Chapter 2 #2
The locker room meeting feels like a lifetime ago.
The moment I finally stepped out of the room after meeting all of the players individually—including a stone-faced Sasha who barely gave me more than a grunt—I was thrown straight into meetings with the coaching staff, discussing systems and strategy for Friday night’s game.
Three days. Three fucking days. And despite the confidence I’d forced in front of the team, I am way out of my depth.
Thankfully, hockey isn’t something I have to fake.
The team’s associates realized that quickly.
Did it stop them from testing me? No. Did it stop them from hurling their so-called ‘hard’ questions my way?
Negative. The posturing bullshit stopped after I quietly put them all in their rightful places.
I knew I had to establish myself early if this was going to work.
But sitting here now, with the adrenaline wearing off and silence replacing the chaos of the day, I can’t help but wonder if I’d just been playing a role.
Courtrooms I understand. I know how to command those.
A locker room riddled with Alphas and Betas?
That’s a whole other beast. Still, I can’t fight the hint of pride that settles in my chest for refusing to take any of the bullshit that was thrown my way today.
I know that wherever my father is, he’d be smiling down at me, telling me, Way to go, tiger.
Even if today wasn’t even officially day one yet.
That clock doesn’t start until I see them on the ice and do what I came here to do. To coach them.
My phone buzzing startles me from my thoughts, dragging me away from the second guessing I knew would inevitably follow the, you did a good job mantra I had been repeating to myself all afternoon.
Unknown: You don’t belong here.
I frown down at the message, reading the words over and over again, trying to make any sense of them.
Me: I think you have the wrong number.
I toss my phone onto the coffee table, shaking my head. It isn’t the first time I’ve received a random text, but something about this one leaves a strange hitch in my scent. Unease. That’s all it is. Nothing more. Then, my phone buzzes again, and like a fool, I reach for it and read the message.
Unknown: Oh no, Little Bird. This is the right number.
My stomach drops at the nickname, the familiar feeling of anxiety beginning to creep up on me.
Me: How did you get this number?
Unknown: It's always “How did you get this number? What do you want from me?” So fucking predictable. You can do better than that, Little Bird.
My hands begin to shake at the response. Fuck this fucking person.
Me: Leave me the fuck alone.
I stare at my phone like it’s a bomb waiting to go off.
Having left it on silent while I showered, I hadn’t heard a thing.
No messages. No calls. Nothing. That didn’t stop the feeling the texts left behind from following me beneath the hot water.
Or the lingering sense of unease hanging over my head like a storm cloud waiting to break.
Taking a breath, I push back my shoulders and put on the game face Dad helped me perfect before every big game, even though it feels fragile enough to shatter beneath a harsh word.
Then, I pick up my phone. My heart beats heavily inside my chest when I see there are five missed messages, one of those messages is a photo.
Unknown: Not going to happen, Little Bird. Now that dear old Dad is six feet under, you are our new target.
Unknown: Children inherit strange things. Eyes. Smiles. And sometimes debts left behind by their fathers.
Unknown: Blood remembers what the dead try to bury. And blood always collects its due.
Unknown: When you inherited his name, did you inherit his lies too? Lock your cage, Little Bird. It makes breaking in more fun.
I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth as I open the photo.
All the air leaves my lungs when I realize what it is.
It’s me. Naked. Water dripping from my hair.
Steam clinging to the mirror. My discarded clothes, which I had been wearing today, lying on the floor.
Everything. No. No. My eyes dart back to the image, and my blood runs cold.
The angle. It’s wrong. Not the mirror, or the reflection.
The doorway. My head snaps toward the bathroom entrance, the phone slipping in my trembling fingers as I stare at the offending frame.
Every inch of my skin prickles. Every instinct inside me screams. Slowly, I turn.
The bedroom window sits open behind me, the curtains swaying lazily in the evening breeze.
It wasn’t open. I know it wasn’t open. Because I closed it.
Whoever the fuck has been sending me messages was inside my apartment.
My scent turns into something unfamiliar to me.
Roses flooding the room hard enough to make me gag.
Panic crashes over me so violently that my knees almost buckle.
With shaking hands, and what little remains of my rational thought, I launch myself at the window, slamming the frame shut hard enough to rattle the glass before flicking the lock.
The lock that’s on the inside. The lock that I made sure was in place before climbing into the shower.
The front door.
I race around the apartment and lock every possible entrance I can think of.
As though deadbolts can keep monsters away.
By the time I threw myself into the nest, I’d only finished building yesterday after the removalists left, my entire body was shaking so violently my teeth chattered.
Slamming the door behind me, I burrow beneath the mountain of soft blankets and pillows, desperate to drown myself in familiar scents. Vanilla. Rose. Home. Safe.
But all I can see is that picture.
Someone is standing there.
Watching me.
My lungs burn. My heart pounds beneath my ribs, and as the implications of whatever nightmare I’ve stepped into begin to sink their claws into me, one horrifying thought repeats over and over until it becomes the only thing I hear.
What the fuck have I done?