13. Riggs
Riggs
C oach's office door slams behind me, the wood rattling in its frame.
His voice still rings in my ears. Two-game suspension.
Mandatory anger management counseling. Team probation until further notice.
Three scouts in the stands tonight, and I blew it all for what?
Some bullshit comment from a St. Andrews prick?
The locker room is empty now. Everyone cleared out after we lost in overtime. A game we should've won if I hadn't gotten myself tossed. Johnson gave up back-to-back goals in the third. My fault. All my fucking fault.
“Goddamn it!” I slam my fist into a locker; the metal buckles under the impact. Pain shoots up my arm, but it feels good. Clarifying. Better than the shame burning a hole in my gut.
Coach's parting words hang in the air: “I don't know what's gotten into you, Rhodes, but you need to figure your shit out. Fast. Because I'm not letting one player—captain or not—torpedo this entire team's season.”
My hair's still damp from the shower, water dripping down my neck as I yank open my locker. The familiar smell of my gear —sweat and hockey tape hits me. Reminds me of everything I just risked.
I grab my wallet, shoving it into the back pocket of my jeans, then reach for my phone. The screen lights up with notifications—a barrage of texts, missed calls, social media alerts. Apparently, my little cage match with Prescott is trending. Fucking fantastic.
My thumb hovers over the messages, not ready to deal with the questions. Not ready to explain something I don't understand myself. I scroll down, past texts from my mom.
Call me when you can, honey
Past alerts from ESPN.
St. James Captain Ejected After Violent Altercation
Past snaps from people I barely talk to anymore.
Then I see it. A text from a number I've memorized but haven’t saved in my contacts. Like keeping her name out of my phone somehow makes this thing between us less real.
Nightmare
1728 Lakewood Drive, Apt 3B. Door's unlocked. Come if you want. Or don't. I really don't give a shit.
My heart slams against my ribs like it's trying to punch its way out. She's inviting me over. To her place. Where she lives. Where there are walls and a door and privacy and?—
Fuck.
I read the message again, trying to decode the casual indifference of her words. It's such bullshit. If she didn't give a shit, she wouldn't have texted. Wouldn't have been waiting in the tunnel. Wouldn't have fucking licked the blood off my face like some beautiful, deranged vampire.
My thumb hovers over the message. Should I respond? Play it cool like her? Tell her I'm on my way? Ask if she's alone?
I don't waste a second. Don't even respond to the text. Just grab my keys, sling my bag over my shoulder, and stride out of the locker room like it's on fire.
The night air hits me when I push through the stadium's side exit. It's late November, and the temperature's dropped while I was getting my ass handed to me by Coach. Stars prick the black sky overhead, cold and distant.
My truck sits alone in the players' lot, a beat-up Ford F-150 that's seen better decades.
The red paint's faded to a dull rust color, and the passenger door still has that dent from when Keller tried to teach me to drift in an empty parking lot two winters ago.
It looks pathetic next to the shiny BMWs and Audis my teammates drive, courtesy of wealthy parents or NIL deals I'm too principled or too stupid to chase.
The engine coughs to life on the third try, the familiar rattle of the exhaust somehow soothing.
I crank the heat, but it'll be a good five minutes before anything besides frigid air blows through the vents.
My phone buzzes again in my pocket. I ignore it, backing out of the space with more speed than precision.
I hit every green light on the way across town, like the universe is conspiring to get me to her door before I can come to my senses. My knuckles are white on the steering wheel, split skin stinging from how tight I'm gripping it. The truck's cab feels too small, too airless.
I make it in eleven, running two yellow lights and taking corners fast enough that my tires protest.
A four-story brick building with LAKEWOOD LOFTS stenciled above the entrance in peeling white paint. There's a small parking lot to the side, half-empty this time of night. I pull in, killing the engine but not making any move to get out.
Every instinct I've developed over the last year screams at me to start the truck, drive away, forget I ever saw that text.
“Ah, fuck it,” I mutter, yanking the keys from the ignition.
The slam of my truck door echoes across the parking lot.
The lobby door is propped open with a brick. The pinnacle of security. Inside, dingy yellow lights cast everything in a sickly glow. The elevator has an “Out of Order” sign taped to it that looks like it's been there since the Bush administration.
Stairs it is.
My legs feel like lead as I climb. By the second floor, I'm breathing a little harder, my ribs aching from where Prescott landed a solid hit. Could be bruised or broken but I can't bring myself to care.
Third floor. The hallway stretches out before me, dim and narrow. Apartment 3B would be…I scan the doors. There. At the end of the hall, a black door with tarnished brass numbers.
She said the door would be unlocked. An invitation to walk right in.
“For fuck's sake,” comes her voice from inside, muffled but still clear enough that I can hear the exasperation.
Something crashes inside, followed by muttered cursing that would make my mom blush.
“If you're selling something, I don't want it. If you're collecting for charity, I don't care. If you're here to talk about Jesus, I've already got a personal relationship with Satan, but thanks for your concern.”
Her footsteps approach before the door swings open so suddenly I nearly fall forward.
Maren leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest, one eyebrow arched in that way that always makes me feel like I'm being dissected.
She's changed out of her cheerleading uniform into an oversized black t-shirt that hangs off one shoulder, exposing a collarbone sharp enough to cut glass.
The shirt falls to mid-thigh, leaving miles of bare leg exposed.
Her hair is loose now, falling in messy waves around her face.
She’s so fucking beautiful. Like the type of beauty that made men write sonnets and launch a thousand ships.
The #13 is gone from her cheek, washed away, but there's still a faint smudge of black where it used to be. Like she couldn't quite erase the evidence of me on her.
“Took you long enough,” she says, voice flat. “I was starting to think Coach Calloway had you doing wind sprints until you puked or you bitched out. Both were highly probable.”
“Excuse the fuck outta me for washing my ass so I didn’t arrive smelling like a fucking dumpster. I know you know how fucking bad we smell after a game.”
She studies me for a long beat, her expression unreadable. Then she steps back, sweeping her arm in a mocking gesture of welcome.
“You gonna stand there all night?” She asks, pulling the door wider. “Or you gonna come in and tell me why the fuck you're knocking on a door I specifically told you was unlocked?”
I walk inside because I didn’t come this far to turn the fuck around now. I don’t even know if I would ever get another invite.
Her apartment is exactly what I'd expect, and nothing like I imagined. It's small but open, with exposed brick walls and hardwood floors that creak under my weight.
There's a narrow kitchenette to the left, cluttered with mugs and takeout containers. To the right, a small living area dominated by a secondhand couch draped with a dark blue throw blanket. The coffee table is buried under a chaos of textbooks, notebooks, and empty Dr. Pepper cans.
She moves past me; her bare feet make no sound on the hardwood as she crosses to the couch and drops onto it, tucking one leg underneath her.
“You gonna sit or just stand there awkwardly?” She asks, voice dripping with amusement. “You're not a virgin, so no need to be shy. Everything I've got you've already seen on someone else before. Quit hovering.”
“I'm not fucking hovering,” I snap, even though that's exactly what I'm doing. Standing in the middle of her living room like I'm afraid to touch anything. Like I'm waiting for permission.
The casualness of her invitation, the way she's sprawled on the couch like a cat—it's making my brain short-circuit. I've spent months thinking about being alone with her, and now that I am, I don't know what the fuck to do with my hands.
“Riggs,” she says, and the sound of my name in her mouth jolts me back to reality. “Sit the fuck down before you give yourself an aneurysm.”
I make my legs work, crossing to the couch in three strides. There's nowhere to sit that doesn't put me close enough to touch her, so I just commit, dropping down onto the cushion next to her. The couch dips under my weight, rolling her slightly toward me.
“You want a drink?” She asks, lifting her wineglass.
“I'll take a beer,” I say, my voice rougher than I intended.
She doesn't get up like a normal person would. No, that would be too fucking straightforward for Maren Marino. Instead, she shifts onto her knees and begins to crawl across me to get to the other side of the couch.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I manage to choke out as her body slides over mine.
“Taking the scenic route,” she says, her voice a low purr that vibrates through me.
Time slows as she moves, her body a warm weight across my lap. Her t-shirt rides up with the movement, exposing the smooth skin of her thighs. I catch a glimpse of black lace underneath, and my brain short-circuits completely.
She pauses when she's fully across my lap, her face inches from mine, close enough that I can count each individual eyelash, see the tiny flecks of silver in her eyes. Her breath fans across my face, warm and wine-scented. For one insane moment, I think she's going to kiss me.
Instead, she smirks and completes her journey, sliding off me with a deliberate slowness that makes my jaw clench so hard I'm surprised my teeth don't crack.
“Breathe, Rhodes,” she taunts, glancing back at me as she pads toward the fridge. “You're turning an interesting shade of purple.”
I force air into my lungs, watching her bend at the waist to reach into the fridge.
The shirt rides up even higher, and I get another flash of black lace that's going to haunt my fucking dreams for weeks.
My mouth goes dry as she straightens, beer in hand, the condensation making the bottle glisten under the kitchen's dim light.
“Here you go, captain,” she says, her voice pitched low.
But instead of handing it to me like a normal fucking person, she's climbing over me again.
This time she moves slower, more deliberately, one knee on either side of my thighs as she straddles me.
The cold bottle presses against my chest as she holds it there, not letting go, forcing me to reach up and take it from her.
I expect her to move away again, to retreat to her side of the couch, but she doesn't. Instead, she shifts, swinging her legs around so they're draped across my lap, her back against the arm of the couch.
Her bare feet rest against my thigh, toes painted a deep, dark red that reminds me of dried blood.
She watches me take that first swig, her eyes tracking the movement of my throat as I swallow. There's something predatory in her gaze, like she's cataloging every reaction, every microexpression.
“Comfortable?” I manage to ask.
“Extremely,” she says, stretching the word out, her lips curving into that half-smile that never quite reaches her eyes.
She reaches out in front of her and grabs the remote from the coffee table.
The TV flickers to life, casting blue-white light across her face, highlighting the sharp angles of her cheekbones, the hollow beneath her jaw.
She navigates through streaming apps with practiced efficiency, thumb moving over buttons without looking.
Some zombie show logo fills the screen, accompanied by the eerie theme music that sounds like the world ending in slow motion.
“You squeamish, Rhodesy?” she asks, eyes fixed on the screen as the episode starts. Her tone is casual, like she's asking if I want another beer, not if I can handle watching rotting corpses tear into human flesh.
I finally find my voice, my brain catching up to the fact that I'm sitting on Maren Marino's couch with her legs draped across my lap like this is something we do. Like this is normal.
Like we’re a fucking couple.
“If I was squeamish, I wouldn't be fucking playing hockey,” I shoot back, finding my footing in the familiar territory of being a smartass.
My hand comes to rest on her ankle, thumb brushing against the delicate bone there.
Two can play this game. “And I sure as fuck wouldn't be watching you kill people and helping you dispose of bodies now, would I?”
Her head whips toward me, eyes widening fractionally before narrowing again.
She doesn't pull away from my touch. Instead, she shifts slightly, her leg pressing more firmly against my hand, like she's daring me to keep going.
“You say the sweetest things,” she murmurs, and I swear her pupils dilate. “Maybe I should be concerned about what goes on in that head of yours.”
“Maybe you should, little nightmare. Maybe you should.”