Page 35 of Her Name in Red
Before I can react, she's suddenly in my space again, rising on her tiptoes. Her hand finds my chest, steadying herself as she leans in. I think she's going to kiss me. I want her to kiss me with a desperation that scares the shit out of me. Instead, she tilts her head and drags her tongue slowly up my cheek, tasting the blood on my face.
Then she's gone, pulling away with a smile that's all teeth and secrets.
“Catch you later, captain,” she whispers, her lips glistening from her lip gloss.
And just like that, she turns and skips away—actually fucking skips—her skirt fluttering with each bounce, ponytail swinging like a pendulum. Maren Marino, the girl who emits danger like a radiation leak, skipping down the concrete tunnel like some twisted parody of innocence.
“Maren!” I call after her, my voice echoing off the walls. “Where the fuck are you going?”
She doesn't stop. Doesn't even slow down. Just raises one hand in a backward wave without turning around, middle finger extended in a casual fuck-you that somehow feels like an invitation.
“Maren!” I try again, louder this time. My voice bounces back at me, mocking as I watch her exit the arena.
She’s a goddamn nightmare.
Chapter 13
Riggs
Coach's office door slams behind me, the wood rattling in its frame. His voice still rings in my ears. Two-game suspension. Mandatory anger management counseling. Team probation until further notice. Three scouts in the stands tonight, and I blew it all for what? Some bullshit comment from a St. Andrews prick?
The locker room is empty now. Everyone cleared out after we lost in overtime. A game we should've won if I hadn't gotten myself tossed. Johnson gave up back-to-back goals in the third. My fault. All my fucking fault.
“Goddamn it!” I slam my fist into a locker; the metal buckles under the impact. Pain shoots up my arm, but it feels good. Clarifying. Better than the shame burning a hole in my gut.
Coach's parting words hang in the air: “I don't know what's gotten into you, Rhodes, but you need to figure your shit out. Fast. Because I'm not letting one player—captain or not—torpedo this entire team's season.”
My hair's still damp from the shower, water dripping down my neck as I yank open my locker. The familiar smell of my gear—sweat and hockey tape hits me. Reminds me of everything I just risked.
I grab my wallet, shoving it into the back pocket of my jeans, then reach for my phone. The screen lights up with notifications—a barrage of texts, missed calls, social media alerts. Apparently, my little cage match with Prescott is trending. Fucking fantastic.
My thumb hovers over the messages, not ready to deal with the questions. Not ready to explain something I don't understand myself. I scroll down, past texts from my mom.
Call me when you can, honey
Past alerts from ESPN.
St. James Captain Ejected After Violent Altercation
Past snaps from people I barely talk to anymore.
Then I see it. A text from a number I've memorized but haven’t saved in my contacts. Like keeping her name out of my phone somehow makes this thing between us less real.
Nightmare
1728 Lakewood Drive, Apt 3B. Door's unlocked. Come if you want. Or don't. I really don't give a shit.
My heart slams against my ribs like it's trying to punch its way out. She's inviting me over. To her place. Where she lives. Where there are walls and a door and privacy and?—
Fuck.
I read the message again, trying to decode the casual indifference of her words. It's such bullshit. If she didn't give a shit, she wouldn't have texted. Wouldn't have been waiting inthe tunnel. Wouldn't have fucking licked the blood off my face like some beautiful, deranged vampire.
My thumb hovers over the message. Should I respond? Play it cool like her? Tell her I'm on my way? Ask if she's alone?
I don't waste a second. Don't even respond to the text. Just grab my keys, sling my bag over my shoulder, and stride out of the locker room like it's on fire.
The night air hits me when I push through the stadium's side exit. It's late November, and the temperature's dropped while I was getting my ass handed to me by Coach. Stars prick the black sky overhead, cold and distant.
