Chapter 24
FLETCHER
Inod to Dana as I pass her office. She seems intrigued, pausing with her hand on the handle of her leather bag.
She’s the spider in her web—her massive leather furniture and mahogany desk very different from Ellie’s pink-and-white office that doesn’t look like any NHL or hockey coach’s office I’ve ever seen.
To be fair, Ellie has an ass and tits unlike any NHL coach I’ve ever seen.
I shouldn’t have given in, should have stuck to the play, because now Dana’s leaving and taking all her stuff with her. She gives me a piercing look as she passes me, perfectly balanced on her heels like a big cat, an apex predator.
I take the stairs down two at a time. Her car, a huge black Mercedes, sits gleaming in the sun, impeccably detailed—not a speck of salt stain on it. It’s unlocked.
It’s a trap! everything in me screams as I get in the car and sit in the plush leather seats. There’s nothing in the glove compartment or in the center console. I don’t even know what I’m looking for.
“She charges her phone in here,” I murmur. It’s a stroke of genius. I fish in my pocket and find the dongle that will fit right in the car’s charger port. She’ll plug in her phone to charge, and this thing will, according to Lawrence, let him access it to steal the data right off her phone.
Done. So close to paying off my debt.
This better work. I have to have something to show Hudson. He’s family and all, but that just means he doesn’t feel guilty if he breaks my rib.
Crack!
“Fuck!” I jump as Ren’s palm slams flat on the window.
“Should I tell Dana Holbrook you’re about to jerk off all over her Mercedes?
” He wrenches the car door open. The Southern accent is slippery as he leans into the car like a nasty little toad.
Ren is wearing a cutoff Rhode Islanders T-shirt, and his armpit almost scrapes my nose as he crawls over me.
“It’s not your business.”
“You’re trying to sleep with the owner of my team and the coach of my team, so sounds like I do have a stake in where you wet your weenie.”
“Fuck you, I am not.” I’m about to fight this motherfucker.
“Then what the hell are you doing, doodle? It’s not like you can hot-wire a car,” he snickers.
“Of course I can hot-wire a car,” I scoff.
He crawls right over me, his knee digging into my thigh, and sits in the passenger seat. “All right, Yankee, let’s see it.”
Dana’s coming out any minute—she never hangs around here long. If I was smart, I’d ditch the car and start running. But I can’t. Now it’s a matter of manhood.
My tongue flicks out. I lick my lower lip. “Fuck you, trailer trash,” I mutter.
Ren just howls in laughter.
My multi-tool has pliers and a screwdriver on it. Modern cars have immobilizers on them that make them unstealable—unless you have a cousin who knows computers.
I make lots of noise as I duck down under the steering wheel and text Lawrence:
Fletcher: Need in this car.
Lawrence: That Dana’s?
Fletcher: Yes, hurry up.
Lawrence: Turn your phone’s Bluetooth on.
Ren snorts somewhere above me.
I hold my breath.
My phone chimes. Then the car roars to life.
“Well damn, son, you got a magic wand up your dick.” Ren, for once, looks impressed with me. “Too bad you can’t play hockey as good as you can steal a car.”
“We should probably—” My hands are on the door handle.
“Goddamn pussy ass—”
I floor it. The car roars and the tires screech as we peel out of the parking lot.
“Whoo!” Ren whoops, opening the moonroof and sticking his head out like a gunner as the German engine roars down the street.
The goalie slaps the back of my head. “I didn’t think you had the balls, fucking Yankee pussy-ass bitch.”
I do donuts in the parking lot as Ren cranks the radio to rap music. I almost cream a Santa Claus–shaped trash can as the car’s speakers crackle and Dana Holbrook’s voice comes on: “Boys, bring my car back.”
Dana doesn’t seem to realize I left the data scraper in the small USB port of her car. I watch the black Mercedes peel out of the parking lot.
I’m too antsy to go back to Zayne Murphy’s house, though I should.
Maybe clean up all the empty protein shake bottles for the party he’s supposed to be hosting.
Between Ellie and the fact that I might be about to clear my debt after years of it hanging over my head, I don’t want to go back to Zayne’s house with all the rookies and the other hockey players and wait and stew.
I’m wired. It’s like my skin’s too tight.
I make sure the liquor’s still locked up tight at Zayne’s before I bail. I want to win tomorrow, and he needs to be sober.
I walk through town, toward Main Street, hands deep in the pockets of my coat, boots crunching on salt-scattered sidewalks.
The streets are strung with lights, the Christmas market glowing like a postcard.
Ellie loves this time of year. I know—I heard her yap about it enough when she tried to make a PR video for social media.
I weave through the crowds. Couples press close, fingers laced. Kids squeal over caramel apples and wooden toys. A guy my age awkwardly buys a snow globe from a stall—must be for a girl he’s trying to impress. Everyone’s trying to hold on to something tonight.
I’m not.
I don’t want all that happy holiday bullshit. I don’t want to be a happy couple. I don’t want to sit on a couch and watch Hallmark movies and argue about the tree topper.
I just want to see Ellie come. Over and over. I want to tear that neat little sweater off her, toss her clipboard across the room, and make her forget her goddamn name. I want to ruin her for every guy who comes after me, especially the one who eventually marries her.
The lights blur for a second. I clench my fists. The need to do something buzzes under my skin like static. Fight. Fuck. Play hockey. Break something. Steal something. Score something. Her.
It’s dark now. The stalls are dressed in glowing pinpoints of light. It nags at me. Once upon a time, I used to like Christmas. Love it, even. I don’t now—I love hockey. For a little bit. Until Hudson tells me they have the data they need. Then I guess it’s over. My dream is done. No more Ellie.
Today in her office can’t be the last time I see her.
I take out my phone—nothing from Lawrence.
It’s easy, though, to find her address. Nathan Clarke is a midlevel hockey star, and his house is listed on one of those creepy fan websites. I’m not Lawrence, but I can work Google.
It’s right around the corner, past the ancient library and the bakery that has the creepy gingerbread people that they’ll customize like your family.
The sounds of town merriment filter behind me as I head away from Main Street—bells and cider and snowflakes and “Merry Christmases.”
The Clarke house looks like a postcard. I circle it in the snow, searching. The oak tree is missing leaves, so it’s easy to jump up and grab the lowest hanging branch and pull myself up until I’m at the level of the glowing window, holding my breath. I hope it’s not her parents’.
Fuck.
I freeze in the dark, wishing I had my balaclava on. There’s Nathan Clarke in the window. He’s still got the NHL goalie reflexes. He catches the motion in his peripheral vision. He goes to the window.
Do I drop out of the tree and break my leg? Get caught sneaking around in the tree outside of his youngest daughter’s bedroom?
His wife calls to him. I catch snatches of their conversation:
“… need to be more supportive…”
“… don’t understand…”
Trina throws a pillow at her husband. He goes into the bathroom.
I scurry up the tree, very well aware that I’m a walking cliché, and if I had any honorable intentions with Ellie, I’d put on a clean shirt, comb my hair, for God’s sake, shave, and introduce myself to her family.
But I don’t have honorable intentions. I don’t want to marry her or fall in love with her. Don’t want to stroll through the Christmas market with her. I just want to fuck her into her mattress then fall asleep with my nose buried in her soft honey hair, drunk on the faint gingerbread scent.
I easily make the jump to the roof then curse because I’m pretty sure Nate will pick up the vibrations.
I wait. I don’t hear him shouting or anyone cocking a gun.
There’s a low roof in front of the other glowing window. I drop onto the slate tiles, lighter this time, absorbing the impact into my thighs.
Then I lose my breath as I stare into the window.
She’s sprawled out on the bed, her legs hanging off the side, her tits rising and falling under the thin spaghetti-strap T-shirt. All I can think of is sucking her tits through the thin shirt fabric then fucking her into the mattress until she screams so loud her father comes running.