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“No!” Scratch a game? I’ve never scratched a game in my life. Not for any reason. Not for hangovers or illness or hell freezing over. “I’m fine. Thank you.” He cocks a brow and his lips pinch into a pucker. “Okay, maybe not wholly fine. My… uh… the woman I live with… that is, my girlfriend—”Holy shit,those are some strange words to speak out loud. “—is pregnant. She’s got a stalker, too, so we have some… situations.”
I didn’t even mean to say all that, but now that it’s said, there’s no taking it back. Cat’s out of the bag.
Coach frowns. “Have you called the police?”
“No. I’ve hired security. Two different firms. I didn’t want the media to get a hold of the story and piss the stalker off so that it gets worse.”
Coach slumps back in his seat as he passes a weary hand over his face. “Jesus, Beck. You should’ve taken the day off. A couple days. Get her out of here and let the police handle it.”
Maybe he’s right. But Sloan’s never going to run ,and I’m not going to be the one who asks her to. Plus, I want to be here when my hired guys find the bastard stalking her so I can tear his fucking arms off and beat him to death with them.
Probably not information I should share. Premeditation ups the charges.
“Yeah. We’re talking over the options.”
“And a kid?” He nods and smiles. “That’s big news.”
“Yeah. It’s… a lot. For right now, I just need to keep everything as normal as possible.”
He nods. “Alright. But for fuck’s sake, man, you have to pull it together on the ice. You can’t be distracted out there. Can’t be volatile. Your teammates are counting on you. This whole organization is, too.”
“I know.”
“Alright, well, you take care of your family, Beck. Whatever you need, I’m here. Just call.”
“Thanks, Coach.”
With that bullet dodged, I walk to the dressing room. Dix is already showered and in his street clothes, ready to head out.
“Yo, you alright, Beck?”
“Yeah. Just some personal shit.”
“Good or bad?”
I scratch my chin. “It’s… I don’t know yet. It just is.”
“Hm. Sounds like a problem for ice cream.”
I give him a sidelong glance as I start to strip off my equipment. “What are you, six?”
He presses a proud hand to his chest. “At heart? Yes. Tell you what: I’ll come over after you shower and we’ll hang out. Spill our hearts out over a shared bowl of rocky road.”
“Not today, man. I’ve got… some shit going on.”
He arches an eyebrow but shrugs. “Alright then. Suit yourself. More for me. You don’t need it anyway—you’re looking a li’l fat these days.”
I scowl and chuck a dirty sock at him. He laughs and ducks it, then saunters off to his car with a playful goodbye wave.
I take off my skates and hand them to the equipment manager. He’s a scrawny dude with a patchy beard. Never has much to say but his eyes are always moving.
The more I look at him, the more I wonder if he could be Sloan’s stalker. From the nature of the notes, it has to be someone who sees her often. Maybe this little fuck…
A part of my brain is screaming to hold it right there. This kid works hard, keeps to himself, never bothers nobody for any reason. What does it say about me that it takes zero point two seconds of pondering before I’m eager to go apeshit on him?
I’m ready to pound a kid who weighs maybe a buck-fifty soaking wet and almost certainly does not even know who Sloan is.
I sigh and drop into the seat at my locker. The morning isn’t even over and I’m already exhausted. Exhausted of pretending to Coach and Dixon and the rest of the world that everything is fine. Exhausted of arguing with Sloan about what’s necessary to keep her and our child safe. Exhausted of seeing boogeymen in every shadow, every corner.
