Chapter 8
“How do you have the patience to read all those messages?” Grayson asks before Thursday night’s game.
We’re suiting up in the locker room while every phone buzzes with notifications. I haven’t looked at mine yet.
Shadow never texts early.
She waits.
Almost till the game starts—which annoys the hell out of me. So much so I almost intend to ignore it out of spite if she does it again.
Who am I kidding? I’m going to heart the shit out of it no matter when she sends it.
It’s become more than just a weird sexy ritual. Her messages have me killing it on the ice.
I’m convinced of it now more than ever. Because when she sent one last night during practice, my energy shifted. My hands were quicker, edges were sharper, and my passes landed. Every slapshot found its spot. Even Coach kept his whistle out of his mouth.
Hunter glances back with a grin as he laces up. “Haven’t seen him lift the phone yet.”
“Well then let me do the honors,” Ronan Pearson, who plays left defense offers from across the room, like the creep he is.
He holds up his phone. “This here’s from Queen_M.
” He clears his throat. “I’ll be cheering hard, Andrews.
Oh, so hard.” He wiggles his brows and grabs his crotch with a grunt as he scrolls, and I know he’s just looking for another dirty one.
“Oh and here’s CandyStick with ‘Put me in the sin bin, Captain. Two minutes is—”
“This better not be that damn app again,” Coach growls.
I shake my head with a smirk. “You’re just jealous your inbox is empty, Coach.”
It’s not true. None of our inboxes are empty—Coach Nolan’s are just…cleaner for the most part.
Sure, seventy percent of the team’s messages are clean cheers, motivating quotes…the intended use of the app.
But even those are easy to overlook when the dirtier ones are so dirty.
Coach grunts and stalks over to the center of the room. We all pause and turn our attention to him for his speech, which have become more directional as we settle into the new season.
When he calls for a warm-up and exits the locker room, I nod for the team to shuffle out and onto the ice.
Staying behind, I lift my phone for a quick glance at the app before dropping it into my duffle bag.
“You going to send some love of your own tonight?” Hunter prods, lurking by the doors.
I know he means the text I got from Shadow the other night.
The one I hearted like it was second nature.
A reflex. I didn’t care what prompted it.
If she was just thinking of me or caught a glimpse at our private practice—I welcome it all.
I wouldn’t have considered someone like her sneaking into practice.
But when I saw her message after hitting the showers, I suspected as much.
“Are you stalking my texts?” I tease.
“It’s free entertainment, so yes.” He grins wide.
I roll my eyes and shut my locker. “Well quit it. It’s creepy.”
He chuckles. “Guy has hundreds of female fans sending him love on the daily and I’m creepy.”
I run my fingers through my already damp hair. “This whole thing has gotten out of hand.”
He glances behind him and lowers his voice. “You’re just bent out of shape because Shadow didn’t send love yet.”
My jaw hardens. “Drop it and let’s get on the ice.”
Hunter holds up his hands in surrender, falling into step beside me as we head for the tunnel. “So, how was dinner last night?” he asks, in his constant, annoying need for conversation.
Then again, anything to get my mind off the text I’m still waiting for.
“Same. Every bite of food tasted like ash, every word like poison.”
It’s always the same shit with that woman and I shouldn’t expect anything more.
She raved about me to her latest boyfriend.
Kane’s going to be a big star. All those practices I sat through finally paying off.
She had the nerve to wink at me when she said that one, pretending the years she’d left me to fend for myself when dad was traveling didn’t exist.
Hunter shakes his head but isn’t surprised. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why you keep going back. Not like she’s holding anything over your head.”
I’ve been asking myself that question since I turned eighteen. I don’t hate her. But I hate the bitterness I’ve let fester in me after all this time.
Still, she’s all I have. Sure, my team has become my family, maybe the NHL team will too. But no other soul in my life will love me unconditionally. Regardless of my name, my job, or my bank account. I have to believe a part of her still does.
But what do I tell him? Maybe she’ll surprise me one day and give me a real hug? Tell me she’s proud of me no matter what? I don’t think so. So I tell Hunter the same lie I tell myself.
“Gotta keep it together for the press. Don’t want to start my career off with a family sob story.”
We push through the doors and step out through the tunnel, cheers growing louder as we step onto the ice.
Hunter tilts his head with a smirk. “Don’t think anyone’s going to feel sorry for you as long as you’ve got all this.” He skates away and I roam my eyes over the crowd.
Maybe not them.
But I might.
And self-pity never wins in sports.
Shadow never texted last night.
It was our first loss in six days. Six days since she started sending love.
I’m not saying it’s a coincidence we lost the first night she didn’t send a message. But fuck, would I even be a hockey player if I didn’t believe in superstition?
Maybe.
Still bothers me that she didn’t.
The damn copycats. They mocked her.
And when someone backs down after being mocked, it usually means one thing.
Insecurity.
It’ll get you every fucking time.
And with an alias like Shadow? Basically confirms she went back into hiding.
But I’m picking up on something here.
And I’m pretty sure I know how to fix it.
I storm into the library where Fletcher works between classes and odd tech jobs around campus. He’s in his usual makeshift workstation on the second level.
“How do I figure out who she is?” I start before I reach him, not giving a shit who hears me.
He glances up at me from behind his black rimmed glasses. “Who?”
“You know who.” I drop my phone in front of him, with her message front and center. “Shadow.”
He barely glances at it.
Pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, he returns to his computer screen. “I don’t know.” His response is flat and dismissive, which really pisses me off.
I didn’t come here to intimidate the guy. But I’m not above a shakedown, especially when I doubt I’m asking for a lot.
I lean in close, keeping my voice menacingly low. “You created the app. You can trace it.”
He lowers his laptop screen and hisses at me. “I’m not law enforcement. And that’s not how the app works. It’s supposed to be anonymous.”
“Screw that. I need to know who she is.”
He twists his neck to look up at me. “And I’m telling you, I can’t help you.”
Ballsy. I’ll give him that.
“Can’t? Or won’t?”
He glances around nervously. “Exposing a username identity goes against the terms and conditions. It can be shut down.”
I growl, straightening. I can’t risk losing the app months before playoffs. I run a hand through my hair, taking a breath. “Well then, how do I reach out to her directly?”
His thinks for a moment, then his fingers begin to race across the keyboard. “I can probably set up a private chat room, but there are limitations. You can’t just send her messages in a private room. She’d have to accept your invitation to join.”
I narrow my eyes at the idea. Shouldn’t be a problem. “How fast can you get one set up?”
He shrugs at his screen. “Few hours. I’ll need to test it too. Keep your notifications on. You’ll know when it’s ready.”
I pat his back and toss him a wink. “Thanks buddy.” Then I slip a few bills from my wallet and place them on his keyboard.
“There’s a game tomorrow. I need to—we need to win this one.” I’m not the least bit ashamed at the desperation the kid might hear in my voice when I say this. “And I need to hear from her.”
He glares at me like I’m a thorn in his side. “Like I said. Few hours. You’ll know when it’s done.”