Chapter 43
Forty-Three
Tiff
“See you next week, Queen Rox,” I say. “And get ready because we’re due for a mani-pedi day.”
Her eyes light up. “Can I get pink sparkles this time?”
“Absolutely.”
I ruffle Roxie’s hair, press a kiss to Stefan’s cheek, then promise Queen Rox that I’ll root for everyone on the ice below us, but most especially Brit, who’s manning the goal for the Gold.
Then I’m slipping out of the box and walking out onto the concourse.
I decide to take the elevator down to the ground floor and cut under the arena, instead of walking all the way around to the other side of the huge space, dodging the crowd as I go. Straight lines rather than curved, quiet rather than loud, and all that.
I step onto the car, swipe the keycard Jean-Mi had made for me, hit the button for the proper floor, then make my way down to the lowest level of the arena, turning in the direction I walked earlier with Roxie, for the path that Jean-Michel showed me a week ago as he escorted me to this same elevator.
It’s quiet rather than busy now, everyone focused on the game that’s about to take place on the ice beyond, and I’m hurrying through the corridors, ready to do the same.
Warm-up is almost over.
After, the Zamboni will be run, cleaning the ice while the players make their last minute preparations for the matchup. Then everyone will file back out, the National Anthem will be sung, and the puck will drop.
I want to be in my man’s arms before any of that happens.
Because I haven’t seen Jean-Mi since he brushed his lips over my forehead this morning and headed out to the office.
Tomorrow, we’re going to Oak Ridge and I’m excited to see more of the winemaking process. Rory said she’d show me around the office and there might be some bottling happening.
Tonight, though, is hockey.
Bottles and blades.
Quite a life.
Of course, there are also meetings and emails and private jets and trips to Paris.
Quite a life indeed.
I hear the rumble of the crowd overhead and pick up my pace, thumbing out a message to Jean-Mi as I walk.
I’m distracted.
Unfocused.
And that’s why I miss it.
The door that’s cracked open.
The woman in the shadows.
One second, I’m hurrying forward, my eyes on my phone.
The next, I’m being yanked to a stop, nails biting into my arm.
I open my mouth to scream, but I don’t get further than inhaling a large rush of air before something clamps over my mouth and a sickly sweet scent inundates my sense of smell.
I scrabble at the hand over my mouth and nose, trying to breathe clean air.
But I’m not successful in freeing myself.
And then it’s too late?—
Black is intruding on the edges of my vision. My knees are growing weak.
I can’t break the seal. My air isn’t fresh—it’s clogged with that cloying scent. And all the while my vision narrows to a smaller and smaller point.
Until I can’t see the lights overhead, the black mats below, the boring gray walls lined with pictures of past Eagles’ captains.
Until I see nothing but darkness.
My hands go limp, drop to my sides.
My knees give way.
And the black takes over.
My head is pounding, so fiercely that I feel like I’m going to be sick.
Or maybe that’s from whatever I inhaled on the towel that had been pressed to my mouth before I went under.
Either way, my stomach churns.
I breathe slowly—in through my nose and back out through my nose.
My mouth isn’t an option.
Because it’s taped shut.
Panic slices and the nausea gets worse.
I gag.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a cold female voice says.
My eyes fly open, sending that pain ricocheting through my head again, and as I search for the owner of the voice, my stomach sinks, worry crawling through my insides…
Because it’s familiar.
Because it’s Angela .
A man stands behind her, half-hidden in the shadows.
“That tape,” she drawls, yanking my focus back to her, “will make vomiting an unpleasant experience, I promise you.”
I pause, focusing on my breath, swallowing down the bile, ignoring the burn it creates in the back of my throat. In through my nose. Out through my…nose. In. Out. In. Out. My stomach settles, and I use my breathing time to study the space.
The room is mostly empty—a grouping of chairs, a table shoved against one wall. Boring white paint, plain gray carpet, fluorescent lights overhead.
I think I’m still in the arena.
Which is a good thing for me.
There are literally thousands of people here. Someone will have to be by soon. I just need to stay calm and think and?—
The man steps out of the shadows.
And I realize that panicking is inevitable.
Because he has a gun…
And it’s pointed right at me.