Chapter 3
3
Aviva
I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. No fucking idea.
Shit.
As I slowed to a walk a few blocks from the hockey house, I took deep breaths, trying to clear my head.
That had not gone to plan. Not that my plans were airtight, but that had turned into a complete, confusing, frustratingly hot, sexy-ass shit show.
I’d had a Plan A and Plan B to seek justice for Asher.
Plan A: Break into the hockey team’s locker room, get into Coach Joshua Jensen’s secondary office, and see if I could track down the videos Asher said he’d taken when Jensen sexually assaulted him.
Plan B: Get to know some of Asher’s teammates, and wile my way into their good graces, on the off chance that I could find out who else Jensen was abusing—if anyone—or knew what he’d done.
Plan B was why I’d transferred from Stanford to Reina. After all, I needed to approach the plan sensitively: I’d learned in some of my psych classes that abuse victims, especially ones who’d been sexually abused, felt misplaced shame. And people in tightknit groups—like a hockey team—would feel pressured to keep silent or risk exile. And in this case, any player who spoke up might lose their place on the team as well.
Which was why I preferred Plan A. If I had tangible evidence, I could get my brother justice immediately—and get him back his spot on the team, his hockey scholarship, and his future. He’d lost all of it when he’d reported Coach Jensen to the university’s administration.
If Plan A didn’t work, I’d work on the hockey team to get the information I needed.
Asher wasn’t a great font of information these days. He’d completely shut down when he’d quit the team and dropped out of school. Currently, he was living in our now-deceased great aunt’s house, either working out aggressively, or hiding in his room, playing video games. He had no idea about my plans to expose his coach. He didn’t even know I’d transferred. If he did, he’d be pissed. He certainly wouldn’t tell me which other players knew about the abuse, and had sworn me to secrecy over the whole thing, out of his own misplaced shame. Shame that made me want to kill someone, that filled me with so much helpless rage, I didn’t have enough room to house it.
Sometimes, the unfairness of it all, seeing him in pain, made me feel like I was on fire. I would happily let the world burn, if it made him better or brought him any peace.
Thus, plans A and B.
But as they say: make plans, and the universe laughs.
I had not expected Jack Feldman. I had not expected to be so attracted to Jack Feldman—or for a gorgeous athletic deity to even notice my existence, much less zero in on me, flirt with me, dance with me…
…and kiss me.
I could count the decent kisses I’d had on one hand. And I’d never had a great kiss until now. He’d conquered me, and I’d let him, and god, it had felt so fucking good to let someone else be in charge for once, even just for a moment. To feel like someone else saw me, and liked what they saw. To be wanted, so badly.
And it was more than that. He smelled like—well, I couldn’t describe what he smelled like, but whatever it was, it was good . Like my own personal temptation. His mouth had been warm and hard and punishing, the grip of his hand on the back of my neck menacing, but I got lost in him, anyway.
Until I’d wrapped my arms around his waist, slipped my thumb into his pocket—and felt his wallet.
A wallet that—just as I’d guessed—contained his ID card.
An ID card that probably had 24/7 access to the arena and locker room.
It had woken me up out of my Jack-Feldman-lust-daze. Here was my best shot. And sure, I hadn’t planned for it, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to take advantage of the opportunity.
Also, I was pissed at myself for getting sucked into his current. So I’d bitten his lip, used the distraction, and ran. I could still taste his blood in my mouth. It tasted like rage and desire.
Something was seriously, seriously wrong with me. Maybe it was time for me to see a counselor, too.
Another block, and I’d reached campus. For a moment, it felt like there was someone behind me, watching me. But when I turned around, the only shadows came from the trees.
A text popped up on my phone. It was from Asher.
How’s the first week back?
I swallowed. That was just like him: Even though he was struggling with his own pain, he still checked in. Still cared about my life, about making sure I was okay.
I felt guilty for lying to him about where I was. He had no idea I’d transferred; I’d hidden any paperwork at the house and had kept it off social media. But he didn’t need to know. If he did, he’d be worried, and demand I stop. And I wasn’t going to stop. I wanted him to have his life back. Coach Jensen had made sure Asher couldn’t get a hockey scholarship anywhere. No way for my brother to start over.
I responded.
Fine. Same as always.
I paused, then added.
How’s therapy going?
Fine. Same as always. #twinning
He was teasing, but I could feel his sadness through the phone. But what was there to say? At least he was going. I’d hated leaving him alone, but knowing he had a professional working with him made it a little easier.
Good. Let me know if you need anything, okay ?
Dots appeared and disappeared as he typed. Finally he responded with:
You got it, kiddo.
Kiddo. It was our running joke. Even though I’d been born a minute before him, he liked to pretend he was older. He was trying to alleviate my worry, but I was still worried.
Which was why I had to stay focused on Plan A.
I pulled open Reina U’s app on my phone and tapped on the map so I could figure out where the hell I was going.
During the day, Reina’s campus—with its beautiful old brick buildings, covered in ivy, archways, and perfectly cared for grass, blanketed with leaves signifying the beginning of fall—was intimidating. At night, it was menacing, unearthly. Statues of founders and board members and other semi-famous, dead white men loomed above, casting shadows over the path. I hurried on my way, focusing on the plan. I wasn’t positive that the coach would have recordings in his office, but I had to try. If not, there might be a spare set of keys to his house somewhere, or some other incriminating evidence. Although I really, really wanted those videos. They’d prove everything, without Asher having to say a word.
After our parents were murdered in a robbery gone wrong, and I’d gotten my scar, Asher had become everything to me. Great Aunt Gladys had taken us in when none of the wealthy Golds would even talk to us, and I was grateful to her. But after she died, it was Asher and I against the world. His wellbeing was my everything—and anyone who fucked with that…well.
I wasn’t actually going to commit murder, but I was going to destroy Coach Jensen’s life. And anyone else’s who’d stood by and let him harm Asher.
With that thought, I reached the arena. It was huge, and dark, and locked—until I tapped Jack’s ID against the card reader.
With a click, the door opened.
As I strode down the corridor, lights flickered on, one after another. It smelled like sweat and ice and victory, and I hated it. It was too much of a reminder of the way Asher had been before , when Aunt Gladys and I had saved every cent to finance Asher’s dream. He had been going somewhere in his life— was going somewhere, and I was going to get my brother back.
I would.
Reaching the locker room, I tapped the card against the card reader, opening the door—and wrinkled my nose the moment I stepped inside.
God, hockey locker rooms fucking stunk. I knew this well; I’d washed Asher’s gear for him over the years, but it had been a while since I’d been so…surrounded by it. I wandered through, trailing my hand over the cubbies.
And felt like my heart was stabbed by an empty one that still read Asher Gold on the top in gold letters. Blinking away angry tears, I continued through the cubbies, passing a cubby with a jersey hanging: Wasserson, 69, and snorted, and then stopped at the last.
Feldman, 1.
Unable to stop myself, I traced a hand over the name and number, imagining I could smell that particular Jack scent, and sighed. I hated that he’d gotten to me the way he had, but he had . At twenty-one, I hadn’t had much experience with guys. Hadn’t really had the time, or the interest. Mostly the time. As a scholarship student at my old university, and now Reina, I had to work to cover food and books, as well as pay rent for the tiny apartment I now shared with Tovah. Between that and my psychology classes, I didn’t have time for guys who probably would take one look at my scar and run away.
My one and only boyfriend, Tom, had been awful about it. We’d made out a lot—subpar kisses, I’d now realized. When I’d finally been ready to lose my virginity to him, he’d taken off my shirt, seen my scar—and had been disgusted. So disgusted, he blamed me for not being able to stay hard. I’d immediately dumped him.
After that, I had no interest in having sex. All my orgasms would continue to be courtesy of my own hand. I tried not to be ashamed of the scar, but Tom had done a number on me. I was never letting anyone see it, ever again. After all, it was an ugly reminder of the night Asher’s and my life had gone to hell.
Releasing Jack’s jersey, I turned, ready to focus on figuring out how to get into Coach Jensen’s office.
Which was when someone grabbed me from behind.
I tried to scream, but their big hand covered my mouth as they dragged me backward. Terrified, I fought against them.
“Maybe instead of princess, I should’ve nicknamed you thief,” Jack murmured in my ear.
Jack was here, holding me, surrounding me. And from his tone, he sounded like he wanted to kill me. I struggled against him, hitting and kicking and scratching wherever I could. It didn’t matter. He just stood there, batting away my arms and legs like I was a kitten, waiting until I tired out.
Which I did, finally. As I breathed heavily, I realized he was as hard and thick as he’d been at the party. And, oh god, it shouldn’t have, it shouldn’t have. But knowing my fighting had made him hard, the feeling of him pressed against my ass, just his jeans and my skirt and our underwear the only barriers between us…it made me wet.
He wasn’t done with his questions.
“Maybe I should’ve nicknamed you spy. Which is it, Aviva? What the hell are you doing in here?”
“None of your business,” I tried to say against his hand, but it just came out as a mumble.
Angrily, I bit him for the second time that night.
“Careful there, little spy,” he said, jerking me back against him harder. “I bite back.”
Turning me around in his arms, he looked down at me, his dark eyes threatening to swallow me whole.
His angry dark eyes.
“How did you find me?” I gasped.
He backed me up against the wall between his and Judah's lockers, wrapping his huge hand around my throat. Panicking, I tried to fight him off, but he didn't release his grip. I could breathe fine, but the threat was there: if he wanted to cut off my air, he could. If he wanted to crush my throat, he could. I couldn’t fight him, was helpless against him.
What was it like, to have that much power?
“I’m the one asking the questions now,” he said. “Who the hell are you really, Aviva, and what are you doing on my campus, in my arena, in my locker room? What are you looking for?”
I couldn’t tell him. I didn’t know him and didn’t trust him. And I’d made Asher a promise not to tell anyone what had happened to him—I wasn’t going to risk informing Jack if he didn’t already know. After all, nothing about our interaction, at the party or now, screamed “trustworthy” or “good guy. ”
So I kept my mouth shut.
This pissed him off.
“Are you a student at Tabb?” he asked, naming their rival school. “Trying to do hockey recon for their team?”
I snorted. “Like I give a shit about who wins a hockey game.”
“Then what? Getting some scoop for a story for your journalist friend, Tovah?”
Despite the threat he posed, my ears perked up. “What kind of scoop?”
“Nuh uh,” he said. “If you’re trying to expose me—expose my team for Vi—” he cut himself off.
What had he been about to say? Did it have anything to do with his coach? Asher?
“What is there for me to expose?” I prodded. “Do you have any secrets, Jack Feldman?”
“Do you?” he countered, stroking a thumb up and down my pulse point.
I trembled from his touch.
“You do. I’ll promise you this much—I’m going to find out every. Last. One.”