Conrad (The Minnesota Kingstons #2)

Chapter 9

NINE

He needed to get his head in the game.

Conrad skated into the bench, breathing hard, undid his chin strap, and refrained from throwing anything—so see , he didn’t have to unravel. But—“C’mon, guys. That’s the second power play they scored on!” He stared down at his line, the guys breathing hard as the second line went in and tried to recover.

The board had them two goals down at the end of the first period, and the Blue Ox fans roared in frustration, pounded the plexiglass, shouting insults and name-calling.

Yeah, he got that. They’d played like first graders, missing passes, surrendering the puck, and landing sloppy penalties against the Omaha Outlaws. He blamed himself.

Conrad leaned on his stick, watching as Justin snatched up the puck at the blue line from an Outlaw. Admittedly, the kid had skill. And speed as he weaved through the neutral zone, a hot knife through butter. He picked up speed at the opposing blue line, a defender on his heels. His stick handling had improved too, so maybe Conrad’s time-out hadn’t been a terrible move for the team.

Except—Justin wound up and fired a blistering slap shot—it went wide of the left post. The crowd roared. One of the Outlaws’ defenders grabbed the puck behind the net.

A few players launched to their feet, shouting, banging on the glass as the line fought off the attack of the Outlaws. The game exploded, the players a blur on the ice.

Conrad lost track of the puck, his jaw tight. He’d missed five shots on goal, had been outgunned down the ice twice, missed a couple crucial back-checks, and he ached a little from an into-the-boards shot that’d sent fire into his hip.

Which only turned his thoughts toward Penny and last night’s craziness and the early-morning attack by her bodyguards—maybe she didn’t need him to protect her after all—and then the solemn drive back to Minneapolis to her burning house.

Not the house, but the garage, and it had been burned to cinders. The fire chief at the scene, still mopping up when they arrived, had suggested an electrical fault—bad, ancient wiring igniting a stack of paint supplies.

Yeah, right .

Conrad had taken Penelope’s hand, wanting to tell her that everything would be just fine, that they’d figure this out, but her father showed up with his team to take her home, and with the night waning, Conrad went home to get some shut-eye before the game.

Right.

Her words circled his head, round and round. “He’s my boyfriend!”

Really?

The crowd roared, bringing him back as the puck shot loose at center ice. Justin picked it up, breaking free, barreling toward the Outlaws’ goal. Conrad took to his feet, banged on the plexiglass. “C’mon!”

Justin shot across the blue line, mano a mano against the goalie, faked left— good move, kid —jerked right, and the goalie bit.

Open net, right upper corner— shoot!

Justin let it fly, a scorcher, toward the net.

It ricocheted off the post in a heart-wrenching clang.

No score.

The first-period buzzer sounded, razing through the audience, and the line skated in. Conrad grabbed his blade guards, put them on, and headed back to the locker room.

The guys walked in, a couple of them pulling off torn jerseys, one walking to the equipment manager to tighten his blade.

Conrad sank down on the bench.

Coach Jace came in, his expression dark. He stood, his arms folded over his chest, legs braced, scanning his team.

This wouldn’t be good. They were better than this.

Coach drew in a breath, clearly trying to school his voice. It came out low and almost lethal. “What’s going on out there? Did you guys forget how to play hockey? Or maybe you think this is some pickup pond-hockey game?”

Oh.

A helmet had landed on the ground—the emotional outburst of one of their rookies. Coach picked it up, set it on the bench. Sighed.

“This is a disgrace. It’s not just about losing the puck, it’s about losing our pride.”

Conrad might prefer shouting from Jace, but Jace had never been that kind of coach. Now he walked the length of the locker room.

“We need to take control back. No more sloppy passes or half-hearted checks. They are in our house. Let’s not let them forget that. Get aggressive, get smart, and let’s show them who owns this ice.”

He looked at Conrad then, his gaze dark. “If you’re not ready to step up, you’ll find yourself watching from the bench.”

What? Except, maybe.

“Now get out there and fight like your season depends on it—because . . . it does.”

Again a look at Conrad. His jaw tightened. Got it.

Jace disappeared into the coaches’ office with the others, and Conrad got up, grabbed a water bottle, hydrated, and then grabbed his towel and wiped his face.

He followed Justin out onto the ice—but right before they hit the ice, he grabbed him. “Hey.”

Justin rounded. “What?”

“You’re playing with your gut out there. You gotta slow down, think?—”

“Step back, Conrad. I don’t need a lecture. I’m here because I don’t freeze up, thinking about ten different things. I’m fast, I’m sharp, and I’m not playing chess on the ice. Try trusting me?—”

“I do trust you?—”

“You say that, but every time I get the puck, I can feel you waiting for me to screw up. You overthink everything. Let me play the game.”

“I only want you to think a step ahead.”

“Or maybe you should stop thinking and just play.” He pushed away from Conrad.

A couple players bumped past him, out to the bench. A Zamboni rumbled on the ice, finishing its pass. Conrad stood, stretching, trying not to let Justin get under his skin.

“You overthink everything.”

Whatever.

Okay, maybe, because his thoughts rounded back to Penelope and the conversation with the arson investigator who’d asked her who might want to hurt her.

She’d shrugged and Conrad had wanted to jump in with the fact that someone had—maybe—forced them off the road. And maybe the investigator should take a closer look at this crime, and Edward Hudson’s arson case.

And it all circled back to his words to Penelope over a warm cookie— “You, Penelope Pepper, are the connection.”

It still didn’t sit right inside him, and shoot, now he wished he’d invited her to the game just so he could keep an eye on her?—

“He’s my boyfriend.” Maybe he wanted that too, more than he could admit. Because he couldn’t hear that without sinking back into the memory of kissing her.

She’d tasted like peanut butter and saltines and hung onto him, kissing him back like she’d meant it, like she wasn’t going to walk away this time.

So yeah, maybe he was her boyfriend.

There was banging behind him on the glass, and he thought he heard his name. Fans —they went a little crazy during the period breaks—but he turned to wave and?—

Penelope. She stood in the seats above him, waving, wearing—wait, his jersey . She even turned and pointed at his name on the back. King Con?—

What?

“Is that Penelope Pepper?” said Kalen Boomer. “She’s wearing your number.”

And she looked good doing it too, her dark hair tumbling out of a pom-pom hat, her golden-brown eyes shining. She seemed recovered from the trauma of the past twenty-four hours, but then again, she always seemed to be able to show up with a smile.

He walked toward her, climbed up on the bench, holding onto the plexi. “Hey.”

She leaned over, standing on her seat. “Thanks for the ticket! Do you like my jersey?”

Ticket? Maybe he’d misheard her. But, “Yeah—it’s great.” He gave a thumbs-up, and the crowd roared. She looked up, grinned, and he followed her gaze.

They were on the jumbotron for the world, or at least twenty-thousand arena fans, to see.

She waved and then, as he watched, she blew him a kiss.

What?

He turned back to her, and she winked, then climbed down and banged on the glass. “Go get ’em, King Con!”

Huh. He banged back and then climbed down to where his team had congregated. Jace came out, said a few words, and Conrad let them galvanize him.

Stop overthinking . Penny was here, safe, and this game was his.

He hit the ice on fire. Won the face-off.

It clicked. His passes sharpened, he connected with his wingers, and he moved the puck down the ice. A shot banged off the pipes, but he picked it up, looking for gaps.

Another shot, and an Outlaw nabbed it up.

Conrad beat him down the ice, checked him, and the puck went loose.

Kalen picked it up and slapped it back to Conrad at the center line. He brought it down, the crowd a hum around him.

He shot it off to a wing, then skated behind the net to grab a rebound.

Another missed shot, but he caught it, brought it around?—

Tucked it into the goal.

The siren sounded, and the team rushed him, caught him up.

Bam.

They switched lines, and Justin won the face-off. He might have listened to Conrad after all, because he seemed less reckless, passing off the puck, working it toward the goal.

Shots, the play relentless, the rebounds fast, a scrum of players fighting—the crowd hit their feet, fans shaking the glass.

Justin shot?—

Siren. The red light flashed, and Conrad pumped his stick in the air.

He caught a glimpse of Penny as they headed back into the locker room after the second period. She waved, grinning.

Yeah, he had this.

They came out just as hot in the third period, the velocity of the game brutal. They changed lines four times before they landed a power play, the Outlaws attempting a poke check. Instead, the stick came up high and caught Kalen in the face mask.

And that was it. A minute left, and the puck rebounded off the boards right to King Con at the blue line. He nabbed it, spotted the goalie out of his zone, beyond the post?—

Fired.

The puck sliced through the air, power and precision, a classic King Con shot, and slipped past the goalie’s outstretched glove, stick side, into the net. The goal horn blared as the red light flashed, almost surreal, just barely drowned out by the roar of the crowd.

His team descended, flattened him on the ice, the buzzer sounding. Hands pulled him up, and he lifted his stick to the crowd, the fans, and even caught eyes with Justin, who lifted his fist.

And that’s how it was done.

He skated in, more slaps on his pads, and even Jace congratulated him.

He finally glanced up to Penny’s seat.

Empty. He frowned. Maybe he’d missed her in the chaos.

He’d see her afterward—would text her when he got back to the locker room.

Of course he got delayed by reporters already milling in the designated area. He gave an interview, something short about teamwork and keeping your mind focused on the win—Felicity ran them through a PR course every preseason.

Then he stripped off his pads, his skates, his breezers, and found his phone.

Conrad

Lost you in the crowd. Post-game cookie?

He even added an emoji. Oh brother . But why not?

She was, after all, his girlfriend .

He showered, checked his phone—no answer—then returned to the bullpen for more conversation and the after-game press conference. Felicity met him outside the room, wearing her Blue Ox gear. “Good game, Con.”

“Thanks.” He glanced inside the press room. Spotted Ava shooting questions at Justin, grinning, so maybe that was still on.

“You’re up next,” she said. “And great job with the jumbotron shot with Penelope. I wasn’t sure you’d be up for it, but I’m glad you said yes—never hurts to get some positive PR from the ladies. You’re trending.”

He frowned at her. “What?”

“Did you like the jersey? I left it at will call for her, along with the ticket. I wasn’t sure she’d wear it, but clearly she’s all in too, just like her manager said. So good job, Con. Nice to see you on board for once.”

He just blinked at her. “I don’t?—”

“Okay, Justin is done. You’re up. Remember—play nice.” She all but pushed him into the room.

But all he could hear was She’s all in too . . .

All in for what?

He sat at the desk, the Blue Ox logo behind him, and fielded questions.

“Can you walk us through the moment you scored the game-winning goal during the power play? What was going through your mind as you saw the opening?”

“As we set up for the power play, I knew we had a great opportunity to take the lead. My teammates did an excellent job of moving the puck around and drawing their players out of position. It’s all about precision in those few seconds. But scoring goals like that, especially in a tight game, is what you play for. You have to trust your instincts and your teammates. We’ve been building up to these moments all season, and to see it pay off feels incredible. It reaffirms that the hard work and the focus on our power-play strategy are making the difference.”

He glanced at Felicity, and she gave him a thumbs-up.

Ava stepped up, identified herself. “You seemed to really step up as a leader tonight, especially after the incident with the rookie earlier. How do you balance your roles as a mentor and a key player on the ice?”

He wondered what Justin might have told her. “As a veteran, I aim to lead by example—staying calm under pressure and making smart plays. I support the rookies by sharing insights and encouraging them, but I also focus on my game to ensure I contribute effectively. Balancing these roles comes down to communication and experience.”

He didn’t let her respond, just called on another reporter. “There was a noticeable increase in physical play tonight. How did this affect your game plan, and how do you adjust to a more physical game without crossing the line?”

Maybe he’d crossed a line with Penny. It didn’t feel like it, but . . .

He found an answer. “The physicality definitely ramped up, which required us to be more focused and resilient. We adjusted by emphasizing solid positioning and smart puck play to avoid penalties while still responding strongly. It’s about maintaining our intensity without compromising our discipline. One more.”

Ian Fletcher had bounced up, and Felicity pointed to him.

Great.

Ian grinned at him. “During the game, we noticed Penelope Pepper in the stands wearing your jersey and really getting into the spirit of the game. How does having her support in the crowd impact your performance on the ice?”

He looked at Ian, words leaving him. Swallowed. Glanced at Felicity, who grinned at him, nodding.

What?

“Um. It’s always great to have support from the stands. It definitely adds to the motivation to perform well. I appreciate everyone who comes out to cheer us on.”

Ian gave him a look. “C’mon, Conrad. You can do better—your social media has been flooded with pictures of you and Penelope. Are you two dating? What’s going on?”

He stood up, his heart banging. What—what? His social media? He braced his hand on the table. “Thanks, everyone. That’s all for today.” He headed toward the door, the world suddenly narrowing at the edges.

Now? Why now? But his gut roiled and he barely made it to the door.

Felicity followed him out. “That was brilliant. Keep them wondering—oh, your Instagram is going to explode!”

He braced his arm on the wall, a slight sweat breaking down his back.

She had caught up to him. “Are you meeting her after the game? Take a video—something candid, as if it might just be for yourself. You can send it to me—I’ll put it up and tag Penelope, and her manager can handle it from there.” She held up her fist for him to bump, and he stared at her.

“What?” She lowered the fist. “Okay, no video. I just thought?—”

“What are you talking about?”

She recoiled. Glanced past him, then frowned and shot her voice low. “I’m talking about you and Penelope Pepper. And your agreement to . . . you know.” She whispered the last words.

“No, I don’t know. Our agreement—wait.” He frowned. “Is this about my coaching EmPowerPlay? I thought that was Coach Jace’s idea, not Penny’s?—”

“Cute. You’re calling her Penny. I like it. I’ll use that?—”

“For what?” He didn’t mean to roar, but—“What are you talking about?”

“Your fake relationship. Sheesh.” She had lifted her hand to get him to lower his voice. “What did you think I was talking about?”

He stared at her, trying to sort the words through his head. “Fake . . . what?”

She stepped up to him, her voice even lower. “You know—you pretend to date her and she pretends to date you, and you use each other’s fame to grow your followers?”

Even with the full sentence, he didn’t grasp it.

Not for a full five seconds. Then, “It’s fake ?”

Oh . . . oh no. Because her mouth opened, and he winced, and now his heart really thundered inside him, the room nearly spinning?—

“Conrad—I thought . . . oh no. I thought you knew. I mean—yes, I was supposed to ask you, but you didn’t go to the last game, and I haven’t been to practice and . . . Conrad?”

He pushed past her, already wearing his jacket, his keys in his pocket, and ignored her as she called out his name.

Then he thundered out into the night, to the stars and the chill and the open air and the truth.

Penelope had been playing her own spectacular game. And clearly was every bit the pro.

Talk about playing like a first grader. What. an. idiot .

And then, because he didn’t know what else to do and it was better than throwing his brand-new phone, he pulled it out, opened his imported contact list, and deftly blocked Penelope Pepper from his life.

* * *

She should have stayed at the game.

Penny turned off the post-game radio show and sat in the silence of the parking lot at Theodore Wirth Park, the looming beach house quiet and cold under the stars. Snow blanketed the playground, and the ice of the frozen lake spread out ahead of her, dark yet glistening under the moonlight.

She shivered. Oh, she should have waited for Conrad. The memory of his embrace as she’d stared at her charred garage swept through her, settled. It was probably what had pushed her to go to the game today when she’d gotten his direct message through her Instagram account. She might have ignored it—it’d felt weird that he hadn’t texted her—but then again, he hadn’t found his phone after the accident, so maybe he didn’t have a new one yet.

Her father had secured a new phone for her, her data transferred, her phone number intact, and all of her contacts imported. And of course, her GPS locator app installed.

The locator also worked on the car he’d loaned her, a super inconspicuous Audi A8, so there was that.

She should probably thank him instead of feeling stalked.

Instead, she’d let herself settle on the memory of Conrad trying to protect her at the cabin. It only added to the sense that . . . this might be real. He’d certainly been excited to see her at the game, grinning at her like it might just be him and her, not a show for the entire world.

And then he’d gone out and scored a goal.

Her phone buzzed, and she lifted it. Not Conrad, of course.

Holden Walsh.

Holden

Sorry I’m late. You there?

She texted back.

Penelope

Yes. Waiting.

If it hadn’t been for the period break in the game, she might not have gotten his initial text at all. Frankly, she hadn’t heard from the man in over a month, and she’d feared he’d gone the way of Sarah Livingston or Anton Beckett or . . . Edward.

She was turning up the heat when her phone rang.

Again, not Conrad.

“Harper. ’Sup?”

“Was that you on the jumbotron? Good night, girl—are you and Con a thing now?”

Right. “You saw that?”

“We’re at Jack’s parents’ house, and yes, we were watching the game. So, the fake dating”—she’d lowered her voice—“is working?”

“I’m not so sure it’s fake,” Penelope said. “Or maybe it used to be and isn’t anymore. I don’t know.”

“I called it. Bam. From the moment he introduced himself at the wedding, I saw that coming. You two are perfect for each other.”

“What? How?”

“Conrad’s always been the guy you can depend on. The one who shows up, who gets it done. And you, Pen, need a guy who watches your back, makes you feel safe. Case in point—him carrying you up the stairs at Boo’s wedding.”

“I could have walked. It was a little overkill.”

“Or exactly what you needed. Of course you could have walked. But there’s no sin in letting a guy try to protect you. It’s how they’re built. Or at least, it’s how Conrad is built.”

Penelope didn’t have any trouble remembering his arms around her, at the wedding, at the gala, at the cabin. “He is . . . strong.”

Harper laughed. “By the way, I saw you in his jersey. That’s a pretty big sign of commitment. When did you get that?”

“Today. He DMed me on Instagram and said to get a ticket at will call. The jersey was with it.”

“Cute. Except why did he DM you?”

“Long story. The short is that we lost our phones last night in a car accident.”

A beat. “You okay?”

“Yes. He found a cabin, and we did a little B & E, and my security located us a couple hours later.”

“What happened?”

She paused. “I don’t want to tell you.”

“Why?” The word came out soft, low, with some reproach, as if Harper knew.

“Because Conrad thinks we were forced off the road. I don’t know—it was slippery, and it was a tiny two-lane road . . . Anyway, it’s all good. Or it was until they told me my garage was on fire.”

Another beat. “ Fire? ”

“My garage burned down last night. They think it was an electrical short?—”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. Pen. What is going on?”

“I don’t know. But I’m about to find out. I’m sitting at Theodore Wirth Park, waiting for Holden Walsh.”

Silence.

Then, “With Conrad, right?”

“No, I had to leave during the game?—”

“Are you out of your everlovin’ mind? What—okay.” And now the voice on the other end turned muffled. “We’re on our way.”

“What? No. Harp. I’m fine.” Except, yes, here she was, sitting in an abandoned, snowy parking lot too late at night, waiting for Sarah’s ex-boyfriend and the one man linking them all together—Edward, Beckett, Kyle, and Sarah—to show up.

Headlights scraped by on the road behind her, then disappeared into the night.

Maybe this wasn’t just a bad idea but an epically bad idea.

“You’re right—okay, I’m outta here.”

“Good. Call me when you get home.”

Yes, she should have waited for Conrad. She picked up her phone, and on the off chance that he might have already gotten a new one, she texted him.

Penelope

Sorry I had to leave. Got a lead on Walsh. I’ll fill you in after you get back.

She thought for a moment and then added?—

Penelope

XO

Okay, yes, that felt right too.

Because maybe, possibly, she could fall hard for Conrad Kingston.

She was putting her car into drive when more lights flashed in her rearview mirror.

Walsh. Finally.

Keeping her car running, she got out, letting the dome light bathe her, and lifted her arm. She’d only met Walsh once, although she’d recognize him anywhere, given the images on her crime wall. But maybe he wouldn’t know her.

The car—a late-model Ford Escape—stopped thirty feet away, and she closed her door, shoved her hands into her pockets, started to walk toward it.

The trees surrounding the lot creaked in the wind, and she ducked her chin into her jacket. Why couldn’t he have asked to meet at a coffee shop? Or a cookie shop?—

The Escape revved its engine and she paused . . .

It lurched forward, skidding a little on the ice, gathering speed?—

What? She stilled, then turned and took off, running hard for the edge of the parking lot, her feet sliding on patches of ice.

The engine roared behind her, but her feet found pavement and she launched forward, propelling herself into a snowbank. She scampered up, then rolled over the edge, down the backside, found her knees . . .

And kept running.

The Escape plowed into the snowbank in an explosion of ice and grime and dirt. Lodged there, the engine burning.

She kept running, the beach house ahead of her. It sat mostly encased in snow, but a trail ran down to the lake from the house, which was clearly used as a warming hut.

She scampered up the steps of the porch, tried the door— locked . Glancing behind her, she spotted a figure getting out of the car. No—no ? —

Running to the far edge of the porch, she leaped off it, landed in the snowy darkness, and kept running.

And running.

The park flattened out near the playground, but she edged around it, staying in the shadows, thankful now for the dark-blue Blue Ox jersey she wore over her white parka. She hit the far edge of the park, with the towering oaks and maples, and zigzagged through them, finally secreting herself behind one.

Her breaths puffed out hard as she flattened herself against the tree, her heart in her throat.

Maybe she’d imagined it, but . . .

No. She’d just nearly been pancaked. Peeking around the tree, she spotted the headlights of the Escape, still lodged in the snowbank.

And her car, still running.

But she could hardly go back . . .

Or could she? Because she’d taken her key fob with her, so that probably meant the car had locked behind her.

If she could sneak up, she could unlock it, dive in, and lock it behind her.

It might be preferable to freezing to death.

At the very least, she needed her phone.

She crouched, then peeked out from behind the tree. No movement, and in the distance, the lights on the snowbank suggested he might still be stuck.

This could work.

Edging out from behind the tree, she threaded her way back to the edge of the forest and then moved out to the parking lot, creeping behind the snowbanks as she sneaked back toward the cars. Light puddled in places, but she hugged the darkness, now ruing her jersey against the white snow.

From here, she made out the driver of the assailant car pushing at the front end, the front wheels off the ground. Shouting and cursing lifted into the night.

Yeah, well —seemed like what he got for trying to run her over.

She waited until he got in front of the car again, ducked down, and then she scampered, low, over to the edge of the lot, nearly crawling her way back to her car. The other car sat thirty feet away, wedged in.

But her father’s Audi continued to rumble, unfazed.

Pulling out her fob, she nearly pushed it—then paused.

It would beep. As soon as she pushed the button to unlock it, her assailant would hear.

Which meant she had to be fast.

She crept up to the car, all the way to the passenger side, crouched at the door, and took a breath.

Here went nothing.

She pushed the button and the car alerted, but she wrenched the door open, flung herself inside.

Pushed the lock button.

Of course she missed and hit the panic button—which maybe she should have thought about before—but they were in a secluded lot, so of course all it did was alert her attacker to her sudden return.

She lunged for the driver’s-side door lock. Smacked it, climbed into her seat, and slammed her foot on the brake to put the car into reverse.

Her window shattered. She screamed and floored it.

She jerked back so fast that it threw her forward against the steering wheel, but she hung on, then turned the car. It screeched.

“Penelope!”

She jerked at the voice, turned, and saw the man standing in the shadows.

Holden Walsh?

This man wore all black, including his stocking cap, and she couldn’t make him out in the darkness.

But she wasn’t sticking around. Not when he held a tire iron in his hand. So—she jammed the gear into drive and again mashed the gas.

She skidded out of the lot onto Glenwood, her heart hard in her chest, her breaths hot, and kept the accelerator to the mat.

C’mon, police, pick me up!

But no cops as she followed Theodore Wirth Parkway, turned south, and didn’t slow. No headlights in her rearview mirror either.

She crossed under 394, and her brain clicked in as the road changed to Cedar Lake Parkway. Her heart was leading the way to Conrad’s house. The dark, mid-century-modern million-dollar home with security, and the man inside who could wrap his muscled, hockey arms around her, help her breathe again, and maybe . . . after a while . . . sort this out.

Pulling into his driveway, she turned off her car, her face frozen, aware now that glass littered her lap, her jacket, her hat.

Her body shook as she climbed out.

Light burned in the small windows along the front edge of the house, and around the back that faced the lake, more glow.

He was home. Maybe he’d gotten her text.

Her knees nearly buckled as she walked up the steps to his elevated front door. She pushed the bell, heard it ring deep and long in the house.

She stood, brushed off her jacket, and glass shuttered off her.

Nothing.

She pressed the bell again. Waited.

He was home, right?

The door opened. Conrad stood in the entry, changed into faded jeans, a flannel shirt, wool socks, looking very northland Viking with a little lumberjack thrown in.

She couldn’t stop herself. She barreled inside and clung to him, her arms clasped around him. “Oh good, you’re here. You’re here.”

He didn’t return the gesture. His body seemed to shudder, then stiffen.

She let him go. Stepped back. “You okay?”

“Fine.” He wore a frown, his face dark, his jaw tight.

What? She glanced outside. “Can you shut the door?”

His mouth tightened. He shut it.

What was wrong with him? Maybe, “I’m sorry I left the game.”

He shrugged. “No big deal.”

No big. deal?

“What are you doing here, Penelope?”

No Penny . The chill in his tone made her step back. “I didn’t know where to go. I was . . . I was scared, okay? And I thought—” She sighed. “Clearly this was a bad idea.”

Turning, she waited—hoping he’d stop her.

Instead he opened the door.

Opened. the door.

“Clearly it was,” he said.

She looked up at him and couldn’t stop tears, the way her throat thickened, and she sucked in a breath. “I don’t know what I did, but . . .” Then she shook her head. “Never mind.”

“Okay then.” He nodded and then reached to flick on the outside light.

She stepped outside, her legs again rubbery. What had she been thinking? Of course this was . . . too much.

She’d read too much into the jersey thing, the tickets, the jumbotron.

The kiss.

“What’s on your jacket?”

She was nearly down the stairs and now turned. He stood in the doorway, arms folded akimbo, a barrier to his heart.

“Glass.”

He frowned.

She swallowed. Why not? “I got a text from Holden Walsh. He asked me to meet him.”

That bombshell barely flickered on his face. Or in his voice when he said, quietly, “I see.”

That was it?

After a moment. “And did you?”

“No—yes—I don’t think so. No. It wasn’t Holden.” Her voice started to shake again.

His eyes narrowed.

“He broke my driver’s-side window.”

A beat, and his voice darkened. “ Who broke it?”

“The man who wasn’t Holden?—”

She didn’t get any further. He stepped outside, grabbed her arm, and pulled her back up the steps.

“Inside. And then you need to stop lying to me and tell me what is really going on.”