Page 191 of Stick It
“Seriously, Dyl. You must have snagged the only halfway decent hockey players out there,” Wren continues.
“I thought you loved hockey players?” I arch a brow, glancing her way.
“No. I lovehockey—the game. Hockey players? Not so much.”
“Is that why you don’t come to any Athletes Row street parties?” I tease, nudging her this time.
She throws her head back and laughs, but the sound is off. Not as carefree as normal. “Players be playin’ and I’m a dating girl,” she says, not meeting my questioning gaze. “Besides, my family being who they are makes it difficult.”
“Never really know they’re with you for you or because of who you are.”
“Exactly.”
I get it. My issue wasn’t hockey players specifically, but more fans of my dad. I remember going on a date with one guy in high school who handed me his Timberwolves jersey at the end of it and asked if my dad could sign it. Like, seriously? He could have just asked and saved us both some time. The annoying thing was, I’d liked him. He’d been funny and easygoing, but after my dad had signed his jersey, I never heard from him again.
So, yeah. I get Wren’s reluctance to go anywhere near hockey players.
I lose track of our conversation when a shadow falls over us as someone steps into our path.
“Look who we have here.”
That voice is like ice water down my spine.
No. No, that’s not possible.
I freeze. My lungs stop working. My body stops moving. I feel like I’ve been locked in place, rooted to the spot, unable to breathe.
Kyle Reed—a very free, uncuffed Kyle Reed—stands in front of us, hands in his coat pockets, and a smug grin twisting his mouth.
Wren stiffens beside me, her arm tightening around mine like a band. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
He doesn’t even glance her way. His eyes are locked on me, and there’s something in them that makes my stomach twist. A slow-burning fury. Glee. Madness. It makes my knees quake.
“You’re supposed to be in jail.” I hate how soft my voice is, how weak I sound.
Only one other man has ever made me feel this way. Made me feel so afraid. So helpless.
He laughs, the sound scraping along my skin like gravel, leaving little bloody nicks in its wake. “Cops know trumped-up, bullshit charges when they see them.”
Thankfully, that snaps through the helplessness, allowing a gap for my rage to surge forth. “Bullshit?” I snarl, vibrating now. “You tried todrownme!” The words burst out, jagged and raw.
The fucking psychopath gapes at me, his hand coming to his chest like he’s a Southern woman clutching her pearls. “Me? I tried tohelpyou! I was trying tosaveyou when Coach stormed in, reading the room entirely wrong.”
I shake my head. “No. No. You pushed me under. You held me down.”
My hands tremble, from fear, from fury…who knows.
His eyes flash with menace as he leans in, dropping his voice. “Prove it.”
Hands balled into fists, I go to step forward. Oh, how I want to punch the fucking smirk off his sick, twisted face. Wren’s arm, still linked through mine, yanks me back, though.
“You’re fucking insane,” she hisses at him.
For the first time, Kyle looks her way, giving Wren a slow and disturbing once-over, before flicking his focus back to me.
“You think you’ve won, huh? Got the guys, the sympathy, the team. But you haven’t. You’ll never beat me, Carter. You just delayed the inevitable.”
I shake my head. This was never a game. Never aboutbeatinganyone.
