Forced proximity 

Marlo

“I’m sorry, Marlo, but my hands are completely tied.”

Mrs. Gable, the head coordinator of student financial aid, didn't even look up from her computer screen as she pushed a single piece of yellow paper across her cluttered desk.

I stared down at the ink. My work study assignment the library front desk position that gave me twenty quiet hours a week to study and earn just enough cash for groceries had been officially canceled. In its place was a brand new assignment: Special Equipment & Facilities Assistant, Varsity Hockey Wing.

"There has to be a mistake," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "I’ve worked in the library for two years. I don't know anything about athletic equipment."

"It came directly from the Dean of Athletics," Mrs. Gable replied, tapping her nails against her keyboard. "A private donor funded a specialized maintenance grant for the ice arena. They specifically requested you by name to fulfill the hours. If you turn it down, your work study grant is forfeited immediately. You won't have tuition coverage for next semester."

The air left my lungs in one thin, painful breath.

A private donor.

Jarrah didn't need to break down my door or hold a gun to my head to trap me. He didn't have to drag me kicking and screaming into his world. He was simply buying up every single piece of my life until there was nowhere left for me to stand. First my safety, then my secrets, and now the small, fragile bit of independence I had fought so hard to build.

He was erasing me, choice by choice.

An hour later, I was standing at the top of the concrete stairs leading down into the subterranean level of the Monash University Ice Arena.

The air down here was frigid, thick with the sharp smell of fresh ice, damp leather, and industrial floor cleaner. My sneakers squeaked against the heavy grey rubber floor matting as I walked down the narrow, dimly lit corridor. The rest of the campus was alive with students heading to evening lectures, but down here, beneath the stands, it felt like an underground bunker.

I carried a heavy plastic bucket filled with clean rags, bleach, and leather conditioner. My official duties, according to the clipboard hanging on the wall, were simple: clean the varsity locker room after practice, sanitize the gear benches, and organize the skates.

It was a cage. A gilded, icy cage designed specifically for me.

I pushed through the heavy wooden door marked VARSITY PLAYERS ONLY.

The locker room was vast and completely empty. The team had finished their evening ice drill an hour ago, leaving behind the lingering scent of cedar soap, sweat, and cold air. Rows of dark mahogany lockers lined the walls, each tagged with a player’s name and number.

I walked past number 14 C. O'SHEA.

My hand tightened around the handle of my cleaning bucket until my knuckles turned white. The police evidence tag I had found in my backpack was still tucked safely inside my sports bra, pressing cold against my skin. Item 4B: One blood stained hockey glove, Property of Cal O'Shea.

Cal had warned me to stay away from Jarrah's inner orbit. He had threatened to put a bullet in my head if I became a liability. But Cal was dirty, too. He was tied to the night my parents were slaughtered just as deeply as Jarrah was. I was walking through a minefield where every single person I met was holding a detonator.

I walked further into the room, stopping in front of the largest locker at the very end of the bench line.

Number 9. J. VANCE.

There was no nameplate on his locker, just the bold, raised metal numbers. His dark red jersey hung neatly inside, the heavy fabric smelling faintly of pine and woodsmoke.

A wave of intense, suffocating conflict washed over me. I hated him. I hated the way he looked at me like he owned every breath in my body. I hated that his family's money could bend the entire university to his will. But as I stood alone in the quiet locker room, staring at his jersey, my heart gave a slow, betraying thud.

He was a monster. He was a stalker. He was the man whose initials were on the wire transfer that ended my childhood and yet, when Siobhan’s shadow loomed over me, Jarrah was the only thing standing between me and a shallow grave.

"Get a grip, Marlo," I muttered to myself, pulling a heavy pair of rubber gloves onto my hands.

I set the bucket on the floor and began spraying down the wooden benches. I forced my mind to go blank, focusing entirely on the repetitive, mechanical motion of my arms. Wipe down the wood. Sanitize the metal hooks. Move to the next bench.

I worked in silence for forty minutes, moving deeper into the back wing of the facility where the shower stalls and equipment storage rooms were located. The quiet was almost peaceful, broken only by the steady hum of the building's massive ventilation system overhead.

For a few minutes, I almost convinced myself that I was safe down here.

Then, the ventilation system suddenly groaned and shut off.

The sudden silence was absolute. It pressed heavy against my ears, thick and unnatural.

My hand froze midway across a wooden locker door. I slowly lowered the rag, my heart beginning its sharp, rapid rhythm against my ribs.

From down the long entrance corridor, a heavy, metallic CLANG echoed through the concrete walls.

It was the sound of the double steel fire doors at the top of the stairwell slamming shut.

Clack-click.

The distinct, electric hum of the automated magnetic locks engaged from the outside. The sound vibrated right through the soles of my shoes. The facility's security system had just sealed the entire varsity wing shut.

"Hello?" I called out, my voice sounding small and terrified in the vast room. "Is someone there? I'm still working in here!"

No answer.

Panic surged through my blood like pure ice water. I dropped the rag and ran toward the main entrance. I grabbed the heavy chrome handles of the double doors and yanked with all my strength.

They didn't budge. The red emergency light above the doorframe blinked once, twice, and then switched to a solid, locked red.

"Hey! Open the door!" I pounded my fists against the heavy metal, the sound booming hollowly into the empty hallway outside. "Let me out!"

Nothing. The magnetic lock was engaged from the main security console upstairs. I was trapped.

I turned around, backing my spine flat against the locked steel doors. The overhead fluorescent lights suddenly flickered, buzzed violently, and killed out completely, plunging the entire locker room into thick, suffocating darkness.

Only the faint, red glow of the exit sign illuminated the shadow draped room.

I pulled my phone out of my hoodie pocket with shaking hands. No Service. The thick concrete walls of the basement blocked every signal.

My breathing came fast and shallow. Siobhan’s message from the map echoed in my mind: The grey zones aren't where you're safe. They're where my men are waiting for you.

A soft, deliberate sound broke through the quiet from the back of the dark locker room.

Crunch.

It was the quiet, unmistakable sound of a heavy leather boot stepping onto a stray piece of ice on the floor matting.

Someone was already inside the room with me.

I pressed my back harder against the locked door, my eyes wide with terror as I stared into the dark shadows near the shower stalls.

"Who's there?" I choked out, my hand searching blindly behind me for anything to use as a weapon.

Out of the deep shadows at the far end of the room, a tall, broad silhouette slowly detached itself from the wall. The figure moved with slow, terrifying grace, stepping directly into the faint red light.

It wasn't one of Siobhan's hitmen.

Jarrah stood ten feet away from me. He wasn't wearing his hockey gear or his leather jacket. He wore a simple black fitted shirt, his muscular arms crossed over his chest, his amber eyes glowing like a predator's in the dim red light.

In his right hand, he was casually tossing the electronic security keycard that controlled the building's master lock system.

"You shouldn't have been looking at Cal's locker, little bird," Jarrah said, his low, gravelly voice sliding through the dark. "Now, we're going to sit in the dark until you tell me what you put inside your bra."