Chapter 24
The vibration wakes me before the alarm does. I reach for my phone on the nightstand, eyes still heavy with sleep. One glance at the screen and every trace of drowsiness burns away.
It’s Derek. Again.
I swipe the message open with a pulse that’s already hammering in my ears.
A photo fills the screen. Not of me this time, or my teammates like the last one.
It’s one of Rochelle. She’s standing outside of an office, with a tote bag slung over her shoulder, hair tied up like she always does when she’s working.
The angle is low, like whoever took it was parked on the street.
Below it, his send a message.
24 hours left, brother. Your pretty journalist won’t stay pretty for much longer.
My stomach flips like I’ve just taken a blindside hit in my lung area.
Heat surges through me, with a mix rage, panic, and helplessness, all crashing together.
My hand tightens around the phone until the frame creaks.
For half a second, I want to hurl it against the wall, and watch it shatter into pieces.
Instead, I start to pace. The room suddenly feels too small, every step sounding like a scream in my skull. He’s watching her. He’s not just after me anymore, he’s pulling her into this, targeting her because he knows I can’t stand the thought of her being hurt.
I press my fists into my temples. What do I do right now?
Do I call her? Warn her? No, what would I even say?
Hey, the psycho blackmailer I’ve been hiding from is stalking you now, but don’t freak out?
If I tell her, she’ll want answers. And the second she knows, she’s in deeper than she already is.
But keeping it from her, Christ, that’s killing me too.
My breath goes in and out, chest tight, and throat burning. I can almost see Derek smirking, somewhere in his filthy little hideout, knowing exactly how to twist the knife to hurt me. He wants me frantic. He wants me cornered. He wants me to crack.
And damn it, I’m so close to cracking.
I grip the edge of the counter, my knuckles white. I could go to the police, but he warned me about that. He always seems to know when I’m considering it. He’s got eyes everywhere somehow.
I picture Rochelle at her desk, sipping her coffee, typing furiously like she does when she’s chasing a story. She has no clue a predator is circling around. My chest aches with a mix of fury and fear so sharp it feels like broken glass in my lungs.
Furious, I slam a fist against the counter. The sound echoes, but it doesn’t give me any relief.
This isn’t about me anymore. This is about her.
And if Derek thinks I’ll just sit back and watch him threaten the one person who actually matters in this wreck of a life… he’s dead wrong.
But until I know how to fight him, all I can do is keep her safe the only way I know how––by taking it all on myself. By carrying this weight alone.
So, I force my breathing to steady, even as my phone buzzes again in my hand. Another photo. Another reminder of the clock ticking down.
I don’t smash it. I don’t scream.
I just pace around the room, fury burning hot under my skin, and promise myself that he’s not touching her.
The rink is freezing, but I’m burning up inside. Derek’s text hasn’t left my head since I read it this morning. Every whistle blast, every slap of the puck against the boards just fades behind the image of Rochelle standing outside the office, caught through some creep’s camera lens.
I line up for the drill, stick in hand, but my grip is wrong.
The puck slides across the ice, begging for precision.
My skate edges bite too hard as I slide across the ice.
A pass comes my way, and it should be easy, perfect, yet I fumble it.
Stick clatters. The rookie player scoops it instead, looking surprised.
“Morrison!” Coach Williams’ bark cuts through the rink like a whip. “Wake the hell up.”
I mutter a curse under my breath, reset, try to focus. Next rep, I do the same damn thing. My timing’s late, my head’s elsewhere. The puck bounces off my blade like I’ve never played the sport in my life.
Frustration boils inside me. I slam the boards with my stick, and the crack echoes across the ice. My teammates glance at me, a mix of confusion and annoyance on their faces.
“Bench,” Coach growls, voice low and dangerous. “You’re no use to me like this.”
The shame lands heavy, like a weight strapped to my chest. I skate to the bench, rip off my helmet, jaw clenched so tight it aches. Sweat runs down my temple though I’ve barely been working.
Jake slides in next to me, water bottle in hand, eyes narrowed. “What’s going on Kai? You’re totally off it right now.”
I don’t answer, because I can’t. My throat’s burning up.
Practice winds down, drills continue moving without me. I’m benched like a rookie who’s playing for the first time. When we finally hit the locker room, I make a beeline for my stall, hoping to disappear into silence.
But Jake’s not having it. He corners me, arms crossed. Behind him, a couple of guys hover. Hurley and Alex, watching like vultures.
“You’re not yourself,” Jake presses, voice low but firm. “You’ve been weird for a while now, but today? You were a damn ghost out there. What’s going on?”
My pulse spikes. If only they knew. If only I could say, my addict brother is blackmailing me with photos of the woman I…
But I can’t. I won’t. The second I spill Rochelle’s in more danger.
So instead, I snap. “Back off, Jake.”
His brows shoot up. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” I slam my gear into the stall, the sound making everyone flinch. “I don’t need babysitters. I don’t need a damn intervention. I just need to be left alone.”
The room goes silent, thick with tension. Jake’s jaw flexes like he wants to fire back, but he doesn’t. Maybe he sees the barely leashed fury in my eyes. Maybe he realizes I’m hanging by a thread.
I shove past him, the smell of sweat and ice clinging to me, and stalk down the hall. My boots echo against concrete, each step heavier than the last.
The equipment room door slams behind me, rattling on its hinges. Finally, silence. Just me, the smell of old pads, and my own ragged breathing.
I drop onto the bench, bury my face in my hands.
I’m unraveling. And if I don’t pull it together soon, I’m going to lose everything, Rochelle, and my career.
The door to the facility creaks open, and I know that sound before I even look up.
Rochelle’s voice carries softly through the building as she thanks the receptionist, her heels clicking against the tile.
My chest tightens. For one stolen second, relief washes over me that she’s here, and she’s safe.
Then my phone beeps in my pocket.
I pull it out, thumb unlocking the screen on autopilot. One new message. No words, just a picture. My stomach drops.
It’s her. Rochelle. She’s walking across the parking lot in the same outfit she has on now. The photo was taken just minutes ago. Derek’s camera caught her mid-step, notebook clutched to her chest, her hair catching in the wind. The timestamp burns into me––less than two minutes old.
My vision becomes blurry and my heart slams like I’ve just skated an entire hour without a break. He’s here. Not just somewhere out there in the city, but here, close enough to watch her walk inside.
Rochelle steps into view, a warm smile lifting her face when she spots me. She raises a hand, about to call my name.
Panic hijacks me. I shove my phone back into my pocket, almost fumbling it. My legs move before my brain catches up, cutting across the lobby with too much speed, and way too much desperation.
She tilts her head, brows furrowing. “Kai?”
“Let’s get out of here,” I blurt, grabbing her elbow gently but firmly. My voice is rough, stripped down to raw instinct.
Her eyes widen. “What? I just got here, and I have interviews scheduled with…”
“Reschedule it,” I cut in, tone sharper than I mean to. My gaze flicks to the glass doors, scanning the parking lot beyond. Every figure, every car could be him. My skin crawls.
Rochelle plants her feet, resisting just enough to make me stop and face her. “Kai. What’s going on?”
I force my expression to be neutral, swallowing down the wildfire panic that’s erupting in my chest. “Nothing. I just…” The lie sticks in my throat. I can’t tell her, not yet. Derek’s shadow stretches too close. “I don’t feel great. Just…humor me, okay?”
She studies me with that reporter’s gaze that’s sharp enough to slice right through my bullshit. But she also sees the crack I can’t cover, the fear leaking through no matter how I mask it.
Her shoulders soften, though confusion lingers in her eyes. “Okay. But you’re acting really strange.”
“I know.” The words scrape out. My hand hovers at her back, guiding her toward the exit. “Just trust me.”
Every step we take feels like I’m walking her across a sniper’s view. My eyes never stop scanning the windows, the shadows, the corners of the parking lot. I half-expect to see Derek leaning against a car, phone raised with smirk painted across his face.
But he’s not there, which is just proof that he’s watching, yet invisible and unrelenting.
Rochelle slips into step beside me, silent now, notebook clutched tight. I open the passenger door of my car for her, forcing a steady hand though my pulse won’t calm.
As she slides inside, I glance once more over my shoulder, my jaw tight.
Derek’s watching. I can feel it. The thought gnaws at me as I slide into the driver’s seat. My hands grip the wheel hard enough that my knuckles whiten, but I force my tone to sound even when I glance at Rochelle.
“Seatbelt,” I murmur. She clicks it without comment, though her gaze lingers on me, eyes filled with questions.
The engine rumbles to life. I pull out of parking lot, my eyes darting to the mirrors, left, right, rearview as I check if I’m being tailed. Every sedan parked on the curb, every man on the sidewalk feels like a threat.
“Kai…” Rochelle’s voice is careful, gentle but probing. “You’re driving like we’re in a chase scene. What’s going on with you?”
My jaw locks. Words stick in my throat, a storm I can’t let out. Telling her means dragging her deeper into Derek’s game. I can’t risk that.
“I just need you safe,” I say finally, the admission low and ragged.
Her brow furrows. “Safe?” she questions. “From what?”
I don’t answer. My focus stays pinned to the road, scanning every turnoff, every shadow. Silence stretches between us, heavy and uncomfortable. I know she hates evasions. Reporters are wired to be curious, but she must hear the raw edge in my voice, because she doesn’t push again.
When we reach the hotel, I kill the engine but don’t move. My eyes sweep the street, checking twice, then a third time. Nothing. Just traffic and neon buzzing against the night. Still, my chest won’t unclench.
“I’ll walk you up,” I say. It isn’t a question.
Rochelle studies me, searching my face. For once, she doesn’t argue. She just nods.
Inside, the elevator hums too loud, and moves too slow. I keep my stance between her and the doors, shoulders tense until we reach her floor. At her room, she swipes the key card, then pushes the door open.
“You’re coming in?” she asks softly.
“Yeah.” My voice is rough. “Just for a while.”
She steps aside, letting me pass. I trail in, scanning the corners like it’s instinct, then stop in the center of the room, restless energy crackling through me.
Rochelle sets her notebook on the desk, watching me carefully. She doesn’t speak, but he doesn’t need to. She already sees it, the fear I can’t disguise.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, hands buried in my hair.
If Derek wanted me broken, then he sure found a way to do it. One threat to her, and I already feel destroyed.