictures. You've gotta believe me, here!”
“Idon'tbelieve you, after the texts you sent me today.”
“Whattexts?” Hunter asked.
And, pitiful me, Iwantedto believe the confusion on his face was genuine. But by now, I knew what happened when I trusted Hunter.
As mad as I was, though, I had to laugh—because Hunter looked so ridiculous, driving a sports car in his hockey uniform. I peeked down at his legs. He still had on his hockey pants, shin pads and socks. Hell, he still had hisskateson! Melting ice dripped from his blade protectors and pooled on the car's floor mats. How he managed to drive a stick-shift wearing those, I have no idea.
“Did you seriously leave your game just to track me down, Hunter?”
“Yes!”
“For God's sake, why?”
“Well,callingyou doesn't work—since you blocked my number, apparently,” he said, his tone both hurt and accusatory.
I tutted. “Youblocked me first.”
“The hell? No I didn't.”
“That's what yousaidwhen you sent me those awful texts today.”
“I haven't sent you a single thing today, Honor. I told you, my phone got hacked!”
“Wait.” I paused. “So you're saying … youdidn'ttext me all that nasty shit today?”
“No! What nasty shit?”
I pulled my phone from my purse, dragged up our conversation from earlier, and showed it to him. Hunter read, gritted his teeth and punched his steering wheel.
“Motherfucker,” he growled. He turned his pleading eyes to mine. “Honor, Iswearto you, I didn't send these.”
I blinked. “Then … who?”
A brief pause, lasting long enough for us to reach the same conclusion.
