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Once his eyes were off of me, I was able to exhale. If I could sink into the floor and disappear, I would. The tempting and frustrating Sebastien St. Clair was Rocco's teammate.
Oh. My. God. Kill me now.
During the intermission between the first and second periods someone tapped my arm, and I flailed at the unexpected contact.
“Excuse me.”
Once my heart stopped trying to beat out of my chest, I glanced up to find an usher standing next to my seat. The sweaty young man wore a red polo embroidered with the Atlanta Comets logo. He clutched an envelope in one hand and balanced a large flat box on the palm of the other.
Annoyed that he startled me, and irritated with myself for being so jumpy, I squinted up at him. When he said nothing, I held back the urge to roll my eyes. The usher literally looked so nervous I thought he might pass out, and there was no way I was doing CPR on him. Okay, fine. I would do CPR, but I didn’t have to like it.
It seemed as if we were going to get anywhere, I'd have to speak first. I raised my brows. “Can I help you?”
“I’m, uh, supposed to, uh, give this to you.” The usher held the box as far from his body as possible, thereby, shoving it in my face. He sounded so nervous I felt kind of bad for him. Wisps of blondish-red hair stuck to his forehead and his fair cheeks flushed bright red. Even his hands shook. The guy couldn't have been any older than me, maybe not even. In all likelihood, he was new at his job, and it showed.
Baffled, I gave him a blank stare as he squirmed and tried to work out whatever the heck it was he needed to say.
After an eternity, the usher cleared his throat. If the entire situation weren’t so weird, I would think the his life depended on him delivering whatever it was he held in his trembling hands.
I scrunched my nose and looked at the box as if it were a live grenade, or maybe a basket of venomous snakes. Who the heck would send me a gift? And why? And during a game of all things?
“Are you sure that’s for me? I'm not expecting anything.”
“I’m, uh, positive.” The usher's head went up and down, over and over, like a deranged bobble head doll.
Okay, now I just wanted to get rid of him. “Fine. I guess.”
He exhaled much too loud and his shoulders visibly slumped. Then the sweaty usher threw the box in my lap and tossed the envelope on top of it. Good thing I have quick reflexes, or the corner of the box would've poked my eye out.If that happened, the top would've flown off and then there would have been snakes everywhere.
Carefully handling the package, I treated it as if it were an IED, one jostle away from blowing up in my face. When I turned to thank the sweaty usher—for what I have no idea, as the kid almost blinded me—he was halfway up the stairs.
Okaaaay…
Whatever. I set the box flat on my thighs and picked up the envelope. Still trying to process the peculiar notion of being sent a gift during a hockey game, I held the white rectangle and ran a fingertip around the edge. The paper was high quality, thick and weighty. Naturally, because nothing in my life is easy, the outside of the envelope was blank and had no distinguishing features or watermark. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end and I had the oddest feeling that someone was looking at me.
I glanced around the rink as chills rippled down my spine. The whoosh of my pulse thundered in my ears, dulling the noise of the enthusiastic crowd. Was someone watching me right now? The thought released a burst of adrenaline and my anxiety skyrocketed. I gave the envelope a suspicious glare and flipped it over several times, wondering who, and why, until my head hurt.
After several minutes of freaking out, I straightened in my seat and huffed, feeling stupid. I wasn’t in a James Bond movie. Bes
ides, I had nowhere near the qualifications to be a secret agent or double-crossing spy worthy of receiving a Mission Impossible-style exploding message. It was a hockey game for god’s sake.
Relax, Ky. It's a note.
Before I could torture myself with anymore overthinking, which would only cause more stress, thus, more anxiety, I jammed a finger under the flap and tore open the envelope. Tension broken, I exhaled and only then did I realize I had been holding my breath. Annoyed, I yanked out a neatly folded sheet of the same thick paper as the envelope. Hmm, maybe Rocco sent something? Maybe he couldn’t meet for dinner after the game and it was his really, really strange way of apologizing?
No. I shook my head. If that were true, at the end of the game my brother would simply send a text. Even if Rocco did need to cancel dinner, it wouldn't explain the box. Rocco isn't the gift giving type. He prefers to show his love through actions, not material things.
I skimmed the note and the first thing I noticed was the personalization at the very top. From the desk of Frank Vernon. Next, my gaze landed on a tiny Comets logo in the corner. Frank Vernon, Frank Vernon… I'd heard that name before, but for the life of me, I couldn't place it. The scrutiny continued as I took in the sum total of the note—a few meager lines of messy scrawled ink. Definitely a man's handwriting, and not Rocco's. I read the brief blurb then froze, the paper ready to slip from my fingers.
What the—?
I reread it four more times.
I'm glad to see your taste in teams has improved. I wonder if your taste in players has as well? Meet me after the game in the lobby bar of the hotel attached to the arena and maybe I can persuade you to root for someone else.
My mouth hung open and my pulse skipped. Three sentences. A mere handful of words. Words that said so much yet told me nothing. No signature, no indication who it was from. Was it from him? Sebastien St. Clair? The Sinner? That was the only thing that made any kind of sense, and that was a stretch.
Nervous and twitchy, I fumbled and almost dropped the note. It had to be from him. And he wanted to meet. For what? My brain downshifted and conjured up a bunch of inappropriate and filthy images. Images of Sebastien St. Clair doing things to me. Things I would only admit I wanted in my darkest fantasies.
