9. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Beckett

The pub's dimly lit, the low murmur of conversation and the clink of glasses filling the air. It's been a while since I've been out like this, just grabbing drinks with a friend. But Rinne insisted, said I needed to get out of my apartment and socialize like a normal human being.

He's not wrong. I've been holed up in my place since I moved to Rosewood Bay a few weeks ago. I just wanted to take the time to enjoy the peace and focus on coaching. The only person I bother talking to on occasion is my brother.

"So, how're you finding it? Coaching the team?" Rinne asks, taking a sip of his beer, his eyes fixed on me.

I lean back in my chair, considering the question. "It's different. Good different, mostly. The guys are talented, driven. A handful sometimes."

Rinne chuckles, nodding. "Things have changed since I was drafted. Seems like more and more kids wanna go to college first. At least more than there used to be. Like Novotny. Kid's a fucking wall in the net. But hell . . . you see his grades?"

I tense at the mention of Viktor, images of him on his knees, my cock in his mouth, flashing through my mind. I take a long pull of my beer, trying to drown the memories. "No. They bad?"

"Quite the opposite. The annoying shit's like a genius. Been on the Dean's list every semester. Chemical and Molecular Engineering major, no less."

"Fuck." I hate how surprised I am to hear that, like because of his behavior, I figured he wasn't smart. "Still, Novotny needs to get his behavior in check."

"Those four are something else. Just count your blessings Petrov isn't here anymore. And that Reed's calmed down."

I quirk a brow, resting my elbows on the table as I lean forward. "They're that bad? I mean, Nieminen told me to steer clear of their shit."

Rinne whistles. "They've all got lawyers on speed dial, and their families have deeper pockets than anyone I know, including team owners. But Reed's dating Killian Blackwell so a lot of the shit with the Serpents seems to have cooled off."

Killian Blackwell was one of the top picks in the draft a few years ago. Phenomenal player.

After finishing off my beer, I pick at the rest of my fries and turn the conversation away from work. "Remember that game against the Bruins in your third year? You made that ridiculous glove save in overtime. Thought the crowd was going to riot."

Rinne laughs, his eyes lighting up. "Oh, man. I thought Lucic was going to murder me. The look on his face . . ."

"You were with Tampa Bay, right? Before the injury?" Rinne asks, his tone cautious.

I grimace and stare out the window, focusing on a minivan across the street as the memory of that moment, the searing pain as my psoas muscle tore, flashes through my mind. "Yeah. One season. Made it to round three of the playoffs before I tore my psoas. Ended my career just like that."

"Shit, man. That's rough," Rinne says, genuine sympathy in his eyes. "Psoas injuries are no joke. Had a teammate go through that once. Took him months to recover."

I nod, taking another sip of my beer. "Yeah, the surgery and rehab were a bitch. Thought I was going to lose my mind being cooped up like that. But it is what it is. Took me a while to come to terms with it. Got pretty low for a bit, took a job I hated just to pay the bills. But I'm glad to be back in hockey, even if it's not the way I planned."

He shakes his head, then flings a fry at me. "Your rookie ass snowed me one game."

"Only because your dumbass kept whacking me in the back of the calves." I laugh, remembering that game. Man, I really miss playing.

"Gotta defend my crease, numbnuts."

We trade stories back and forth, reminiscing about our playing days. It's nice having someone who understands, who's been through the same things. Rinne's easy to talk to, his laid-back demeanor putting me at ease.

"All right, gotta ask . . . What's your thing?"

His brows furrow, then lift as he chuckles. "You mean my superstition? Nothing too crazy. I'd wear the same socks—they had bacon designs on them—every game. But wouldn't wash them if we were on a winning streak."

"You fucking serious?" I shake my head, laughing so hard I snort. "Where'd you keep those nasty things between games?"

"In a plastic baggy. Goalies, man. We're a different breed." Rinne leans back and crosses his arms in front of his chest. "So, asshole. What was yours?"

"Used to eat a box of Lucky Charms but would pick out all the cereal and just eat the marshmallows."

Rinne laughs, then regales me with tales of his latest fishing trips. He invites me to join him sometime, says he knows a great spot not too far from here.

"Might just take you up on that," I say, surprised to find that I actually mean it.

It's been a long time since I had a friend, someone to just shoot the shit with. It feels good, normal in a way that my life hasn't been in a long time.

We finish our food and settle the bill, Rinne insisting on paying. "My treat, Beckett. Consider it a welcome to Rosewood Bay gift."

I shake my head but smile. "All right, but next time it's on me."

"Deal."

Rinne walks to his car, and I head to my R1. The sleek lines of the motorcycle gleam under the streetlights, and I feel a thrill of anticipation as I swing my leg over the seat. After putting on my helmet, I turn the key and the familiar roar of the engine comes to life beneath me.

This, right here, is my freedom. The open road, the vibrations of the bike thrumming through my body. It's the only thing that clears my head, makes me feel like I can breathe again.

I take the long way home, savoring the winding roads, the cool night air. By the time I'm back in Rosewood Bay, I'm even more settled, more like myself.

Turning down the street toward my apartment, I pass a minivan that looks just like the one that was parked outside the pub. But it's a common model.

If ever the world created an ugly model of car it would have to be the minivan. They give me the ick.

After parking my bike in the lot behind the building, I head upstairs and unlock the door. The moment I flick on the light, a flash of white catches my eye as it makes its way under the couch.

She's hiding again. From me. I hate this.

Figured by now, she'd settle in. I miss my sweet girl. Miss her cuddling up to me as I read before bed.

Fucking Noah.

Raking my hands through my hair, I head to the window to pull the blinds down for the night. But as I reach for the cord, I freeze. Someone's on the roof of the building across the street. And they're staring directly at me.

Or at least I think they are.

Can't tell exactly with the mask they're wearing—a crystalline mask, decorated like a demonic nun with black, soulless eyes that seem to bore into me.

Fear lances through me, cold and sharp, when the person waves at me, each finger curling slowly.

He found me.

But the fear is quickly overtaken by a deep, burning rage. I close the blinds with a sharp yank, turn off the lights, and stride out of my apartment, slamming the door behind me.

One way or another, this ends tonight.