22. Grayson

22

GRAYSON

I stared down at the meager list of names Cruz and I had gathered between us over the past few days before slamming my locker shut. My teammates were either fucking around or following their usual superstitious pregame routines, and I was pretty sure no one had noticed how on edge I was—or if they had, they probably assumed it was nerves for our upcoming game against Howell U. Our opponents were also chasing the conference title, and we both needed the W. I was the captain, and I should've been focused, but here I was, my head very much not in the game.

As I slowly and methodically pulled on my pads and gloves, I bit down on my lip, trying to compose myself. I'd never felt so fucking alone. The biggest and scariest issue was that there was some asshole stalker trying to threaten me. None of the other three people involved in this shitstorm had received targeted threats. Those other three people were…fuck knew if I could even explain it, but they seemed to have some kind of fucking camaraderie or something, while I was left on the outside. I wasn't sure what, why, or how it had changed, but Ava and Micah had been growing closer by the day, and now apparently Cruz fucking Martinez had a job at Ava's dad's auto shop. And to top it off, there were those new shy, sweet fucking smiles Micah kept slipping Cruz when he thought no one was looking. Smiles that he seemed happy to return.

I ground my teeth, my fists balling, and I forcibly restrained myself from punching my locker. I was here with my teammates. This was my dream. I got to play college hockey, something I could never have dreamed of if I'd remained in the UK, and I got to be the captain of the team. I was lucky. Whatever else happened.

I scrubbed my hand across my face, telling myself to get my shit together, and then jammed my helmet down over my head. I knew Micah would be out there photographing us, but I couldn't afford to even look his way. Just the sight of him could cause me to unravel, and my focus had to be on hockey. I could finish losing my shit later.

Joining my teammates for our usual pregame pep talk from Coach, I focused on locking down every thought in my mind, leaving only the game. A win was all that mattered.

When I hit the ice, all the white noise disappeared from my brain. There was only my stick, the puck, and my team. My opponents were faceless obstacles to evade and overcome. I breathed in and out deeply, letting the glide of my skates ground me as I moved into position, ready for the game to begin.

My focus remained until I was slammed up against the boards by Howell U's D-man, the breath knocked from my lungs. My body twisted to the side, and it was then that I caught sight of the figure standing at the edge of the crowd, shadowed by the wall.

Watching me so intently, I could feel it like a physical burn. Heavy, oppressive, threatening.

My blood turned to ice in my veins.

I only caught a glimpse before the whistle blew. Then Howell U's D-man was being dragged away and Miller was all up in my face, asking if I was okay.

I wasn't okay. The sight shook me to my fucking core.

The person had a Barracudas jersey over the top of a black hoodie, which was weird enough, but they also had a baseball cap and hood covering their head, and sunglasses over their eyes. If that wasn't enough, something was covering the lower part of their face. A bandana, maybe?

I spun on the ice, my gaze arrowing straight toward where I'd seen the person.

But they were no longer there.

It was no surprise that we lost 5-1. I'd been completely off my game ever since I'd seen—or imagined—that figure, my control fracturing and then shattering right there on the ice. Howell U used it to their advantage, pushing and pushing while my team scrambled to gather themselves and I completely lost my grip on my usual iron focus. They walked—no, skated—all over us, and at the end of the game we limped off the ice with a dark cloud hanging over our heads, ready to be chewed out by Coach.

I wanted to be alone, but I didn't want to be alone. Showering quickly, refusing to acknowledge my stinging eyes, I muttered a half-assed apology to my teammates and then left them behind. I didn't feel the same sense of danger I'd felt back at the rink, but even so, I jogged quickly across campus to the hockey house, my senses on full alert. When I was finally inside the empty house, having beaten my teammates there, I headed straight up to my bedroom and locked the door behind me.

Collapsing onto my bed, I finally let myself feel everything I'd been suppressing. Waves of emotions I was unequipped to handle crashed over me, punching the breath from my lungs. Right then, I wished more than anything that my dad wasn't the type to leave me to my own devices and trust me to handle my shit while he lived his own life. That wasn't a thought I'd ever really had before, but curled up on my bed, struggling to breathe, I needed someone to lean on.

But I didn't have anyone.

I was completely alone.