Page 10 of Fly

Mules jabbed a thumb between the three of us. “Our trio of deadly fourth-line snipers is back on the menu, boys.”

Becks snorted. “‘Deadly’? Mules, we’ve scored four combined goals in two seasons.”

“Yeah,” Mules shot back, “but they were important goals. Legendary goals. Historic.”

Becks rolled his eyes. “Two were empty-netters.”

Mules shrugged. “Still counts.”

They both looked at me then—really looked.

“Gonna be good having you with us,” Mules said.

Becks nodded, a little stiff but sincere. “Yeah. Let’s make it a line people notice this year.”

“I'm there for it,” I said, and jeez, my acting skills were on point because I sounded as if I actually meant it would happen and that I’d maybe get to stay with the team.

I showered quickly and had an hour now to kill, as I walked out of the Railers building, and I tugged at my bracelets. Clicked my watch clasp. Grounding myself as I headed for the medical building we shared with the baseball and football teams.

I entered through the front door, took a right at some painting, and was lost—one wrong turn, and suddenly everything seemed different. The lighting was warmer, the ceiling higher, and the whole place echoed with a sense of history of all the pro teams. Posters lined the walls, large ones—players mid-pitch, skater, celebrating a goal, full of grit and glory, a whole shrine to Tennant Rowe to one side, nearest the trophy cabinet, with polished glass reflecting my anxious expression.

“Calm the fuck down,” I told my worried-looking self. I focused on the baseball photos instead as I tried to find my center.

I never tried out for baseball. Never wanted to, although I watched games here and there when I was a kid, back when my father played for the Arizona Raptors. I was born to skate and born for ice. Every bone in my body knew that from the first time I touched a rink. So why was it going so wrong? Why did it feel like no matter how hard I fought to make a name for myself—myself, not the shadow of my father—I kept getting pulled under?

I let out an overly dramatic sigh, realized I'd completely lost my bearings, and broke into a jog to backtrack—only to turn a corner and nearly collide with someone.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Hoodie. Running shoes. Cam Blackburn. He steadied me with a hand on my arm. Gentle. “Oh—sorry,” he said, warm and startled.

I froze, and he stared at me—not through me, not past me, at me. Brown eyes steady.

“You okay?” he asked.

My heart thudded. “Yeah. Sorry. Wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“It happens.” He didn’t step away fully, curiosity in his expression. “I remember you from that speech I did. With the Railers, right?” He smiled—soft, kind, dangerous—and with that smile came the rest of him: taller than me by a couple of inches, slim but toned as though every part of him was built for precision, dark hair pushed back messily like he’d run a hand through it a dozen times, and lips that were—fuck—ridiculously distracting. The kind of mouth you noticed, even if you didn’t want to. Fuck I needed to talk. To say something. Instead, I turned to gaze at the display as if that was everything right now.

“Angry game,” Cam murmured to fill the awkward silence, and pointed at the one photo I never wanted to see again. The man wearing it was helmet less, half-turned to the camera, his face drawn into a mask of pure hatred, as he pulled back to throw a punch at Tennant Rowe. An old photo that was a painful reminder of everything.

My father.

Change the subject.

“And sluggers like you never get angry?” I snapped.

He winced. ”Sure… sorry, I didn't mean anything.” He was placating me, I could tell, and I hated that shit. Then he collected himself, smiled at me, and pointed to the picture I hated and peered closely. “That guy is super angry though, right?”

I closed down, lost my focus, and my breathing was harsh. Fuck. Not a panic attack. Not now. Fuck!

“So, you’re one of my willing victims,” he said to change the subject.

“Huh?”

“Volunteering for the charity event.” Then he grinned. “Or more like voluntold.”

Oh my god, he’s talking to me, and I’m a mess.

“I'm lost,” I blurted, and glanced at my watch. “I have a meeting in thirty minutes.”