Chapter 37 Faust
THIRTY-SEVEN
FAUST
“Are we going to talk about whether you’re signing?” Coach Wynon looks down at me as I sit on the bench, half-undressed.
Jersey on, skates off, my hair damp on my neck at the back.
Breathing hard, I lift up my practice jersey and try to wipe the sweat from my face.
The locker room is cleared out, and it’s just us in here.
He could’ve cornered me at any time, but of course he chose tonight because my side lost the scrimmage.
I don’t want to talk about anything with him. There’s already far too much in my head.
It’s the text from Neve, asking if we could talk tonight.
The coolness from Sylvan, still respectful but distant.
Not that we were ever close, but he’s acting like a bratty kid, snarky when he should be focused.
Complying but only barely. He played terribly tonight, which means I played terribly.
The games this weekend should be easy, but nothing is ever guaranteed.
Wynon folds his arms as he stares down at me. Red polo shirt, khaki pants, his cheeks pink, graying hair thick and tussled. He got a hair transplant over the summer. At fifty-three, he looks good.
He played for years for Carolina’s team, and I’ve had half a mind to ask him how it was, living in Raleigh, even though I’d never thought to ask him such a thing before.
It’s Neve.
She’s in my fucking head.
But I know the reason she wants to talk isn’t because I’m in hers the same way.
It’s the murder.
This time, I was nowhere near the location of the body. I’d gone into town to sign autographs and spend time with kids. It was fun, being with them. One blond boy with the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen told me he hoped to live through his treatment so he could be just like me when he grew up.
Just thinking about it now makes me feel breathless.
I hope he does too, but he’ll be better than me.
He’s got that joy I seem to have misplaced.
“It’s not until next season,” I say, putting him off. We both know it’s still important now.
It came in late September.
The pressure is growing, even if it is for next season.
In some ways, it’s a dream come true. Everything my parents hoped for. Everything I’ve spent most of my life chasing.
Do I still want it? I told myself I had to think about it, leaving Mom. But it seems like fate had other plans. It isn’t her or Rachel I’m worried about now.
There’s something—someone—else inside my mind.
“I need to know your head is in the game this season,” Wynon says in that half-yelling, half-whispering tone he has.
I like him. A lot. Respect him even more than I like him.
But I can’t give him answers I don’t have.
I nod once, hands on my knees. “It is. We’re ranked second in the whole division—”
“That’s not first.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. This early, it doesn’t matter, and we both know it.
“We will be.”
Wynon lifts his chin, staring down his nose at me. “I need to know what you’re thinking. Because this afternoon? You weren’t here.”
Neve.
Sylvan.
Neve and Sylvan, that’s what I’m fucking thinking.
The way I felt when Connor was touching her… we might be down a teammate if he does that shit again. But what I really hate to admit is that something inside me liked it. Being with both of them. I was partly jealous, and mostly fucking turned on.
I rake my fingers through my damp hair, then grip my chains.
“I’m focused. On the Dragons.” I look him in the eye as I say it.
“You can’t be playing the lines of both worlds. You’re in one or the other and it’s fine if you sign it, good for you, you’ve earned it. But coming to a decision is better than playing in limbo each time you step out onto the ice.”
I exhale sharp, my nostrils flaring.
Wynon drops his arms by his side, then pinches the bridge of his nose a second. “Listen, I get it. Selfishly, I want you here another year, but I know it doesn’t make sense.”
“I just need time,” I say, and there’s nothing more truthful than that. How much? For how long?
Until I figure shit out with Neve. With one of your other players.
But I don’t say that. It would be unimaginable.
“Let me know when you’ve run out of it,” Coach says, his tone sharp again. This is how he gets when he’s afraid of something. Losing, usually. Maybe this time, losing me.
I clench my teeth, but I know better than to bite back. I’ve perfected the art of restraint, but it seems to be slipping from my grasp.
I don’t recall the last time I lost control, really.
It might feel good if I let it go, just once, just on someone.
My mind flickers to Sylvan and I hate that I want to deck him and fuck him all at once.
“Don’t worry about me,” I say, keeping my voice even.
Wynon blows out a breath, steps back from me. I think he’s going to leave, but before he turns, he says, “Be careful tonight. You drive here?”
I frown and shake my head once. “Walked.” Usually do, unless it’s a game night, in which case I want to leave as soon as humanly possible.
“These… murders.” He hesitates, then he glances down the row of lockers, toward Sylvan’s, his helmet hung up, skates on the rack.
I make a purposeful effort not to react to that look. As if I didn’t see it at all.
“Are you worried?” he asks, swinging his eyes back to me.
What he doesn’t clarify is if I’m worried about being the next victim—even though I don’t fit the profile—or worried that the perpetrator is someone I know.
I shake my head once. “Nah.” But it comes out all wrong. “You know something I should, too?”
He frowns, glances at the floor, then shakes his head. “Seems you’re both in the clear.”
I know who he’s referring to.
“But if you need to talk to anyone about that night, tell me, okay?”
I swallow tight. Nod once.
“And if you see anything weird, feel anything, call the police.”
“Of course.” Unless it’s Sylvan.
But I know I’m overreacting.
Still, whatever it is Neve wants to say, I can’t shake the feeling that it has something to do… with him.