“Can’t have you covered in bruises, now can we?”
The words are light. Casual. But something about the way he says them has my stomach doing backflips. Why do I get the feeling that seeing me covered in bruises does it for him? Fucking Alphas. I try my best to think of something that will replace this damn awkwardness.
“Well, unfortunately, bruises are part of the job.” His eyes darken, if that’s at all possible.
“Not your job.”
“Tell that to the puck that almost took my head off yesterday. Anyways. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I go to step around him, but he stands in my way, preventing me from walking past. The hallway suddenly feels too narrow. Being in his presence is a whole other experience. Doesn’t help that he’s built like a damn linebacker. My eyes slowly travel up his broad chest. His shoulders strain the material of his Cardinal’s t-shirt, his chest wide enough to make me feel tiny, despite my heels. Dark hair falls messily over his forehead, like he’s been running his hands through it all day. A neatly trimmed beard shadows his jaw, only serving to highlight cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass and a jawline that belongs on the front of a magazine. It’s insane how attractive he is. The man is a walking work of art.
When my eyes meet his, he pulls his bottom lip in between his teeth. He’s either wondering what I taste like or wondering what I’d look like mangled beneath a truck. It’s hard to tell. It’s hard to tell what any of these assholes is thinking. They’re all mixed signals and enigmas. In that order. Still, doesn’t quell the fact that he’s an Adonis wrapped in tattoos and intensity. His brows pull together slightly, concern replacing whatever strange look had crossed his face moments ago.
“Coach?” The word is soft. Like he’s wondering if I’m even breathing. I’m not so sure I am at this point.
“Hart?” I reply, raising a questioning brow. He searches my face for a moment and I wish I could tell what he’s thinking. The tone of his voice catches me off guard. Not because his concern is unwelcome, but because it sounds genuine.
“Go home, Lennon.”
Without another word, he steps around me. I turn around, a little confused and watch as his tall frame disappears from view. Shaking my head, I force myself to keep walking. He’s an Alpha. They’re all weird and intense at the best of times, but at the worst of times, they’re overbearing. Possessive. Convinced they know what’s best for everyone and everything around them. Still, something about the way he looked at me unsettles me. And I don’t know if I have it in me to figure out why.
Too many hours. Too little sleep. Too many gorgeous men saying strange things to me.
I stare at the door of my apartment like it is going to jump out and bite me.
Not once in all the years I have lived on my own have I ever been terrified of my own home. It has always been my sanctuary. A place where I feel safe. One that I know I can ride my heats out in peace. But now, it feels like I am walking into something unknown.
All because some sick fucking stalker broke into my apartment and took photos of me while I was showering. Who knows what else they’ve done? I could go to the police, not that they’ve everbeen good at supporting women in these situations before, but if it doesn’t stop, I’ll have no other option. I hate to admit it, but I’m scared. They’ve made me terrified of my own damn home to the point I feel like a five year old afraid of the monsters hiding in the closet. Only monsters are supposed to be imaginary. This person isn’t. They’re real. Breathing the same air I am. Way too close to home.
Borrowing some of that earlier bravado that had given me a backbone, I put my key into the door, twisting it quickly before I do something ridiculous and hightail it back to the arena.
I can’t let them have this.
I can’t let some faceless psychopath steal my peace like this.
I glance around the room, my shoulders relaxing slightly when I notice that everything appears exactly as I left it. At least, that’s what my eyes tell me. The curtains are drawn, all the windows are shut. Everything is the way I left it this morning. The vase of flowers still sits in the center of the dining table, every stem arranged the same way, positioned exactly where I left it. Any stomping around would have caused them to move a little. A stupid little security measure born from paranoia, but one that had given me some control. Yet, it doesn’t do a damn thing to erase the unease settling in the pit of my stomach. If anything, it only makes it worse because something feels different. And I hate that I can’t explain why.
The tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand up, my skin prickling as every instinct inside me screams to turn around and leave. To find a new place and tell literally no one. A loud thud against the window echoes throughout the apartment. I drop my bags at the front door, racing to the kitchen to grab the biggest kitchen knife I can find, because fuck this and fuck them. I’m not letting these assholes catch me off guard a second time.
Without a sound, I begin slowly walking over to the window where the sound came from, the knife raised before me. I don’twaste time, knowing the intruder won’t either as I rip back the curtain, blade at the ready, only to squeal again as a horrified window cleaner stares back at me.
I drop the knife, jolting away from it as I begin to apologize to the man who looks seconds away from calling the police. Or a mental hospital. Potentially both.
I back away after doing as much damage control as I can. My heart continues to beat out of my chest rapidly. Embarrassment burns hot beneath my skin, but the fear refuses to loosen its grip.
I fall to the ground, leaning back against the side of the sofa as I fight to catch my breath.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I gasp, clutching my chest.
“They’re in my head. They got to me.Fuck!” I shout, slamming my hand against the cold tiled floor. I bring my knees up, my forehead crashing down on the bone as a wave of exhaustion washes over me.
How have I sunk this low? It’s been over a week. A week of texts, photos, and constantly looking over my shoulder. A week of checking the locks more than twice. Of jumping every time my phone vibrates. Of wondering if every strange sound means someone is watching me. And worst of all? Nothing has happened in days. A few texts. That’s all. Yet I’ve somehow managed to turn myself into a paranoid mess, seeing danger where there isn’t any.
Maybe it’s grief. At some point, everything will catch up to me and I'm going to have to deal with it. Because right now, I don't have the time. And that’s no way to live. I know myself. Running from emotions has only ever been a downfall of mine.
I bury them.
Box them up.
Pretend they don’t exist until they come crashing down around me at the worst possible moment. But with everything going on with the team, it's hard to find the time to truly processthat my dad is gone. That he’s never going to call and check in on me again. That I can’t just pick up the phone and hear him tell me I’m overthinking things, before telling me to get my ass down to the police station and report the bastards.
