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Maybe that’s it, then.
The odds didn’t make sense.
And them losing didn’t make sense either. They were playing fine.
Luke hands me back my badge. “Get out of here.”
“Aurora?”
I try not to wince. But… damn it, I do. And Luke seems to laser in on that, even as his face transforms from vaguely threatening to…charming.
“Knox Whiteshaw,” he calls. “Keep up the good work.”
Good work?His head has only been partially in the game. I’ve been watching through my fingers, torn between wanting Knox to get checked into the boards every time he gets the puck and willing Joel’s reactions to be fast, to catch or block any puck that comes his way.
And yet, the Titans are still down by one, with one period left to play.
Knox is in his full hockey gear, skates and all. His helmet is tucked under his arm, and his stick is in his other hand.
He was already six inches taller than me, but now it’s more like ten. I have to crane my head back to see him.
“You know Ms. McGovern?” Luke questions.
Knox inclines his chin. “Yes, sir. And you know her…?”
Sir?
“We just met,” Luke informs him. “You look like you just finished press. Your coach is probably waiting for you.”
“Right.” Knox dips his head, then eyes me. “Aurora, walk with me.”
I don’t feel the question in his phrasing, but I nod anyway. He doesn’t touch me until we’re around the corner. He glances around, then grabs my upper arm and hauls me through an unlocked door.
It clicks shut behind me, plunging us into darkness.
A split second later, Knox’s phone flashlight illuminates the space. He finds the switch by the door and flicks it, stowing his phone again. He glowers at me.
“What the hell was that?” he demands.
“I was coming down to wish Joel good luck,” I snap. “I don’t know what you think you saw?—”
“I think I saw you talking to the Titans’ owner’s son and the assistant coach.”
Well, shit.
“Luke’s dad owns the team?” I clarify.
Knox sniffs and turns away from me. “Obviously.”
He can somehow be hot and off-put at the same time. His hair is pushed back off his face, damp with sweat or water. Hockey guys are always dumping water on their heads. His white jersey, with stripes of mint green and dark blue on the arms and sides, is caught on the pads in the back. It obscures the number nineteen.
I resist the urge to fix it.
Instead, I try to figure out the connection between the team, Luke, and the conversation I overheard at the club. I suspected that they were rigging the bets, but now it’s more clear that he has the power to fix the games, too.
“What’s your problem?” Knox asks, suddenly in my face.
I backpedal and bump into the door. “I don’t have one, although you seem determined to make yourself my problem.”
