Chapter 5 #2
He immediately launches into another long explanation, like he can’t help it.
“Daily, for the most part, but it’s not like everyone thinks.
Some days, we don’t even get on the ice and just spend time in the gym or working with strength coaches or athletic trainers.
Sometimes Gilly, the other goalie, and I hit a yoga class while everyone else does gym shit.
We get some days off here and there, but most days I’m at the rink daily at ten a.m., basically.
There isn’t a day that goes by that I’m not doing something for something.
” I flip the napkin I’m using over, even though this sketch wasn’t the worst, and jot down the time he’s given, then stuff it into my pocket before he gets a closer look.
I want to make sure it matches the picture I took of his schedule on my phone.
“What about travel? How often do you do that?” The fact that he’s letting someone who obviously stole his wallet and broke into his apartment to take his hoodie ask him these questions is beyond me, but I’m not going to ruin my good luck by pointing it out. Maybe he’s just lonely—he’s new here too.
“Frequently,” he sighs. “It feels like at least once a week I’m on some chartered bus heading off somewhere.
We rarely get to fly, but those are the best trips.
Nothing starts to suck more than playing back-to-back games in completely different cities on a long-ass road trip.
The only real bonus is that our games are usually just on weekends, Fridays and Saturdays mostly. ”
So if I wanted to break into his apartment again, Friday and Saturday are the days to do it. I should have kept the napkin out.
“What do you do on your days off?”
“Catch up on sleep, mostly. Sometimes I’ll start with a morning run, then spend the rest of the day in my apartment playing video games.
” That lines up with the console I saw. “On rare occasions, Oakley comes through town with his team and I hit the arena to watch him play. It’s mostly chill, though. ”
“Oakley plays for a different team?”
“In a different city,” he says. “In a different league. Do you know anything about hockey contracts?”
I’m torn between laughing and questioning whether he’s been paying attention, so I settle on tilting my head. “Do I seem like I know about hockey… anything?”
He scrunches his brows together. “Seems to me like you’re interested, is all.”
I don’t want to tell him I have zero interest in hockey, but I’m making mental notes on how to be the perfect serial killer with the way he’s telling me his schedule.
“Go on,” I prompt. “Tell me about your friend Oakley.” And like a little puppy eager to please, he does.
“Okay, so I play in the AHL, but my contract is actually with an NHL team, and they just assigned me here. Oakley also has an NHL contract, but he plays in that league. He was drafted in the first round, pretty high up.”
Every single bit of what he’s saying sounds like absolute gibberish to me.
And even though I can tell he’s getting a little exasperated with my twenty questions, he still seems willing to play along with my little game.
I pause to add a few lines to the sketch I’ve been working on while he talks—the little stray hairs brushing his forehead, the way his freckles dance across his nose.
It gives him a chance to get in a question of his own.
“What about you, Shiloh? What do you do when you’re not at work, or school, or wherever it is you create art?”
I’m saved from having to answer when Laura comes back out with two plates piled high and slides a chocolate milkshake in front of me.
I frown, but before I can say anything, Donovan drags it across the table. “He actually asked for strawberry. Why don’t I keep this one, and you can get him a new one?”
That brings me up short.
It’s a silly thing, honestly—the way it makes my stomach clench. I’m not used to people really paying attention or caring about what I want. From the look she throws me, she’s a little taken aback too.
“Sorry about that. I’ll go get you a new one.”
When she walks away, I frown, biting my lower lip. He’s already tucking into his food, but my fingers are tapping on the table before I finally decide I can give him one thing.
“I work on art pieces to sell during my free time. It’s how I afford to live in a city this expensive.” Just saying that much feels like I flayed off a few layers of skin and exposed my ribcage to him, but Donovan just takes a big bite of his burger and nods.
“That’s cool, though, that you make enough to support yourself, I mean.” He seems… enthusiastic about it. Not like he’s storing the information away to use against me later.
“I suppose so,” I answer, and then dive back into questioning him.
By the time we’re done eating, I know his exact practice schedule, the gym he likes to work out at, his favorite restaurants around town, what movie he wants to go see next, and where he grocery shops.
It’s… startling how open he is. How sweet.
I’ve gone through six napkins trying to replicate the way his eyes sparkle when he’s excited, but pen and a cheap surface seem incapable of capturing it.
I don’t like sketching. It’s messy and imperfect. Colorless.
I need paint… I need to slide a knife along his skin, because I know his blood would make the perfect shade of red for his hair until it dried.
I…
“Do you want to come to my next game?” He interrupts my thoughts again, and I pause.
No, I don’t really. I don’t have any actual interest in hockey, but…
“Maybe. When is it?”
“Friday night. We play the Wildcats, so it should be a good game.”
I nod, grabbing another napkin and jotting down the time.
When I go to crumple up my last sketch, he catches it with deft fingers, sliding it across the table.
It makes me wrinkle my nose. That’s not the first impression I want him to have of my art—I shouldn’t want him to have one at all, but here we are.
“Wow, this is… you’re actually really good, Shiloh. I mean, I guess you’d have to be to do this for a living.”
I stare at the napkin, the imperfections, the way it looks like the ghost of an attempt at capturing how… lovely he is.
“It’s not my best,” I offer flatly.
“What are you talking about? This is good.” He snatches another napkin, and I feel my chest go warm. I don’t want him to see imperfect sketches. I want him to see me at my best. But my best has a price paid in blood, so… I shake my head.
“You’re not a subject for a cheap medium. You’d look better in paints.”
He looks a little confused. “What do you mean?”
I’m saved from having to explain myself by our waitress coming back again. I notice this time she doesn’t flirt, she just puts the bill between us with a polite smile. “Can I get you anything else before you go?”
I shake my head and pull my wallet out of Donovan’s hoodie before he can grab his.
“I can—”
“No, it’s fine. You can pay next time.” I throw some cash on the table and stand up. “Maybe after your game.”
“So you’re coming?” He seems a little shocked, maybe a little excited. I should say no—I should just sneak into his apartment tonight and end this weird fascination. But I know I’m not going to. People know him.
I want to know more about him. So…
“Yeah.”
He grins, and then his eyes drop to my chest. “So, uh, am I not getting my hoodie back?”
I shake my head with a small laugh. “Nah. How else will you see me in the stands? I’ll see you Friday.”
“There’ll be a ticket at will call for you,” he says.
“Really?”
“Under the name California,” he adds with a grin.
“All right, Donovan,” I don’t mean to breathe his name the way I do, to let my fascination show, but it comes out anyway. Maybe that’s what makes him move.
Before I can walk away, he catches my wrist. The feel of his fingers, even through the thick fabric of his hoodie, penetrate my skin. I turn slowly, staring at the way his hand easily encircles my arm. He’s so big.
“Can I keep the sketches?”
I want to tell him no—I want to tell him they aren’t good, that I can do better, that I could show him better. I want to invite him back to my place so I can show him exactly how I make art.
Instead, I carefully extract my wrist from his fingers and nod. “If you want. I’ll see you around.”
And to my surprise, he picks up every discarded napkin and carefully starts smoothing them out. He’s still stacking them into a neat pile like they’re something delicate when I leave.
Donovan William Myers is… strange. Intriguing.
Interesting enough that I know I’m not going to kill him… at least, not yet.