Chapter 15
Jefferson
The concert is unreal. We’re up in the box and I can’t stop grinning.
Off-season means I can finally breathe–no coaches, no early mornings, no curfews.
My friends are with me, along with a few well-known celebrities Ingrid must have also given tickets to.
But I’ll be real. The memory of Ingrid on her knees, her pretty lips circling my cock, and the way she swallowed me down, doesn’t hurt, either.
“I think Vanessa Kirby is checking you out.”
I cut my eyes at Nadia, and not over at the brunette who is well known for striding down runways and dating professional athletes. We’d had some brief introductions when we first got in the box, and then huddled in our own groups.
“So.” I take a sip of my beer.
“So it’s been weeks since I’ve seen you with a woman, and you don’t care that a supermodel is eye fucking you from across the room? A supermodel known for her lingerie catalogue work?” Nadia tends to make it her business to be in everyone else's. “Something you need to tell us, Parks?”
She knows. They all know, but I haven’t spoken the words out loud.
How can I? We still haven’t defined this.
Even after having my tongue in her pussy and talking to her almost every night.
It’s been so long since I’ve been in a relationship, I don’t even know how to go about it.
And what kind of relationship would we even be able to have?
I thrust my hand in my hair. “There’s nothing to tell, but you’ll be first on the list if there is.”
Her smirk tells me she’s enjoying every minute of my discomfort, but thankfully Axel reels her in to wrap his arms around her. The second she’s gone, Shelby is on me.
“Not you, too,” I grumble.
“You really do know every song,” Shelby teases, knocking her shoulder into mine.
“I never denied I was a fan.” But even I know this goes beyond a basic interest. I’ve started watching her concert streams nightly, noticing the little details that she puts so much time and energy into.
How she changes her set list depending on the city.
The way she builds into it with costumes, staging, even the lighting–turning three hours into a story no one else could tell.
I catch the secret looks she throws to her bandmates, the inside jokes with her dancers, the way she makes an arena of thousands feel like they’re crammed into the front row of a tiny club.
It’s more than music. It’s art, discipline, obsession. And the more I watch, the more I realize it’s the same kind of dedication I feel on the ice. Only she’s got the world’s spotlight, and I’m just the guy checking bodies into glass.
The result of all of Ingrid’s hard work is the crowd. The Flock, as they call themselves, is infectious. They’re a living thing, pulsing under the lights like a single organism. The sound moves through me, low and steady, like a second heartbeat.
She finishes up the last song and vanishes under the stage.
When she emerges again, the dancers are gone, and it’s just her in a floaty blue dress with tiny sequins catching every flash of light.
Guitar strapped over her shoulder like she was born with it.
My chest goes tight. She owns them–all of them–but it feels like she owns me most of all.
And instantly, I’m back to last night.
Her lips on me, mine on her. Her mouth warm and soft.
It wasn’t just heat pulsing between us–it was raw, stupid need.
And when it was over, when we were both catching our breath, I didn’t feel that usual rush to leave.
I hated it, actually. Hated pulling my clothes back on.
Hated the thought of closing the door behind me.
For the first time ever, I wanted to stay.
That memory is still thrumming in my bones when the first chords hit. My ears snap to attention.
Past Midnight.
A deep track. Not something she’s played in years. The crowd reacts–surprise ripples like a wave. But I already know it’s not for them. It’s for me.
And then she sings:
“Used to hate the silence when the night dragged on,
Lonely hours stretching till the break of dawn.
But now the dark is golden when the screen lights up,
Every stolen minute, I can’t get enough.”
The air leaves my lungs.
She’s singing it to me. To us.
If I had any doubt, the way her eyes flick up to the box burns it all away. The arena vanishes. It’s just her voice, threading straight into me. Like she’s cracked open my chest and branded me with it.
I don’t even notice when the song ends. Or the one after. I just sit there, vibrating, waiting for the next glance. The next proof that I’m not alone with these feelings.
“Damn,” I hear whispered next to me. I glance over at where Nadia and Shelby share a covert glance, like they can see my heart threatening to jump out of my chest.
Damn.
Long after Ingrid left the stage, the Flock is still buzzing with the kind of post-concert adrenaline that feels like it’ll never fade.
Shelby and Nadia link arms, swaying as they belt out one of Ingrid’s hits off-key, like they just stumbled out of the bar instead of a sold-out arena.
Twyler is much more into emo music, so this isn’t really her vibe, but her hand is linked with Reese’s, and she seems really happy.
The hallway smells faintly of popcorn and beer, and their laughter bounces off the concrete walls, sharp and careless.
I hang back, a few steps behind, soaking it in.
The night’s perfect, better than I imagined.
My ears are still ringing from the set, from her voice.
The girls are giddy, alive, and for once, I’m not focused on finding a girl to spend the night with.
I’ve got the girl, and I’m being carried on the high of being with her.
A few feet away from the stairs, we hit the checkpoint.
Two uniformed security guards stand stiff in front of the exit, radios buzzing low.
Their faces are wrong–serious, closed-off, not the relaxed kind of watchfulness I’ve seen all night.
One glances at me, then away too quickly.
Another shifts his weight, murmurs something into his walkie-talkie.
The girls keep singing, oblivious. But the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. The easy warmth drains from the air.
“Sorry but there’s no entry,” one says, giving a stern look.
“But we have passes,” Twyler says, holding up the special wristband that Ingrid sent us.
“I understand,” he says, “but due to a situation the entire area is under lockdown.”
My gut goes cold and in a heartbeat, I’m stone sober, fists clenched, staring at the door I can’t get to.
I fire off a text.
Jparks23: You okay? They won’t let us back.
No reply.
Shelby says something-her voice high, confused-but I can’t hear her over the pounding in my ears. Reid pulls her into his side, steadying her while more cops appear. Radios crackle, the words “threat… lower level…” filtering through the static. Nobody tells us a damn thing.
Then some guy in black, a handler or assistant, whatever, appears out of nowhere and orders the officers to evacuate the area.
“Anything?” Nadia asks, when I check my phone for the hundredth time.
“No.”
“The only thing I see online is that the concert was great,” Axel says. “Oh wait, here’s something. ‘Large police presence at the Intown Arena following Ingrid Flockton show.” His eyes skim down the screen. “But no details.”
“I’m sure she’s fine,” Reese says with authority. He’s always the leader–a captain through and through–but I see the wrinkle in his forehead. He’s nervous too.
Me? I don’t think it’s nerves. It’s outright panic.
Ingrid has intense fans. She’s spoken to me about the parasocial relationship that happens with someone at her level of fame.
Hell, we’ve even felt it a little bit ourselves being high level hockey players, but nothing compared to the way her fans love her.
They get her symbols tattooed on their bodies.
They write her long letters saying that her songs changed their lives. And some get darker–scarier.
Is this one of those times?
Did someone get to her?
We exit the arena without any update, and she’s all I can think of on the car ride back to the hotel.
The back seat of the limo is silent other than the girls’ scrolling their phones looking for any piece of information.
It’s just rumors at this point, which is only ratcheting up my anxiety even more.
By the time we get there, it’s deep into the night.
Marv waits at the hotel doors, arms crossed, carved from stone. I’m shocked to see him.
I open my mouth to ask about her, but he’s already jerked his chin. “Come with me.”
I’m not intimidated by many people. I’m a big guy–I’ve been big since puberty, now I spent six days a week dropping two-fifty pound defenseman. But Marv? He’s terrifying. The way he looks at me makes me think I’m either in trouble or something really bad has happened.
“Is she okay?” I blurt as he swipes a badge over the keypad. He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even look at me. “Seriously, man, I’m freaking out here.”
We ride the elevator in silence. My stomach twists tighter with every floor. Marv finally says, “There was a threat. Someone breached her dressing room–somehow they got past security and left a box. We had to call the bomb squad in to do a sweep.”
“Fuck. Was it anything dangerous?”
“Not sure. There were a few online threats, but unfortunately that’s not unusual. The box turned out to be a gift that some poor fan spent a lot of time on, but is now destroyed. The big question is how they got in.”
“Will the police follow up on it?”
He nods. “Them and Ingrid’s full security team. We treat every potential threat as if it’s real.”
Thank God for that.
The doors slide open to the penthouse.
I step inside, heart in my throat. Madison paces the floor, flanked by staff whose names I don’t know. They look shaken.
And then I see her.