Chapter 18 Bates
I’m following her path to her front door the second she gets out of her dad’s car. Her porch light turns on from the motion, lighting up her face that’s being tugged down with a frown as she unlocks her front door.
Guilt rakes my chest, and my throat burns because I know I’m the reason she looks so sad right now.
I wish I could take it away. I wish she could have found out the truth differently. I would have eased her into it, warmed her up to the idea of the real me, but this was abrupt and harsh.
I understand her anger—I do. I knew damn well what I was doing when I started this whole secret identity, aware of how she felt about being involved with her dad’s players.
I did it anyway.
We’re inevitable, always have been, always will be. I was just trying to speed up the process a bit.
Freddie greets Serena when she gets inside, jumping up on her legs and begging to be embraced in her arms.
Shit, if I were there right now, I’d be begging for the same thing.
She lifts him up, cradling him like a baby—his favorite way to be held. He plasters her with kisses, and she accepts them all, melting around him with each second that passes until Freddie starts to wiggle, asking to be put down.
Usually, he would lie in her arms for hours if she let him, but he has too much energy right now and bursts into little sprints of zoomies when his four tiny legs touch the ground.
I turn up the sound on my phone just in time to hear Serena’s sweet giggle echo around my bedroom.
The sound nearly kills me, wrapping around my heart and squeezing me half to death.
Going through the motions she always does when she gets home, she hangs her coat and purse up and puts her shoes on the rack before stepping into her slippers.
A shiver runs through her, and she … freezes. But her eyes bounce back and forth, searching curiously. Slowly, I watch as her body tightens, jaw setting and brows slanting with suspicion.
She cocks her head ever so slightly to the side, her breathing turning shallow as her eyes scour the room.
Is she looking for me? Does she think I snuck away to hide in her house before she could get home? That would have been a good idea, but I didn’t want to push my luck too far tonight.
Swiping out of the camera app and minimizing the screen so I can still watch her, I send her a quick text.
Looking for me? I’m flattered
Her shoulders tighten as I hear her phone chime. She rolls her eyes, probably assuming it’s me. I can’t help but chuckle at her immediate disdain.
Begrudgingly, she steps back to her purse and retrieves her phone.
She must not completely hate me, because I can see the gold bracelet wrapped around her wrist.
Reading my message, she types back quickly, and my phone vibrates.
Serena: So I can stab you
You don’t even have a knife
Serena: Are you watching?
Always
Aggressively, she struts toward the kitchen, her brows still pinched together in that angry, cute way. I swipe cameras, switching to one angled toward her cabinetry and sink.
With a shit-eating grin, she reaches toward her knife block and pulls out the big boy. Setting it down on the counter, she huffs a breath and sends me another message.
Serena: Happy?
You’ve never looked hotter
Serena: If you’re here, I’m stabbing you in the leg
That’s a rude thing to do to your boyfriend
Serena: You’re not my boyfriend.
The fuck I’m not
Serena: I’m going to start dating someone else then
That’s not a good idea
Serena: Why’s that?
Because then I’ll have to add murderer to my résumé
Serena: Ooh so scary. Yeah right. Big talk, no walk
Want to find out for yourself? Go right ahead.
Serena: [eye roll emoji]
Picking the knife up, she tightens her grip around the handle and trots off, heading back the way she came. Her scowl leads her up the stairs to her bedroom, and I hastily swipe through cameras to keep up.
Damn near ripping off one of her closet doors, she throws it open and points the knife into the darkness inside. But her shoulders lower when she realizes I’m not there.
I told you I’m not there.
I’m at home
Alone
Watching you
Starving
Gnawing at the bars of my enclosure
An idea pops into my mind, one that I haven’t been able to act on since my identity has been under wraps up until this point.
Lifting my phone up, I open the camera app and snap a selfie, smirking, my hood pulled up over my hair. I hit Send.
She clicks into the image, studying it closely. Zooming in, she searches the background, only finally accepting my words as truth.
Serena: Good. Don’t come back to my house
I absolutely am going back there. I have to see our son
Serena: Freddie is absolutely NOT your son
I beg to differ
And so would he. He loves me
Serena: He’ll get over it
Serena: Just like I will
Don’t say things you don’t mean. You and I both know that was a lie
But we can pretend for a little while longer if you’d like
While I’m not hiding out in her house, I did leave early to swing by and drop something off.
Check under your bed
Serena: I swear if you’re under there …
She jabs the knife into the air a couple of times, looking serious at first, but then I see the tiniest smirk flash across her lips.
Crouching down, she drops to her knees and peeks below, holding her breath. Her delicate fingers reach beneath and pull out what I hid.
A letter. One that I made without the help of the guys, without any prying eyes, and without any secrets between us. I’ve been keeping a stash of them in my car, only filling them out before I dropped them at her house.
After she told me she knew who I was at the gala, I wrote one for the first time without secrets between us.
She doesn’t open it, but goes for her phone, typing away.
Serena: You left me a letter?
Serena: Also, where else do you have shit stashed? Because this is the second time you’ve had me find hidden gifts.
I’ll never tell …
And yes, of course I did.
You think my mask coming off is going to stop me from proving to you how good we are together? I’m never going to stop. Even if I have to keep trying for the rest of our damn lives.
Serena: You’re being dramatic, don’t you think? You have no clue that we’d be good for one another. Clearly, we pull the crazy out in each other
That’s the best kind of love there is
Serena: Love, huh? Big word
I’m aware
Before she can talk herself out of this conversation and ignore me entirely, I send another text.
Read the note if you want. But there’s something else in there too.
Come to my game tomorrow. Bring Kerrigan if you want backup. There are two tickets.
Her typing bubble appears and disappears; as usual, she’s indecisive about what she wants to say. But finally, her message comes through.
Serena: I’ll think about it
The cool air swirling in the rink is doing little to calm the heat coursing through my body, my overwhelming nerves getting the best of me. There are only two minutes left in warm-ups, and she’s not in her seat, both ones I saved for her empty.
“No-show? Maybe she’s done putting up with you.” Casper smacks my ass with his stick as he skates by, looking at me with a shit-eating grin.
Gripping my stick, I swing and return the favor.
Cas moans, throwing his head back, his light brown–borderline dirty-blonde–strands shifting with his helmet.
His voice is playfully high-pitched. “Do it again, Daddy.”
“Jesus Christ.” I laugh, feeling the anxiety ease ever so slightly. “She’ll be here.”
Kol’s eyes flick over to mine with an amusing smile on his lips. “And if she doesn’t come?”
I don’t believe the confidence in my words; I doubt they do too. The clock runs out, and people start heading to the locker room, but I hang by, getting a few extra shots in while waiting for Serena to show up.
But a few rips later, the official blows their whistle, politely telling the rest of the players on each team to hurry the fuck up.
With one last glance at Serena’s seats, positioned up behind the players’ bench, I find them empty and head toward the locker room for the short break before game time.
We have a big game tonight. We’re playing the Hawks, and the last time we faced off, they injured one of our goalies, knocking him out of the lineup for two weeks with an upper body injury.
We didn’t play any part in it. Oftentimes, our defensemen are shoving and pushing our opponents while they’re close to the goalie’s crease, trying to throw them off and mess up their game, knocking them out of position in any way possible.
But this Hawks fucker, number eighty-four, was isolated on a breakaway and skated right into him, damn near tackling him into the net. He had ample time to stop himself, but he went in too hot, and when he finally tried to slow, it was too late.
Eighty-Four is starting tonight, and I know he’ll be playing with a target on his back the entire game. Every hit will be harder. Every poke, sharper. Every elbow, deeper. We won’t be pulling any punches tonight.
Twenty minutes later, we’re lining up for announcements. The rest of the nonstarters are ready to jump onto the ice as the announcer gains control of the rowdy crowd.
“Welcome to the ice, your SAINT PAUL SINNERS!” he shouts into the mic, and the audience follows suit as the nonstarters skate out, loop around our end, and head to the bench.
Booming from the speakers, he announces our goalie. “In the net, number thirty-five, Jordan Worthingtonnnn!”
Wojo skates out and finds his spot on the blue line, followed by our two Russian defensemen after their names and numbers are called, one by one.
Cas is next to be announced, skating out and joining the other guys. Now it’s my turn.
The overhead lights are dimmed, the arena lit by a colorful show of reds and pinks. The crowd must’ve been given something that glows because thousands of bright red speckles decorate the audience.
This is my home, my favorite place in the entire fucking world. This is what I want to share with Serena. I just hope she comes.
“Number fourteen … Bates Finnegan!”
I shoot onto the ice as the crowd roars in the arena, getting even louder as I hit the blue line and they announce Kol Brighton.
The colors are presented, the anthem is sung, and the entire time, I’m counting down the seconds until the lights come on, and I can see if she’s here.
We all slap our sticks on the ground after the resident singer is done. The color guard leaves the ice, and finally, it’s showtime.
My body moves me through the motions, going through the same loop around our zone and twirl I do every game before puck drop, during that short thirty-second gap between pregame performances and the official start of the first period.
As I follow the boards, rounding the ice toward our bench, I glance up and lock eyes with her, my entire body releasing tension I didn’t even know I was holding.
She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t nod or wave.
Instead, she lifts her hand, the back of it to me, and flips me off, a smirk forming on her lips.
Kerrigan laughs and slaps her hand down, murmuring to her, and I desperately wish I could hear it. Serena says something back, and Kerrigan cocks her head to the side, staring at Serena like she doesn’t believe whatever was just said.
The official blows his whistle, pulling my mind and body toward the center of the ice. As much as I want to watch her all night, I want to murder the Hawks in front of her just as badly.