Chapter 7

Seven

SCOTTIE

Mid-October in Chicago means one thing to me: cooler temperatures are peeking over the tops of the copper-colored trees, and it's time to start saving my pennies for the electric bill come winter.

With William away, I can at least keep the apartment's heat at a bare minimum when I'm not home in order to keep it from constantly running, but with the way the bills are stacking up, his frequent anxious voicemails requiring me to put more money on his books, and the lawyer fees, a little turn of the dial on my thermostat isn't going to do much.

I glance up at the TV and tell myself to turn it off in order to save money on electric, but with the way my life is going lately, it's best to give myself at least one tiny sliver of tranquility, and thanks to my dad, watching hockey calms me more than I'd like to admit—even if I continuously hear the name Emory Olson over and over again from the commentators.

"Ugh." I grab the remote and hit the mute button to ignore the constant reminder of the asshole goalie that I picked a fight with.

I mindlessly reach up and run the pad of my finger over my lips, as if I can still feel his breath brush against them. At the exact same time, I watch in awe as he blocks a ninety-mile-an-hour puck heading straight for him. He catches it with ease and tosses it to the ref carelessly as the camera zooms in on his sweaty face. He adjusts his mask, and heat swirls in my stomach when I watch his Adam's apple bob. Emory's gaze lasers onto the rink as he gets in position. There isn't even a twinkle of life in his eye as he prepares for the rest of the game. It's like hockey is second nature for him, and it comes naturally.

My dad would probably call him a beauty , meaning he's a damn good hockey player.

But I unfortunately now know Emory outside of the net, and his broody personality could use some serious work.

In his defense, he has every right to hate me, but I ignore that little mishap like the entire thing didn't even happen.

I unmute the TV and begin to gather some of William's old coats that I'll have to replace eventually anyway. His recent voicemail replays in my head, and my stomach knots. It's hard to remember what he sounded like before he was sentenced. Now when I think of his voice, all I hear is distress, fear, and the clanking sounds of a prison in the background.

The legal fees are continuously gaining interest, and although the lawyer says he believes that my brother was wrongfully convicted, he won't petition for an appeal until I pay past dues, so my worries are stacking up right along with the bills.

Piling the coats on one another, I start to shove them into a bag and focus on the sounds of skates over ice, the roaring crowd, and the commentator's excitement as the game ends with the Devils' goalie— who must not be named —having a near shut-out for the second time this week.

My attention snags when the sounds of the game disappear and new voices hit my ear. It's the postgame broadcast, and of course, their first topic is Emory.

"The Devils are lucky to have Emory Olson on their roster this year."

"Despite his record and new allegations, he's still playing like nothing ever happened. It looks like he's trying to prove himself in the league, and I've gotta say, it's working."

"New allegations?"

"Oh no. Jerry hasn't heard."

I slowly turn to see a group of knowledgeable men in their pricey suits sitting at their table with papers in front of them and a screen showing the Devils' score in the background. They all chuckle, and the one who seems to know the tea has a look of unease on his face. My finger presses on the volume, and the screen cuts to an image of a social media post that seemingly looks fake.

"Apparently, this woman said that, last night, Emory lured her to his house and that he took advantage of her. The police were involved, but there were no specifics given."

"Well, considering he isn't sporting handcuffs, it must have been another allegation that had no real substance."

"I think he'd still play good hockey if he were in handcuffs."

Each man laughs again as I drop to the couch in my living room beside a mound of worn coats. I cover my mouth with my shaky hand. I'm not one to let a threat linger, so I grab the pile of coats along with my keys and rush out the door.

There is no way I'm letting Emory Olson think I was the one who started this rumor, because that is exactly what it looks like.

The parking lot is pretty empty when I make it to the arena. My in-desperate-need-of-an-oil-change car rattles when I turn off the ignition. Cool air swirls around me like some sort of warning. I spot Emory's car right away: an expensive Audi that's completely black. Seems fitting . After he trapped me in a private room at the Cat House the other night, I peeked out the back door and watched him leave. He zoomed off in his expensive car, and I cursed him the entire time.

My heart skips a beat every few seconds with each step in his car's direction. I've been threatened many times in my life, so I don't understand why I'm so nervous when it comes to Emory. A guy like him, surrounded by wealth and an ego bigger than the entire state, can't do much to a girl like me. It's not like he'll make friends with the scumbags of this city who already have my name in their little black book with a big ol' circle around it.

I hesitate when I reach his car. There's an ache in the center of my breastbone. I wouldn't be surprised if my heart beat right out of my chest and landed at his feet. On my tiptoes, I peek through his tinted windows to see if he happens to be inside, but I know he isn't when I hear a crunch of gravel behind me.

I spin with my hands up as a shield from an instinct buried deep in my memories. A strangled noise fills the empty space between us, and Emory's eyebrows furrow at my reaction. His confusion doesn't last long when a gruff chuckle breaks through the shock of me standing beside his car.

"Here to rob me?" he sneers, walking right past me like I don't even exist.

I let the jab go and swallow my pride. "It wasn't me." Spinning on the loose asphalt beneath my shoes, I watch Emory open his car door to throw his bag inside. My guard falls when I get a whiff of his freshly showered scent.

Wow.

Emory Olson is all man. He's an animal on the ice but resembles a Calvin Klein model off of it. His suit fits him in all the right places, hugging his biceps and thighs perfectly. He's left the front of his white button-down open, just enough to where I can see his tanned skin. My mouth runs dry.

His good looks are intimidating, especially when he looks at me with a tinge of anger.

Why do I find him even more attractive like this?

It should be worrisome that there's a small part of me that likes to irritate him.

A shaky breath clamors from my mouth when I snap back into reality.

"I didn't create that fake profile and say those things." I cross my arms over my jacket. "It wasn't me."

My voice carries at the end of my sentence as I attempt to defend myself, and I start flinging out more excuses, telling him that I was at work all night and how I didn't have time to mock up any more photos of us.

Emory's eyebrow hitches, and a single strand of his damp hair falls to his forehead. "Can you take a breath before you pass out?"

I immediately do what he says and pull a gulpful of cool air into my mouth. The moment it hits my lungs, I go in for another round of excuses. I'm panicking. The threats and worries are piling up, and all of a sudden, I'm suffocating.

"I swear, it wasn't me! I deleted the photo of us, and I let the entire thing go. I just came here to let you know that I didn't start any more rum?—"

Emory steps forward, and his hands wrap around my waist.

My back hits the side of his car, and suddenly, I forget my own name.