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I had moved on and not left a forwarding address, leaving more questions instead of answers.
“I was in an accident,” I say carefully, straightening my sweatshirt. “I have retrograde amnesia. So, no, I don’t know you. Or him. I didn’t even know my name when I woke up.”
Jacob jerks backward. He scans me from head to toe, frowning deeper.
“You don’t remember…” He shakes his head and turns around, scrubbing his hand down his face. “Fuck. Who are you here with? Where—”
I step back and bump into the wall. “Do you have any answers for me?”
The door bangs open, and a shorter man storms out. “Rhodes!” he barks. “Get yourassin here right this minute, or you’re benched.”
Rhodes.
Jacob Rhodes.
I commit that to memory and hope it sticks.
“I’ll take her back,” his friend says quietly. He holds out a hand to me.
Jacob Rhodes is stiff. He watches me in a way that’s unnerving, and my mind is too jumbled to make sense of any of it. He’s practically vibrating.
I slip around him and hurry to the friend. He puts his hand on the small of my back, urging me faster. Down the series of halls, back to the stairs. Up we go, to the right section. All the way down to my row, where Thomas awaits.
“Thanks.” I grasp for his name in my head, smiling when I finally latch onto it. “Miles, right?”
He nods once.
“Thank you, Miles.”
The younger guy shrugs. “You might not be thanking me just yet.”
Well, it’s a lead.Jacob Rhodesis a lead.
He knew me. Clear as day.
I just need to figure out how. And why he seemed so broken up about me not remembering him.
2
JACOB
Retrograde amnesia. It’s so crazy, I think I believe it. She didn’t react the way the Melody I knew would’ve. She wasn’t scared or happy or shocked. She was just curious. She went with Miles in search of answers. But I don’t think she expected me.
Maybe this can work to my advantage.
We fly home right after the game. The mood is somber on the plane, and as soon as it lands, we’re all climbing into our own cars and driving away. Some of them have girls to sink into when they get home, but I have silence. And beer.
I park in the garage under my high-rise condo, shouldering my bags and making my way to the elevator. I’ve got a perfect view of downtown Denver from my living room and bedroom. I keep the lights off, the illumination from the city enough to guide my path. I drop my bags, shower, then fall into bed.
Dead fucking tired.
We have tomorrow and the next day off, then a morning practice before game three, which we play at home. We’re tied 1-1 with the New York Guardians, which means we really need to stop fucking around and dragging this round out longer than it needs to be. I’ve got a laundry list of things I need to do before Wednesday. The prospect of sleep doesn’t stop me from pulling my phone out and searching her name for the hundredth time.
Nothing. Or, rather, too many worthless results. The real Melody Cameron is buried under articles of other women who share her name.
I shouldn’t…
But I could call in a favor. Now that I know she’s alive, somewhere out there, withsomeone. Maybe they can find her when I can’t.
