Page 30 of Her Name in Red
You know what would help me sleep? You, in my bed.
The bluntness catches me off guard. I press my thighs together, hating how easily he can get to me.
Bold of you to assume I'd let you sleep at all.
Is that a promise?
His desperation is delicious. I savor it for a moment before deciding to cut him off. Leave him wanting more. It's more fun that way.
go to bed. I'll be seeing you soon enough.
How soon?
Goodnight, Riggs.
I toss my phone onto the coffee table before he can say anything else. It lands with a clatter next to the cold fries and flat soda. On screen, the infomercial has given way to some old black and white movie I don't recognize. A woman in a 1940’s dress is crying while a man in a fedora looks on stoically.
I move to my closet—really just an alcove with a tension rod and a curtain pulled across it—and push the fabric aside. Most of my clothes are practical, dark, forgettable. Jeans, t-shirts, hoodies. The kind of stuff you can blend in wearing.
But just right there on a gleaming silver hanger is red and black fabric.
I reach for it, the material cool and slick beneath my fingers. The St. James University cheerleading uniform. My old skin. I pull it out, holding it up in the dim light. The skirt with its perfect pleats, the fitted top with the university emblem emblazoned across the chest. It still looks brand new, even though I haven't worn this uniform in over a year.
Not since that night.
Tomorrow feels like a good time for former St. James University all-state cheerleading captain Maren Marino to make an appearance.
Chapter 12
Riggs
I'm running on fumes and spite, and Coach can fucking smell it.
“Rhodes! You with us or taking a goddamn vacation in your head?”
I snap my eyes up from where I've been staring blankly at my skate laces for the past five minutes. The locker room is a chaos of pre-game rituals—Dawson taping his stick for the fifteenth time, Martinez blasting his shitty music through earbuds, the freshmen looking like they might puke from nerves.
“I'm here,” I grunt, straightening up on the bench.
Coach narrows his eyes. “Could've fooled me. St. Andrews defense isn't going to roll over because you're tired. Get your head out of your ass.”
He's right, but I'm not about to admit it. I've been off all day, dragging through morning practice, zoning out during team meetings, nearly falling asleep in my protein shake at lunch. All because I couldn't stop reading those texts from Maren over and over like some lovesick teenager.
“Earth to Captain Dipshit,” Keller says, snapping his fingers in front of my face. “You good, man? You've been weird as fuck all day.”
“I'm fine,” I mutter, shoving his hand away. “Just focused.”
Keller snorts. “Yeah, right. Focused on what? Because it sure as hell isn't hockey.”
I give him my best death glare, the one that usually sends freshmen scurrying. Keller just laughs, immune after three years as my linemate.
“Seriously, what's up with you? You've been checking your phone every two minutes like you're waiting for a kidney donor to call.”
“Nothing's up,” I say, but even I can hear the defensive edge in my voice. “I just didn't sleep great.”
“Uh-huh.” Keller's not buying it, but Coach is back at the whiteboard, so he drops it. For now.
I finish lacing up my skates, the familiar routine settling my nerves a bit. Fifteen minutes til game time. The arena's already filling up. I can hear the low rumble of the crowd through the walls, the occasional cheer when the pep band strikes up.
