Page 142 of Unraveling Rain
I laugh.
This’ll either earn me unlimited brownie points with Rain or land me on the couch. But fuck it. I mean it.
“My favorite snack is Wild Cherry,” I say with a grin. “And she’s not for sale. She’s all mine.”
I wink at the camera and head for the locker room, hearing the reporter chuckling behind me.
I can’t wait to check my phone and see if I have a text from said Wild Cherry.
After showering and throwing on my suit, I finally grab my phone.
The second I read Rain’s text, a smile stretches across my face.
Rain: Holy shit, Hotshot! Did you just say I’m your favorite snack on live TV? I can’t wait to be devoured by you! Hurry home! *heart emoji* *cherry emoji*
Xander: Glad you approve. I thought it was only fair since you claimed me back at the bar in Azalea Creek. I love you!
I pocket my phone and exit the locker room.
We’re going back to the hotel tonight, and tomorrow we fly to Toronto, then Quebec.
I spot my parents and Gramps chatting with Matt and smile, excited to see them again.
“Xander.”
I hear my name and pause, scanning the hallway.
A guy is waving at me, someone I don’t recognize. I nod politely as he starts walking over.
The arena has mostly cleared out—just a few family members hanging around, waiting for Boston players.
“Xander, hi,” the guy says brightly. “So great to meet you—I’m a big fan.”
I smile, still having no idea who he is. I study his face, searching for any hint of where we might’ve met. He’s about five-eleven with a stocky build, crooked teeth, and brown hair slicked back with way too much gel. His dark blue eyes seem relaxed, but when I look at his hands, his knuckles are white. That gives me pause.
Then I notice the Boston team logo stitched on his jacket.
He catches my glance.
“That’s right. Sorry.” He chuckles and offers me his hand. I shake it. “I work for Boston, but I’m originally from North Carolina. Still follow the Red Wolves. Huge fan.”
He steps a little closer, lowering his voice. “Actually, I’d like to ask you a personal favor.”
I frown but stay quiet.
“This might sound awkward,” he says, glancing around, “but I need to speak with your girlfriend—Rain, right? Iknow her from way back. I’ve been trying to contact her with no luck.”
Every muscle in my body goes still.
My skin prickles.
My brain short-circuits at the thought—at the horrible suspicion forming in my gut.
“I’m sorry… what did you say your name was?” I ask, my voice tight.
He chuckles, like we’re old friends. “Oh—where are my manners? I’m Dennis Johnson. Director of Scouting here at Boston Hockey.”
The moment he says it, the ground tilts.
