Chapter 14 My Assassin Phase
MY ASSASSIN PHASE
FORD
I ferry the puck down the ice, skates scraping, focused as a sniper. I dodge a giant New York defenseman, and in another second or two, I’ll slap this bad boy past the goalie.
If I can just find an opening, I can break this infernal tie. And I can do it with the gorgeous, clever, amusing redhead watching from the stands.
But Karlsson, the New York defender, strips the puck from me, then flashes a smug grin as he spins around. “Slippery hands, old man,” he taunts and races down the ice the other way.
“Fuck.” I don’t care about his insult—because fuck him, he’s always been like that.
I care about me. And that? That’s so not me.
I don’t lose my concentration because of fans.
I block out the noise. I block out trash talk. I block out everything.
But now I’m on my heels, chasing Karlsson as possession changes. I’ve got to get it back from that asshole. I can’t let a distraction interfere with my game.
No such luck though.
The shift changes ten seconds later, and I hop over the boards, irritated. Falcon claps me on the back. “We’ll get ‘em next time,” the defenseman says.
I nod, grabbing my water bottle. “We fucking will.” Shaking it off, I take a long, thirsty drink, trying not to look at center ice.
At the seats I got for Skylar.
I keep my gaze on the action, watching the opponents like I’m studying the penguins in that brain game I played earlier. The game that’s supposed to help me keep my focus when it matters.
Like, say, now.
But another voice says, Maybe just one look is fine.
Then I think of Leah and what she said earlier today: Your discipline is unmatched. But you don’t have to do extra to play at peak performance. You’re doing great as you are.
While my teammates battle by the boards for the puck, I give myself permission to do ten reps…by stealing a glance at center ice at last.
Skylar’s shouting, cheering us on, and—wait. Is she wearing a number fourteen jersey?
Holy shit. She is.
A dumb smile spreads across my face. I look down, so it’s not obvious to everyone. Best if I look fierce, angry, glowering.
Then I read the words on my water bottle one more time before the shift change.
Surprise Them.
My mantra since I surprised the whole damn league by sticking around when no one thought I’d make it to the pros.
When it’s time for the next line change, I hop over the boards with Bryant and Falcon, locking in. New York barely sees it coming when Falcon strips the puck from their forward and flicks it to Bryant.
I am nothing but concentration as Bryant flings it my way.
I assess their goalie, watching as he sets up for me to bite on the slap shot. Then, at the last second, I switch to a wrist shot.
It slips right through his legs. He’s…surprised.
The crowd roars, and Bryant bumps my chest. “You old dog. You can learn new tricks,” he says.
“Right. I learned that from you,” I say, but I can’t even be sarcastic. We’re ahead now, and all I want is to keep it that way.
This time, I don’t fight the impulse.
Because focus isn’t about fighting distractions. It’s about not letting them get the better of you.
And Skylar, cheering me on in a jersey with my number? That’s not something I want to miss.
I tip my forehead in her direction as she cheers louder. The woman next to her leans in and whispers something in her ear.
Skylar just smiles and keeps cheering.
And we keep winning.
When the game ends and my teammates cheer and high-five, I glide past center ice, mouthing to her, “Nice jersey.”
She gives a sassy pop of her hips. “This thing? Found it in a discount bin,” she shouts.
I laugh. She loves to knock me down a peg.
And you love it when she does that.
The thing is, I really do.
Shame I didn’t make plans with her for after the game. But I dismiss that thought. We’re…neighbors. Sort of friends. Definitely working together.
There’s no need to make plans.
But I’m not annoyed one bit when I let Zamboni into the yard later that night to do her business and see Skylar across the fence with Simon running in circles.
The trouble is, Skylar’s staring at her phone, her brow furrowed in tight concentration. Her lips are a ruler.
I strain to listen to whatever she’s watching and catch a man’s voice through the speaker: “We’re just so grateful that she was so supportive, and how the universe has brought us together to open our dream board game store.”
Skylar looks up, livid. I don’t know what’s on that video, but whatever it is, it just ruined her night.
I want to jump over the fence and comfort her. Instead, I step closer to the four-foot-high wooden fence that separates our yards, resting a hand on top of the painted wood, Zamboni parking herself dutifully at my feet.
“What’s going on?”
Skylar flinches, then looks up from her phone. With a frown, she stabs the screen, ending the video. “Just my ex,” she says with a shrug like it’s no big deal. She shoves the phone into her pocket. “It’s fine.”
“You sure?” I ask, worried.
But embarrassment flickers in her pretty green eyes, visible even in the dark.
Simon yips, and she bends to pick him up. “It’s fine, buddy.”
The little brown and tan guy snuggles against her chest. Lucky dog. But I force myself to look up at her, not at the burrowing critter.
“Skylar.” My tone is stern. I want her to tell me what’s going on.
She draws a steadying breath, meeting my gaze with a cheery, “How are you? Great game. Thanks again for the tickets. It was so fun.”
Ah, hell. She’s trying to cover up her feelings. I appreciate the put-on-a-game-face routine, but the fact that she’s not sassing me about anything says what her mouth isn’t saying. She’s hurt.
I nod to her pocket where the phone is out of sight but not out of mind. “What’s going on with your ex and his dream board game store? And do you want me to have him poisoned? I can arrange for arsenic just like that.” I snap my fingers.
A small smile teases at her pretty lips, and then she lets out a long sigh. “He talked to some local neighborhood site about his new store, that’s all. I came across it on my social feed. It’s opening soon, and it’s honestly not a bad idea for a business.”
She’s right, especially with game nights becoming more popular. But I hate her ex on principle, so I am not going to concede this point.
“Would you like me to poison a game of Chutes and Ladders for him?”
“I have no idea how you would do that, but I love that you’re thinking this way because—” She hesitates, weighing whether to say the next thing, then she gives in, “fine. He brought me up in the video. He said he appreciated how supportive I was of him and his dreams, especially because he’s opening the shop now with his new girlfriend. That’s what I was watching.”
Anger lashes through me. My jaw tightens. I want to find this guy and throttle him. I don't even know what happened in their breakup, but I’m certain of two things—it was his fault, and he’s an asshole. “Why did he bring you up in the video?”
“I was very supportive of him when we were together. His plans, his ideas,” she explains, but it’s clear from her tone that the memory hurts.
“When we lived together, he kept saying he wanted to open this store, and I encouraged him to. But he never did. We were in a relationship for a long time, and then he broke up with me when he met someone else.”
My own chest aches. I understand her situation too well. But I shove my feelings aside. “His loss,” I say sharply, biting out the words as I clench my fists.
Zamboni looks up at me, thumping her thick tail in worry. She’s always been an empathetic dog. I stroke her head so she knows I’m not mad at her. Never mad at her.
I lighten up on my frustration as I motion for Skylar to go on. “So they opened the store together?”
“It seems so,” she says, lifting her chin, trying so hard to be tough.
“And he said in the video that they appreciated my early support so much, they wrote my name on the floorboard in the vintage corner under the carpet in his shop. Said he hopes I find my own happiness like they have.” She rolls her eyes.
“I wish a cat would pee all over their store.”
That’s the Skylar I know. Completely exasperated and frustrated.
“I am one hundred percent going to poison him,” I announce, meaning it. I’m ready to brew something deadly in a basement I don’t have.
“Poison’s too good for him,” she says.
“You're right. He should suffer. But I’m positive some poison could do the trick. Something that guarantees a nice, long, painful death.” I pause for a second to think.
“We were talking about plants the other day. We could give him a potted poisonous plant as a store-opening gift and tell him it’s edible. ”
And just like fucking magic, her frown disappears, replaced by a devilish grin I want to kiss right off her lovely lips. “I had no idea you were secretly—well, I knew you were secretly mean—but secretly evil? This is really something.”
“Wait, it was a secret that I’m mean?” I ask, mock offended that she thinks I try to hide it.
“You’re right. It’s not a secret. It’s obvious.”
“I was hoping it would be.”
“Terribly obvious. But this is actually kind of exciting.” She steps closer to the fence, curling her hand around a wooden post. “What are some other ways you might poison him?”
“Well, considering I have just begun the assassin phase of my life, I need to do some research. But I’m good at research and incredibly committed to follow-through. When I say I’m going to do something, I do it.”
“Like with your conditioning,” she says, then dips her face and kisses the dog’s head.
Simon peers up at her like she hung the moon. It’s so endearing, their relationship. So familiar, too, though mine with Zamboni is different. But Skylar and I, we both seem to rely on our dogs. “How long have you had him?” I ask.
“Three perfect years. I adopted him from Little Friends. I always wanted a Dachshund mix. They’re so cute and…spicy,” she says.
Like you.
But I keep that thought to myself.