Betray Me Once

Chapter 1

ONE

FAUST

The sound of metal screeching against metal makes every tired muscle in my body go completely fucking rigid.

I feel the icy air snake through the gap from the shower curtain, the contrast of hot water along my chest uncomfortable.

My fingers curl reflexively as I lift my chin and blink back the droplets in my eyes.

It’s new, having a curtain, walls between stalls, and right now, I’m not certain it was a good idea.

But in the dark of the locker room, where everyone else has gone home for the night after a grueling return to practice from a day off, I can’t see anything. Staff are in another wing if any are left tonight.

My pulse races and I inhale deep, the scent of fresh spring soap and the bleach from the cleaners pricking at my nostrils. One step back, my spine grazes the shower tiles. The steam from the hot water clouds the space in front of me but a shiver involuntarily courses through my body.

In the logical part of my brain, I tell myself it’s probably one of my teammates fucking around with me, but who would?

I’m not captain of the Dragons because I’m nice.

If anything, it’s the opposite that forced Coach Wynon’s hand when he put the C on my black and red jersey, a rarity for a defensive player.

Volatile but controlled. Genuine but evil.

I’ve heard it all. At twenty-one, a junior at Drayton University, a guy who was in the CHL but chose to head to college—my father will never let me live it down—and one of “the most prickly, finicky players in college hockey” (yeah, printed in Toronto’s news), Coach wanted to keep me under control.

The past two years I’ve been toeing that line of good and bad, and I think everyone is holding their breath waiting for me to tip into the wrong side.

Too many people will be thrilled about it.

I know why, logically. But it’s not within my control. It’s not an image, the things I do, the way I speak to the press when Coach lets me, my expression on the ice.

I’m not a fucking brand.

But it won’t stop the world—at least my version of it—from treating me like one.

And it rubs too many people the wrong way. And that’s why whoever it is outside my shower right now probably has really bad fucking intentions. I’m not scared, exactly, but I can’t risk an injury and I’m wet, slippery, and completely naked.

I don’t speak, though.

I blink again, clearing my eyes, the shower stream between me and the curtain, which is slightly ajar, nothing beyond it.

Half an hour ago I could’ve left, but the hot water never runs out here and being alone in the dark and the cold inside my house… well, it’s not much different than here I guess except it’s a hell of a lot warmer in the arena. And I don’t just mean the temperature.

“Castle Darling,” as everyone refers to it, is nice.

Turrets and stone and an iron gate out front, a security room no one uses anymore.

An inheritance from my semi-famous uncle who had a stroke last year.

We were never close, but he didn’t have kids and I was the only one in the family following in his footsteps of pursuing pro.

With brand sponsorships and child support Mom forced Dad to keep paying, I can maintain it.

But it’s too silent.

There’s something about home being empty that gives me chills when I’ve got too much on my mind.

And I always have too fucking much on my mind.

Another inhale. Exhale.

Maybe I imagined the sound. Maybe I didn’t close the curtain all the way tight, knowing no one was here. Sometimes I hear things that aren’t there, wake up in the night because I could’ve sworn a person spoke aloud in my bedroom.

Maybe it was like… that.

The implications don’t go over my head. I know it’s not normal to hear voices. Unless you're my mother, who thinks it’s fine. Contact with the spirit realm, being in tune to my intuition… All of the above and everything in between.

I bow my head, the hot stream flattening my dark hair, causing it to stick to my temples.

Fuck.

I don’t think anyone is there.

Just like at home.

No one is there.

And when I wake up in the morning at the crack of dawn to get to the rink before anyone else, including Coach, no one is there then either.

Party invites, study sessions, even Coach’s suggestion I help the freshmen “adjust.” Yeah, I turned all of it down.

Focus.

The only thing I do well.

I probably need more sleep.

The rink in the morning, classes all day, practice, lifting, dinner, stretching, homework. By the time I’m in bed to wind down, it’s nearly midnight, and I can’t just turn my brain off.

Last night—technically this fucking morning—I went to sleep at three.

I loosen my fingers and swipe my hands over my face, thinking about the facial massages Mom had me practice with her when I was little. Dad was always in the office and it was just me and Mom and the nanny, Rachel, most of the time. Mom was my best friend. Honestly, she probably still is.

Because who else is there? I don’t trust easily.

I drop my hands by my sides and step back under the water, the instant heat making me shiver. I rinse my hair, roll my neck, then reach for the towel hanging on the inside silver hook.

I scrub my hair, then wrap it around my body, out of the stream, but it’s only then I turn the water off.

Being cold is one of my least favorite things. Ironic for a boy from Sudbury.

I take a breath and reach up for the shower curtain, then snatch it back before I can psyche myself out of leaving the locker room. If anyone knew I had this apprehension, my facade would crumble.

A step out in my slides, then another, the contrast of air causing a chill to roll down my spine. But no one is here, and with the shower curtain out of the way, I can see the low lights by the washroom stalls and the row of sinks ahead.

Blowing out a breath, I shake my head, glad I can’t hear anything but the hum of the air circulating and drip of water behind me in the shower stall. Then there’s the rumble of the coolant for the rink, but it’s all white noise to me. Normal. My entire life for over a decade.

This time, though, it matters more than it ever did before.

I think of the unsigned contract and clench my teeth, forcing it out of my mind as I stride to the wood-paneled lockers, my own at the end of the U-shape. My jersey is with the rest of ours, but I pop open the bench seat and grab my bag with clean clothes.

I dress without looking over my shoulder, and when I’ve got on clean socks, gray sweats, a white T-shirt, and my Drayton Dragons red hoodie, I snatch up my backpack with my notebooks, The Fellowship of the Ring, my hockey tape, and my kit—deodorant I already used, a comb I didn’t, other shit I won’t need to walk back through campus alone.

Then I drop my blacked-out Air Jordans on the floor.

I don’t bother sitting down as I swing my backpack around my sore shoulders, push my feet into my shoes, then snatch up my towel to toss in the bin on the way out.

I squat down and pick up my slides too to drop off in my personal locker.

Once that’s done, my wood-paneled locker locked up tight, I squeeze the towel in my fist.

Then I scrub it over my hair one more time—I’m sure it’s freezing out and this hoodie isn’t going to stop the wind.

Finally, I glance around the room. A strange in-between second home.

I try to ignore the voice in my head saying someone else is here.

Because it’s still there.

But there isn’t anyone.

And who would hide this long?

If they had something to say to me, surely they’d fucking say it.

I pat my pants pocket, feel my phone, then stride out of the locker room, ditching the towel as I do.

And for a minute, everything is fine.

Half the lights are off, passing the showers and the stalls, I don’t notice anything unusual.

But in the dark corridor that leads out past the TVs and the couches, the exit door right there, I hear something.

And here, there’s no half-lights.

There’s nothing to see by.

I freeze, shifting my shoulders and the weight of my backpack with them.

It was a footstep.

A creak.

But it was… not in here? It sounded further away.

My eyes narrow in on the door ahead. It connects to another corridor which eventually spills out onto the ice. Theoretically, at this time, anyone could come through if they had a key card. Players, coaches, staff.

Maybe the janitor?

I pull my phone from my pocket.

It’s ten, so not entirely too late.

I squeeze the phone in my fist, grateful for the eternal Do Not Disturb that won’t allow any notifications to come through except Mom’s, then I leave.

I might not be the only person here, but I don’t think it’s anyone trying to stalk me.

Not that I haven’t had my fair share of weird encounters the past two years. The fans aren’t just brutal in Toronto for the pros.

The temperature past the locker room drops and I hunch my shoulders as I head to the exit reserved for players.

I push open the crash bar and step out into the private parking lot.

My BMW is at home in the three-car garage, considering it only takes me ten minutes to walk here if I take a back path. But as my breath clouds in the cold under the moonlight and the arena’s outdoor lights, I kind of regret not driving.

For a second, I think of the new kid, Sylvan. The team cracked jokes about him driving his G-wagon here, and he rolled his eyes all charming-like, but as my shoes crunch over the frosted grass once I get far enough away from the exit door, taking a slight shortcut, I think he was smart.

Sylvan Connor. Number thirteen.

Tall, lanky, blond, blue eyes. All-American, from New York. Right wing. I’m always the first person he looks at when he scores.

Considering I’m left D, it makes sense, but there’s something innocent in his eyes that makes me want to let him know he did good.

I don’t, though. Not beyond what I should.

He’s spoiled, good-natured, light.

At least that’s what he wants everyone to think.