2. Lucian #2
I yank open the fridge, sensing the guys behind me as they follow me into the kitchen.
Cold air spills out, but it’s not enough to cool the fire crawling under my skin.
I grab a bottle of water and drink half of it in one go, then slam the door harder than necessary. The sound echoes like a gunshot.
Behind me, Ronan drops into the kitchen chair in front of his laptop, bringing the screen to life before his fingers start whizzing over the keys like a man on a mission.
The light from the laptop illuminates the sharp angles of his face.
His jaw ticks as he types, eyes scanning like a machine, calculating every variable.
Silas leans against the wall, his white hair and pale skin making him look more like a ghost haunting this place.
Haunting us. His arms are folded across his chest, but as I watch, he slips a hand into his pocket, pulling out an antique coin and turning it over between his fingers while he’s lost in thought.
The only sound in the room is the tapping of Ronan’s keyboard.
When I can’t take the silence any longer, I blurt out, “She’s a Winslow.” It sounds incredulous, even now. “A fucking Winslow.”
Silas’s mouth tightens before he nods once, the motion sharp.
He’s as pissed about it as I am. This girl has been haunting all of us for years.
The need to know what happened to her, who hurt her that night.
It plays on my mind like a virus that just won’t let up.
Any time I thought I could leave it—leave her—behind and move forward with my life, she’d appear like a mirage in the forefront of my mind, reminding me that there can be no moving on without answers.
Every time we’d play against the Steelhawks, I’d scour the crowd for her, hoping to see her face.
Any time we were at BSU for a game, I’d wander the campus looking for her, searching the faces of strangers in the hopes that one of them would be her.
But it never was. It was as though she disappeared after that night.
Until today.
I rub the heel of my palm against my eye and toss the empty bottle in the sink. “Do you think her parents know?”
Ronan doesn’t look up. “That she’s their daughter?” he deadpans. “Pretty sure they’re aware.”
I grab a cork coaster off the counter and launch it at his head. It hits his shoulder and drops to the floor.
He still doesn’t look up, but he snorts. “How can you be the best center we’ve got and fucking miss?”
“Shut up, a coaster isn’t a puck. Give me a puck, and I’ll show you how fucking good my aim is.”
He doesn’t argue back, which immediately has me standing straighter. He’s found something. With quick, long strides, I move to stand behind him, Silas silently coming to stand at my side as we look over Ronan’s shoulder.
“What’d you find?” I ask impatiently, stepping closer so my chest presses against his back. My breath is hot in his ear before he swats me away.
Flashing us a cocky grin, he states, “I have her student files.”
“Nice. Who knew flirting it up with the old crow in reception would actually prove beneficial?”
“Nothing is a waste of time,” Ronan retorts succinctly. “Any source of information can become useful at any point in time. Besides, did you seriously think you aced your Interpersonal Communications class last year?”
“I got an A in that class!” I argue defensively.
He arches an elegant brow. “You were barely scraping a pass all year, and you think you pulled it out of the bag on your final exam?” He scoffs like I’m an idiot.
My fingers flex with the urge to wrap them around his throat and squeeze, but if what he’s saying is true—which I don’t doubt it is—then I was failing that class until he pulled magic mambo-jambo shit and made it go away.
Thank fuck. When I selected communications as a joke major, I didn’t take into consideration the fact that communicating beyond fists and brute force is not my forte.
Seriously, Silas would have an easier job passing these classes than I would, and he doesn’t even fucking speak.
Every time one of my professors asks for suggestions on how to mediate situations or deal with a difficult altercation, and I suggest violence, they look at me like I’ve got a screw loose.
Fuck knows why. I’ve always found threats and bloodshed to be an incredibly effective method of communication.
These tight-asses are too stuck on the path of what’s right to appreciate my more artistic methods. Their loss, really.
Especially if Ronan is going to change my grades to ensure I at least scrape a pass. Knew I kept him around for a reason.
Clapping a hand on his shoulder, I grin at him a little maniacally before leaning in to focus on Wren’s student profile on his screen.
“What do we have on our Wren, then?”
Full Name: Gwendolyn Elise Winslow
Student ID: 320976
Year: Senior
Program: BSc, Sports Business & Management (formerly BSc, Applied Statistics)
Transferred: Blackstone University
Address: 14 Locke Row, Eastvale Apartments, Valehurst
“That’s right across from campus,” I mutter, scanning the address and committing it to memory. I do the same with her phone number.
Silas pulls a small black notebook from the inner pocket of his hoodie and flips it open. He scribbles something in it before he tilts it toward us.
Not exactly a sports girl.
Ronan nods in agreement. “There’s nothing in here about any previous internships.
No work with any of BSU’s sports teams. Her schedule’s clean, too.
The only thing it mentions is her being a volunteer librarian.
Everything paints a picture of a quiet, introverted student with zero interest in sports. ”
“So why the hell is she here, interning for the team?” I ask.
Ronan lifts a shoulder in a casual shrug. “Her family?” he surmises. “With her brother now in the NHL, maybe they’re looking to bring her into the family business and fill the role he was supposed to.”
“And she couldn’t have done that at BSU?” I counter.
Silas nudges my shoulder, and I glance down to read what he’s written.
What if it’s about that night?
I inhale sharply.
Ronan’s gaze cuts between us. “You think she knows who attacked her?” He rubs at his perfectly trimmed beard, thinking. “She’d have to have found out recently,” he muses aloud. “And does that mean it’s a BSU student, or is she here for revenge?”
I give him a wide-eyed look. “You think one of ours did it?”
Fuck. I hadn’t ever really let myself consider that.
Consider the fact that I could be playing alongside someone who thinks it’s okay to drug and assault an innocent woman.
I’d always just assumed it was a BSU student.
Most of their student body was at that party—one of their legendary street parties, where everyone is invited, and all the student-athlete houses are open for just anyone to walk in.
“I don’t know,” I admit, uncertain. “After all this time?”
What are the chances that she’d put the pieces together now? Or that she’d choose senior year to get her revenge?
But then I think about how long I plotted and planned and salivated over my revenge, and a fire starts anew in my chest. Perhaps we’re more alike than I initially thought.
Flipping to a new page, Silas writes in bold, steady strokes.
We need to know why she’s here.
“And what she remembers,” Ronan adds.
My hands curl into fists. I stare at the ink on the page. Feel the rage flickering just beneath my skin.
“And who the fuck touched her.”
The silence that follows is heavy. Binding.
Like a pact.
Like blood.
Silas tears the page from his notebook and places it on the table between us. All three of us stare down at it—at the promise it represents.
The moment crystallizes. A pact forming. I feel it sink into my bones.
Wren Winslow is here.
And regardless of the reason, we’re finally going to get our answers.
Hopefully, I’ll get to spill some blood along the way.