Page 68

When the press conference ends, I stand and leave the room without looking back.

Ipush through the arena exit and head for the players' lot.

Gabe stands beside my vehicle, arms crossed, Anna next to him. She's still wearing his jersey. That pisses me off all over again.

I stop in front of him.

"I'll be in touch."

He doesn't argue. Smart.

I take her hand, walk around the vehicle, and open the passenger-side door. "Let’s get home.”

I shut the door and head back around to the driver’s side.

I step closer to Gabe and drop my voice. "I got a message. Anonymous Instagram account. There's a video."

I pull out my phone, tap through my photos and videos, then play it.

"Brooklyn. Those men surrounding her," I continue, keeping my tone flat and controlled. "Reak fucking grateful Hildy and the girls got there when they did."

Gabe's jaw tightens.

"I gave it to the authorities. Both cities have it. Those men are going to answer for what they did, one way or another."

"You think⁠—"

"I don't know what I think yet," I cut him off. "But I know what the footage looks like, and I'm not discussing it with her until I have more information."

Gabe nods slowly. "Understood."

I step back, done with him for now, and walk around to the driver's side. She's already buckled in, her hands folded in her lap, her gaze on me as I slide behind the wheel.

I start the engine and pull out of the lot. Anger sits tight in my chest, but now something else layers over it—awareness of her beside me, her scent, the way she shifts slightly in her seat.

"You're angry," she says.

"Yeah."

"At Gabe?"

"Wish I'd known you were coming. Could have had security there."

"I was with your best friend, who, by the way, has a million stories about you, Daniil Reznik." Amusement colors her voice.

I keep my eyes on the road, turning her words over in my head. After a few seconds, I realize she might think I’m angry at her. The last thing I want is for her to mistake my pissed-off mood for her being in the arena. When she's with me, I want her to feel held, not caught in the crossfire of my temper.

"It was nice seeing you up there, Anna. Real nice."

"Well," she says, her voice low and deliberate, "hockey has never been hotter."

I glance at her. Her eyes are on me, intent and unmistakable. The heat in her gaze registers like a physical touch, and my body responds before my mind catches up. My grip tightens on the wheel.

She's not joking, not trying to diffuse the tension. She means exactly what she's saying.

I force my attention back to the road. The city lights blur past the windshield. My pulse pounds in my ears, and the tight control I've been holding over myself since the press conference fractures.

"Hold that thought," I mutter.