Chapter 14
Toby
Arrogance is a sedative. It lulls you into thinking the ice is thick enough to hold your weight, even when you can hear the cracks forming beneath your feet.
I was arrogant.
I was arrogant because I was happy. For the first time in twenty-two years, I wasn't just existing; I was thriving. My hip felt better—Georgia’s nightly physio sessions and my own stubbornness were holding the joint together.
My stats were climbing again. And every night, I went home to a woman who looked at me like I was the sun, not just a cold star in a distant galaxy.
It was a Tuesday afternoon. Practice had ended an hour ago. The locker room was empty except for me and Jager.
I was buttoning my shirt, humming a tune under my breath.
Jager stopped tying his shoes and stared at me.
"Are you humming?" he asked, horrified. "You? Toby 'The Silencer' Kincaid? Humming?"
"It's a catchy song," I shrugged, checking my reflection. I looked tired, but the haunted look around my eyes was gone.
"Who are you and what have you done with my Captain?" Jager stood up, walking over to inspect me. He poked my shoulder. "You're smiling. You're humming. You haven't yelled at a rookie in three days. It's unsettling, T. It's unnatural."
"I'm focused," I said, grabbing my bag. "The playoffs are coming. I'm locked in."
"Bullshit," Jager said, narrowing his eyes. "You're getting laid. Regularly. And good for you, man. Seriously. But you're getting sloppy."
I froze. "Sloppy?"
"You left your phone unlocked on the bench yesterday," Jager said casually. "And when it buzzed, the name that popped up wasn't 'Mom' or 'Broker.' It was 'G'."
My heart skipped a beat. G. Georgia.
"G could be anyone," I said smoothly. "Gary. Greg. George."
"George sends you texts saying 'I bought the good olive oil, hurry home' with a heart emoji?" Jager raised an eyebrow. "Is George your domestic partner now?"
"Drop it, Jager."
"I'm just saying," Jager lowered his voice, glancing at the door. "Be careful. Coach is sniffing around. He's asking questions about why you leave immediately after practice. Why you aren't at the team dinners."
"I have rehab," I said. "Coach knows that."
"Coach knows you're up to something," Jager warned. "And if he finds out 'something' is a distraction... well, you know how he gets."
"Thanks for the tip," I said, clapping him on the shoulder. "But I've got it handled."
"Famous last words," Jager muttered as I walked out.
I walked to the parking lot, feeling invincible. Jager was just fishing. He didn't know. No one knew.
I got into the Rover and drove to the pickup spot.
It had become our routine. I parked in the loading zone behind the Arts building. Georgia would slip out the back door, hop in, and we would disappear.
Today, she was waiting. She was wearing a trench coat over leggings, holding a massive portfolio case. She looked like a spy. A very sexy spy.
She hopped in, bringing the scent of cold air and vanilla with her.
"Hey," she grinned, leaning over to kiss my cheek.
"Hey yourself."
"Drive," she said. "I have news."
"Good news?"
"Great news. I finished the series. The 'Ice and Storm' collection. My professor saw the sketches and... well, he didn't hate them. He actually said they were 'visceral.'"
"Visceral is good," I said, merging into traffic. "It means they felt it."
"Exactly! And... he suggested I submit them to the Spring Showcase."
I glanced at her. Her eyes were shining.
"That's huge, G. The Showcase is where the gallery owners scout, right?"
"Yeah. It's a big deal. If I get in... I could actually sell something legit. Under my own name. Not anonymous."
"You're going to get in," I said with absolute certainty. "You're a genius."
She laughed, squeezing my arm. "You're biased."
"I'm observant."
We drove toward the tower. The sun was setting, painting the sky in bruises of purple and orange.
"We should celebrate," I said. "Dinner out? Somewhere dark? Somewhere we can hide?"
"We can't," she said quickly. "Too risky. Jager was asking questions today."
"Jager asked me too," I admitted. "He saw a text."
"See? We're getting careless." She bit her lip. "Let's just do takeout. I'll make cocktails. We can celebrate in the fortress."
"Deal."
We pulled into the garage. I parked in my spot, next to a concrete pillar that blocked the view from the elevators.
Georgia unbuckled her seatbelt. She turned to me.
"I'm really happy, Toby," she whispered. "About the art. About... this."
"Me too," I said.
I leaned in. I couldn't help it. We were in the car, windows tinted, hidden by the pillar. It was safe.
I kissed her.
It was supposed to be a quick peck. A celebration kiss. But the moment our lips touched, the magnet snapped. I deepened it, my hand finding the back of her neck. She sighed into my mouth, her fingers tangling in my collar.
We kissed for a long time. Too long. We were lost in the bubble.
A flash of light cut through the darkness.
I jerked back.
Headlights swept across the garage wall. A car was driving down the ramp.
"Get down," I hissed.
Georgia ducked below the dashboard instantly.
I sat up straight, checking the rearview mirror.
It was a black SUV. Tinted windows. It drove past us slowly. Too slowly.
It didn't park. It did a loop and drove back up the ramp.
"Did they see us?" Georgia whispered from the floor.
"I don't know," I said, my pulse racing. "Windows are tinted. Maybe they just saw a car parked."
"Was it... was it a scout?"
"Scouts drive sedans," I said. "That looked like... corporate transport."
My stomach tightened. Corporate transport. My father’s preferred mode of travel.
"It's gone," I said. "Let's go. Separate elevators."
"Okay."
She slipped out of the car, staying low, and ran for the service elevator.
I waited five minutes. Then I took the main elevator.
When I got upstairs, Georgia was already in the kitchen, pouring wine. Her hands were shaking.
"That was close," she said, handing me a glass.
"Too close," I agreed. "We need to be tighter. No kissing in the garage. No lingering."
"Right. Protocol."
She clinked her glass against mine. "To protocol."
"To protocol," I echoed.
But the wine tasted sour. And the image of the black SUV kept replaying in my mind.
It was probably nothing. Just a neighbor. Or a delivery.
I pushed the fear down. I was the Captain. I controlled the variables.
We were fine.
We weren't fine.
The next day, Wednesday, the cracks started to show.
I was in the cafeteria, eating lunch with the team. It was a mandatory bonding meal. We sat at the long "Athletes' Table," a noisy island of testosterone in the middle of the dining hall.
Georgia walked in.
She was with Lola. They were laughing, carrying trays.
She walked past our table.
Usually, she ignored me. But today, she glanced over. Just a quick flicker of eyes. A microscopic smile meant only for me.
I smiled back. A reflex.
"Whoa," Brett Hanson, the quarterback, said from across the table. "Did you see that?"
"See what?" Jager asked, mouth full of pasta.
"Sterling," Brett pointed his fork at Georgia's retreating back. "She just smiled at Kincaid. Like... a real smile."
"So?" I said, stabbing a piece of chicken. "She has facial muscles. Congratulations on your observation skills, Brett."
"No, man," Brett leaned in. "That wasn't a 'hello' smile. That was a 'I know what you look like naked' smile."
The table went quiet.
"You're delusional," I said coolly. "She hates me. Everyone knows that."
"Does she?" Brett challenged. "Because rumor has it you two left the Gala together. And I saw her leaving the rink after the Michigan State game. Through the player exit."
My grip on my fork tightened.
"She's helping Doc with rehab," I lied. "She's a physio student. She was working."
"Right," Brett sneered. "Working on your... hip."
The guys laughed. It was crude, locker room humor. But underneath it, there was suspicion.
"Watch your mouth, Hanson," I said, my voice dropping. "Or I'll make sure you eat that fork."
"Touchy," Brett held up his hands. "Just saying, Kincaid. If you're tapping that, you're playing with fire. Her dad will bench you so fast your head will spin."
"I'm not tapping anything," I said, standing up. "I'm done."
I dumped my tray and walked out.
I needed air. I needed to get away from the prying eyes.
I walked to the quad. It was snowing lightly.
I pulled out my phone to text Georgia. Be careful. Brett is talking.
Before I could hit send, a hand grabbed my arm.
"Toby."
I spun around.
It was Lola. Georgia's friend.
She was wearing combat boots and a coat that looked like it was made of black feathers. Her eyeliner was sharp enough to kill.
"Lola," I said, stepping back. "What do you want?"
"We need to talk," she said. "Now. Behind the library."
"I have class."
"Cut the crap, Kincaid. It's about Georgia. And the black SUV following her."
My blood froze.
"What?"
"Move," she ordered.
We walked behind the library, into the shelter of the brick wall.
"What SUV?" I demanded.
"Black Cadillac Escalade," Lola said, lighting a clove cigarette. "It's been parked outside our dorm—well, my dorm, since she doesn't live there anymore—for two days. And today, it followed us to the cafeteria."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm paranoid, not blind," Lola snapped. "It has New York plates. And the guy inside isn't a student. He looks like a fed. Or a hitman."
New York plates.
Marcus Thorne.
"Does Georgia know?" I asked.
"She noticed it today. She thinks it's her dad checking up on her. But she's scared, Toby. She's acting weird. She's jumpy."
Lola blew smoke into the cold air. She looked at me with piercing dark eyes.
"She's sleeping at your place, isn't she?"
I hesitated. "Lola..."
"Don't lie to me. She hasn't slept in my room in three weeks. She smells like your cologne. And she's actually happy for the first time in her life. So I know it's you."
I sighed. "Yeah. She is."