Guarding the Star (Seattle Emeralds #2)

Chapter 1

Iris

“You're late, Vance!” Hades yells from the center circle. “And it's the first day of preseason. That's got to be some kind of record, even for you.”

I want to say something. At least cobble together a halfway decent excuse. But I can barely think. My head is about to crack open, and the Florida heat feels purpose-built to punish anyone who made bad choices last night. One hell of a streak.

As I start warming up, my stomach begs me not to make any sudden moves. I smell like a nightclub and the perfume of someone whose name I can't remember.

On the first sprint, the heat clamps down. By the half-hour mark, my shirt is soaked through, and there's a headache boring tunnels through my skull like some tiny bug with a rusty drill bit and no intention of stopping.

In the scrimmage, I nutmeg Jade Herrera, and the ball rolls into the back of the net.

“Weren't you hungover?” she snaps.

I just shrug while Coach mutters that the only sleep I got last night was in the cab ride home from the club.

“IIIIWIS!!!”

Wesley's little voice slices clean across the field. Probably reaches the parking lot.

The kid comes tearing down the sideline, way too fast for his size, arms spread wide like he's about to take off.

Someone put him in a team jersey that hangs past his knees and sneakers that light up every time his feet hit the ground.

He grins at me, full blast, and I swear there's nothing better on this whole planet.

Tessa jogs behind him, already defeated, loaded down with the diaper bag, two water bottles, and a stuffed octopus.

I crouch just in time for Wes to slam into me at full speed.

“Hey, boss,” I say, lifting him into the air while he laughs so hard his whole body shakes. “How are you getting this big? Let me see. Taller. Stronger. And the hair…”

I close my eyes. I press my nose to the top of his head and breathe him in.

I can't help it. I never can.

“Still magic,” I murmur. “Pure magic.”

“Iwis, you smell weiwd,” the kid says, wrinkling his nose.

"Weiwd?"

“Weird. He means weird,” Zoe translates, catching up to me. “He's been expanding his vocabulary for a couple weeks. This morning he told me breakfast was yucky.”

“I mean, he's right. This kid's got taste. That's a good sign.” I lower my voice. “Listen, boss. This year we're winning the league again. You know what winning the league is?”

“Yeah.”

“He has no idea,” Zoe says.

“He says yes to everything lately,” Tessa adds, dropping the bag next to the bench. “Last night I asked if he wanted broccoli, and he said yes. Then he spit it onto my shirt.”

“Broccoli is a scam, Wes. Don't let them fool you,” I whisper like I'm handing him classified intel.

Wesley grabs my ponytail and pulls. It's our thing. He pulls, I let him, and when he gets tired of it, he buries his nose in my hair like he's paying me back.

“Vance!” Hades yells. “When you're done playing with the kid, shower and get to my office. You've got thirty minutes.”

***

In the locker room, while the rest of the team showers, I scroll through my Instagram notifications.

Comments. Likes. People asking for signed photos, jerseys, livestreams. A sunscreen brand wants me to shoot a promo video with their product. A women's soccer podcast wants an interview. It's been a year since that video I made defending Zoe, and people still won't let it go.

Most of the comments are generic. Hearts. Fire emojis. People telling me I'm their inspiration. I try to thank every one of them, even if it takes longer now than it used to.

And then I see the name.

@yoursecondskinseesyouforreal.

I know who it is. Or more like, I know what it is.

A fan. One of those fans. The kind who writes messages as long as the username and knows things about me that sometimes make my skin crawl.

It's been going on for months. Since about halfway through last season.

I open the latest message out of reflex, same stupid way you pick at a scab when you know exactly how that ends.

“Today I saw you arrive at practice. Your ponytail was lower than usual. You're tired, aren't you? I wish I could take care of you the way you deserve. I wish you knew what you mean to me. Not like the others, Iris. I really see you.”

I stare at the screen.

It's creepy. The messages aren't threatening, not exactly, but they're creepy.

I delete it without answering. At first I used to leave a like so they'd know I'd read it. Now I delete them on sight. I hate blocking fans, but I think that's the next move.

“You okay?”

Tina raises her eyebrows at me, wrapped in a towel. She's got that worried-puppy look she's had since the day I met her.

“Yeah. Why?”

“I don't know. You've been staring at your phone for five minutes like you want to put it through a wall.”

“That's just my face,” I say, throwing my stuff together so I'm not late to Hades's office.

***

“Sit,” she orders the second I walk in, pointing at the chair across from her desk.

To her right, Alexandra Drummond, the club's general manager.

Dark suit. Hair pulled back. Poker face.

The kind of woman who only smiles while she's tightening a noose around your neck and telling you how nice the knot looks.

Bad sign.

A meeting with Alexandra Drummond never means anything good.

“Take off the sunglasses,” Coach says. “You're in an office.”

“Is this about the pictures? Because I already talked to my agent and—”

“It's not just the pictures,” Hades cuts in, opening a folder. “Though those pictures aren't helping.”

“Okay, so I went out one night during preseason. It's not the end of the world. Some idiot took photos of me at a club, and—”

“Took photos of you throwing up by a curb,” Alexandra says. “While two girls were practically fighting over who got to hold your ponytail.”

I just sigh, but she doesn't push it. She slides a brown envelope across the desk toward me.

“Open it.”

Inside are photographs. Of me. Walking into my apartment in Seattle.

Coming out of a coffee shop. Holding Wesley's hand in the park while we fed the ducks.

At the stadium entrance. In the club parking lot at night, alone, gym bag over one shoulder.

These aren't fan shots. These aren't blurry phone pictures snapped from sixty feet away.

Someone took these with patience. With care. With a good camera.

“Shit,” I mutter.

“There have also been letters,” Alex goes on. “And gifts. A necklace engraved with your initials. A notebook full of press clippings. A collage of your photos with hearts drawn around them.”

“What the hell is all this?” I ask, and every hair on my arms is standing up. “A fan?”

“I think it's crossed the line into stalking,” Hades says. “That's what worries us. We turned it over to the police, but whoever it is has kept their distance the whole time, so it's not a priority.”

“Yet,” Alexandra adds.

“How long?”

“Six weeks.”

“Six weeks? And you're just telling me now?” I rake a hand through my hair.

“We're telling you now because the situation changed,” Alexandra says. “The messages are more frequent. More possessive. The risk isn't low anymore. And they know your every move.”

I look at the photos again.

The one in the parking lot. At night. Alone.

“Iris,” Hades says, and her voice drops until it's barely a whisper. This isn't Coach chewing me out for being late. This is Diana Creed looking at me like she's scared for me. “The club is assigning you personal protection.”

“Personal protection?”

“A bodyguard. Someone from a specialized firm. She'll stay with you at all times while the police track down the stalker.”

“Nope.”

“It's not optional,” Alexandra says.

“I said no. I don't need a babysitter. Because that's what this is, right? Someone glued to me so I don't go out. I can handle myself. Seriously.”

“Iris—”

“I manage on my own. I've done it my whole life. I'm not about to let—”

“And look how that's going,” Hades snaps, slamming her palm on the desk hard enough to make me flinch.

The silence that follows is thick enough to chew. Hades holds my gaze. She doesn't blink. When she wants to scare you, she never blinks. I'm not fully convinced she's human.

“Take the protection. Or you don't play.”

“You can't do that.”

“I can. And I will.”

I swallow. I stare right back, looking for a crack in the threat, but Alexandra confirms it with a slow nod.

“This is insane,” I say.

“There's another piece,” the general manager adds. “We don't want to cause alarm or draw unnecessary attention, so the bodyguard will be introduced publicly as your girlfriend. That's why we chose a woman.”

“Excuse me?”

“It explains someone being at your side at all times without raising suspicion,” she says.

“So you're getting me a girlfriend. No offense, but I see you don't have a lot of faith in my taste.”

“This is not a joke, Iris. This could be very serious,” my coach says.

“If we announce you have a bodyguard, the press asks questions. Then the whole stalker thing comes out, and it turns into a story that hurts the club, the team, you, and the police investigation,” Alexandra says, same even tone she's had this whole meeting.

“We want you with us. We need your goals, which is why we've looked the other way on the partying and the late arrivals at practice. But this is non-negotiable.”

“Is she hot?”

“What?”

“I mean, if she's going to be my girlfriend…”

“I have no idea. I care more about whether she can do her job,” Alexandra says, and for the first time she sounds like she's losing patience with me. “You'll meet her tomorrow at nine.”

“Tomorrow at nine,” Hades repeats. “And seriously, show up sober.”

***

I drop onto the bed. A strip of light from the parking lot leaks through the curtains and draws lines across the ceiling. I've been staring at them for forty minutes.

I don't even feel like going out.

So here I am. Alone. With the silence.

I hate silence.

I always have.

When I was a kid, I fell asleep with music in my earbuds.

In college, I slept with the TV on. Now I sleep with podcasts, playlists, the television, whatever fills the space between the mattress and the ceiling.

If there's noise, there's no silence. If there's no silence, nothing can corner me into thinking.

And tonight I don't want to think.

Because if I do, I can't stop thinking about the photos. About the fact that someone has been following me for six weeks and I had no clue. I think about the parking lot shot, the one at night, and how they could've been ten feet from me and I wouldn't have known.

My phone buzzes. Tina posted another meme. Emojis. Laughing faces.

I pick up my phone. Open Instagram. Close Instagram. Open Spotify. Close Spotify. Open my messages. Close my messages.

Nothing works.

I stare at the ceiling. The line of light. The hum of the AC.

I think about Wesley. About how he pulled my ponytail this morning and told me I smell weird. About Zoe and Tessa, about the thing they've built together. I try to imagine what that feels like. Being so sure of something that you're willing to let everything else go.

I've never been sure of anything except that I know how to put a ball in the back of the net.

I roll onto my side.

I hit play.

I close my eyes.

The noise comes back. But tonight it doesn't work.