Page 1 of Her Name in Red
Prologue
RIGGS
The crunch of dead leaves under my boots is the only sound breaking the eerie silence of the deserted campus. Jack-o'-lanterns leer at me from every porch, their flickering grins mocking my path. Fuck 'em. I'm not here for another lame-ass party where drunk idiots paw at each other in shitty costumes.
I've got bigger things to do tonight.
Pulling my jacket tighter against the chill, my breath puffs out in little clouds as I walk. The bare trees loom over me like skeletons, their branches reaching out like bony fingers. Fitting for tonight, I guess.
My mind's racing, replaying the day my life ended over and over.
In Coach Harrington's office, the way his eyes raked over me, that slimy smile. “You want to stay on the team, don't you, Riggs?” His hand on my thigh, inching higher. I can still feel the ghost of his touch, making my skin crawl. I'd rather cut off my own dick than let that creep touch me.
I shudder, shoving the memory away. Fat lot of good it does me now. I'm off the team, out of school, spiraling down a blackhole with no bottom in sight. All because I wouldn't play Coach's sick game.
The crisp air bites at my face as I stride past the student center, music thumping faintly from inside. For a second, I imagine all the puck bunnies in there, probably looking hot as hell in whatever costume they picked.
Acorns and twigs snap as I veer off the main path, cutting through a grove of rotting maples. I barely notice, my eyes locked on the house at the end of the street.
Harrington's house looms ahead, with perfect shutters and a manicured lawn. Fucker probably has the sprinklers set to go off if anyone steps on his precious grass. I march right up the middle of his driveway, not giving a shit about leaving muddy boot prints.
My fists clench at my sides as I approach. I don't know exactly what I'm going to do, but I know I can't let this go. He took everything from me, and for what? Because I wouldn't be his little plaything?
My heart's pounding as I reach the front door, but not from fear. From anticipation. I've been waiting months for this moment, reliving every second of that day in the locker room when Coach cornered me. When he made it clear what I'd have to do to keep my spot on the team.
I didn't just lose hockey that day. I lost my scholarship, my future. All because I wouldn't let that pervert fuck me.
Reaching for the doorknob, I half expected it to be locked. To my surprise, it turns easily in my hand. A grin spreads across my face. Looks like luck's finally on my side.
The entryway is dark, save for a faint glow coming from the windows. My eyes adjust quickly, taking in the pristine walls and fancy artwork. Typical rich asshole decor.
As I move further in, my boots silent on the plush carpet, I can't help but think about Maren. Coach's stepdaughter. One ofthe hottest girls on campus, with these gray eyes that could cut right through you. I overheard her in the cafeteria last week, complaining to her friends about how her mom was ditching her for the weekend to visit her grandparents.
No chance of running into her tonight. Not that I'd mind, exactly, but there’s no way she’s not at one of the Halloween parties. There's something about her that draws me in, even though I know I should stay the hell away. She's got dangerous written all over her.
I shake off thoughts of Maren and focus on why I'm here. The house is dead quiet, but I can see a sliver of light coming from under a door down the hall. My heart rate kicks up a notch, adrenaline flooding my system.
This is it. The moment I've been waiting for. Time to make that bastard pay for what he did to me.
I take a deep breath, steeling myself. My hand drifts to the pocket of my jacket, feeling the weight of the object inside. A reminder of why I'm here, of what's at stake.
With slow, silent steps, I make my way down the hall, the plush carpet muffling any sound. The light under the door grows brighter as I approach.
I pause outside the door, my hand hovering over the knob. This is my last chance to turn back, to walk away and pretend none of this ever happened. But the memory of his hands on me, of the way he smiled as he threatened to ruin my life, makes my decision for me.
Pushing the door open, my heart pounds in my ears. The room is empty. Fucking empty. But it's not the absence of Coach that hits me first—it's the wall of trophies gleaming in the soft lamplight. Those goddamn St. James hockey trophies. My blood boils as I step closer, my eyes scanning over the golden figures frozen mid-slap shot.
I see myself in every single one of those trophies. The countless hours of practice, the bruises, the sweat, the blood I spilled on that ice. All of it captured in these shiny pieces of metal that Coach gets to keep. That he gets to show off like they're his accomplishment.
My fingers curl around the knife in my pocket, pulling it out. The blade glints in the low light, hungry for something to cut. I drag it across Coach's polished mahogany desk, relishing the harsh screech of metal on wood. A deep gouge mars the perfect surface, like a scar. Let him have a permanent reminder of me, of what he's done.
I move toward the trophies, tempted to smash every last one. To hear the satisfying crash as they hit the floor, to grind the broken pieces under my heel. But I hold back. I'm not here to throw a tantrum.
Where the fuck is he?
I make my way back to the entryway, my mind racing. Where the hell is Coach? It's Halloween night—shouldn't he be handing out candy or some shit? Unless...
A chill runs down my spine as I remember the rumors about Coach and his “special” players. The ones who got extra attention, extra ice time. The ones who always seemed a little too eager to please. I never thought much of it until it happened to me.
