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Normally, these guys are nice as could be. Deferential to the players. But one look at them says they’re in a not-fucking-around kind of mood. They hustle us away from my wrecked vehicle. As we go, I glance up to see that two of the pole-mounted cameras are busted to hell.
Someone planned this shit.
I let the security squad convey us back to the entrance. What am I going to do? Hug the corpse of my car?
No.
I’m going to make a corpse of whoever did this.
It’s only when I get back inside the stadium that I think of Sloan. Whoever did this to my car obviously has an issue with me. And there’s no better way to get to me right now than through her.
I pull my phone from my pocket. Then shit gets worse.
Ten missed calls. Five texts.
Beck, I need you.
When are you getting home?
Beck, please answer. Something happened.
“Son of a bitch.” I shake my head as fear and panic war with the anger inside of me to see which is going to kill me first. The phone on her end barely rings once before she picks up. “Sloan? What’s wrong?”
“I got another stalker letter.” Her voice is steady, but the calm is forced. Beneath it, I hear her terror.
“The fuck? When? How?”
“A couple hours ago. Spencer said they taped it to the front door.”
“Shit. Where’s Spencer now?”
“He’s in the kitchen with Karla.” At least he’s inside the house. “He said he’s going to stay inside until you get here.”
“Alright.”
I hate being so monosyllabic, but what else can I say? I don’t want to tell her about the car. She’s dealing with enough right now. All this stress is going to affect the baby and her alike. I need to find out who the fuck is doing this and make it stop.
“The letter threatened you, Beck. I can’t even read it again. But whoever it is, this sick motherfucker is getting angry.”
“I know.” I make myself inhale and exhale, inhale and exhale. She needs calm and cool Beck right now, not the angry and homicidal version. But my head is screaming and every muscle in my body is tense. “I’ll be home as soon as I can. Don’t let Spencer out of your sight.”
“Okay.”
I hang up, but I keep my phone in my fist like it’ll let me stay connected to her.
The clock ticking is agony, though. Every second that tolls past is one that I’m not with Sloan and the longer I stand around twiddling my fucking thumbs while everyone and their uncle tries to comfort me, I get angrier and angrier.
By the time the cops come, take my statement—which basically says I have no fucking idea who did this but the car was undamaged when I walked into the game and it was torn the fuck up when I came out—and give me a number to call to get a copy of the report for my insurance, I’m ready to go full-on green monster and destroy the city if I have to so I can get to Sloan.
Dix has waited with me, mostly quiet because now isn’t a time to talk, but once we’re in his car so he can take me home, he shakes his head. “What the hell is going on, Beck?”
“Sloan has a stalker.” I can barely grind the words out past the rage bubbling inside of me.
“Any idea who it is?”
I shrug. “Could be my old man, or some deranged fan who’s fixated on her because of me. Someone from her past. Fuck, I don’t know.”
“Ah. So that’s why you have, like, ten huge dudes hovering around her all the time.” He looks over at me. “This shit isn’t good, man.”
