12

DAVIES

“Who called you?” My voice bounced off the cinderblock walls of the locker room tunnel.

Maya stared at the cracked screen resting on the concrete floor. Color drained from her cheeks. Her hands trembled inside the oversized sleeves of my practice jersey. A sick feeling twisted my gut. Something was very wrong.

Stepping closer, my boots squeaked against the floor. Reaching down, my fingers brushed her cold knuckles as I picked up the device. The glass was spider-webbed, but the audio app remained open.

“Maya, talk to me,” my tone softened, masking the alarm bells ringing in my head. “Who was on the phone?”

“Nathan,” she whispered. Her voice broke on the name. “He sent a voice memo.”

Without waiting for permission, my thumb tapped the play icon. Static hissed from the tiny speaker. A second later, Nathan’s cold voice echoed in the empty hallway. He did not sound drunk anymore. He sounded calculated. He mentioned her work schedule. He brought up her sick mother. The hospital bills. He promised to burn her new life to ashes.

The recording clicked off.

Silence followed, thick and suffocating.

Red hot rage flooded my veins. My vision blurred at the edges. The urge to snap his neck became a physical ache in my hands. That coward could not face me like a man on the ice, so he decided to target a dying woman. He wanted to play dirty.

“I am going to end him,” a low growl tore from my throat.

Turning on my heel, my mind visualized the fastest route to the Dogfang locker room. They practiced on the other side of campus. Ten minutes if I sped.

“Davies, stop!” Maya lunged forward, grabbing my bicep. Her grip felt desperate. “Do not do anything stupid. Please. If you go over there and start a brawl, Coach Vance will bench you. You will lose your spot in the Winter Invitational.”

“I do not care about the game right now.”

“Well, I care!” She stepped in front of me, forcing my momentum to halt. Tears brimmed in her brown eyes. “If you lose your draft stock over this, it proves him right. He wants you to lose control. He is baiting you.”

Looking down at her, the sheer panic in her expression broke my anger down into something sharper. Focus. She needed protection, not a reckless meathead throwing fists in broad daylight.

“He threatened your mom, Maya.”

“We can handle it,” she swallowed hard, wiping a stray tear from her cheek. “Just... take me home. I need to get out of this arena.”

Nodding once, my hand slid down to intertwine with hers. “Let us go.”

We walked out to the parking lot in silence. The autumn wind whipped across the asphalt, but the fire in my chest kept the cold away. Opening the passenger door of my black truck, she climbed inside. Shutting the door behind her, my mind spun with violent plans. Nathan thought he held the cards. He thought he could intimidate her. He was dead wrong.

The engine roared to life. Tires crushed dry leaves as we exited the campus lot.

Glancing at the passenger seat, Maya leaned her head against the cool glass. Her eyes stayed closed. The blue fabric of my jersey swallowed her small frame. She looked exhausted. Carrying the weight of her mother’s illness was bad enough. Adding a psychotic ex-boyfriend to the mix was too much for one person to handle.

Pulling up to her dorm building, the truck idled by the curb.

“Lock your door,” my tone carried a stern warning. “Do not go anywhere alone tonight. If you need food, text me. If you hear a weird noise, text me. Understand?”

“You are acting paranoid,” a weak smile touched her lips.

“I am acting like a guy who just heard a threat against his girl,” my words hung in the air, heavy and true. Fake contract or not, my protective instincts were very real. “Just promise me, Maya.”

“I promise.” She unbuckled her seatbelt. Leaning over the center console, her soft lips pressed against my bruised jaw. The brief contact sent a jolt of heat straight to my groin. “Thank you for the ride. And the jersey.”

“Keep it.”

Watching her walk up the concrete steps, my eyes stayed glued to her until the heavy glass door shut.

Once she vanished from sight, the calm facade shattered.

Shifting the truck into drive, my foot slammed the gas pedal. The tires screeched against the pavement. Maya told me not to do anything stupid. She told me not to start a public brawl. Fine. I would do it quiet. I would handle Nathan off the ice and off the record.

Dogfang players usually hung out at The Rusty Anchor. It was a dive bar three miles off campus. Dim lighting, cheap beer, and no cameras. Perfect for a private chat.

Traffic dragged, but my grip on the steering wheel never loosened. The leather creaked under the pressure of my hands. Nathan’s voice replayed in my head on a loop. Every time he mentioned her mother, my blood pressure spiked.

Pulling into the gravel parking lot, several cars bearing Dogfang bumper stickers sat in the front row. Nathan’s red Jeep parked near the back exit. Got him.

Killing the engine, my boots hit the gravel with heavy, deliberate steps.

Pushing the wooden tavern doors open, the smell of stale beer and fried grease assaulted my nose. A jukebox played a muffled rock song in the corner. The afternoon crowd was thin. A few locals sat at the long wooden counter.

Over in a dark booth by the pool tables, three guys wearing red varsity jackets laughed over a pitcher of beer.

Nathan sat in the middle.

Striding across the sticky floor, my focus locked onto his smug face. One of his teammates, a massive guy named Troy, noticed my approach. Troy stood up, blocking the narrow aisle.

“You are out of bounds, Westbridge,” Troy sneered, crossing his thick arms. “This is our turf.”

Without breaking stride, my shoulder dropped. A hard, calculated shove caught Troy dead in the chest. He stumbled backward, crashing into a stack of wooden chairs. The loud clatter silenced the entire bar. The jukebox seemed to fade into the background.