Page 21 of Break the Ice
No one has any idea that’s where this situation is headed, but they’ll soon find out.
Maybe.
A stiff, troubled breath blows out of me as I make my way into the training facility. There’s no avoiding the fact that the team is out on the ice in the middle of practice. My office overlooks the rink, a novelty that seemed like such a treat when I was handed the keys has promptly turned into a pain in the ass.
The last person—or people—I want to be around is Rafe “Alpha” Golding and the rest of his teammates.
“Hey, Marisse! There you are,” calls Coach Oates. He’s headed down the corridor coming the opposite way. He’s clutching a giant travel mug of coffee, donning his signature navy-blue Wolves windbreaker jacket, with bags under his eyes. “Want to come down to the bench? The guys are out doing some drills with the other coaches. Figure we could all use a pick-me-up with Hawk’s absence.”
“I really should get some work done first?—”
“Work can wait,” he says, flashing a wide smile. “You’ve got to see what our boys can do on the ice.”
“I’ve watched footage of the Wolves’ last five seasons start to finish, Coach. I’m well aware what they’re capable of.”
“Different seeing it in person. C’mon, just a few minutes.”
I roll my eyes, out of excuses beyond I just don’t want to. Which always seemed to work well in the past, but considering circumstances, seems flimsy at best. No one at the Wolves suspects I have a thing to do with Mr. Hawk’s supposed disappearance. I’m supposed to be as downtrodden as they are. If it pleases Oates and takes his mind off his boss’s whereabouts for even a few minutes, then it’ll be worth it.
The Wolves have split themselves into two groups. We come up on the row of glass seats in time to witness one of the players on offense—a left winger by the name of Kai Fakuda—send the puck sailing into the net. He’s met by Golding and Schmidt who both bump fists with him.
It’s one goal of many.
Within minutes, I’m able to gather the dynamics of the team just by watching them interact during practice. There’s a distinct divide between Rafe and his closest allies and many of the defensive men. The tension feels tangible as Rafe dribbles the puck down the ice and defenseman Phil Morasca rushes to intercept.
The two men clash in a battle for control of the puck. Morasca attempts to box him out, using his stick and body to defend his zone. But Rafe’s too savvy for such plays. He outmaneuvers him with a quick spin, his stick guarding the puck from a steal. Being driven farther into the corner isn’t a problem. He roofs it, hitting the puck at an angle and scoring another goal.
Coach Oates nudges me in my side. “Isn’t he something? One of the best players in the league. It drives Morasca crazy. He thinks Hawk and the others show favoritism toward Alpha, but the truth is he can’t touch him skill-wise.”
“So that’s where the tension between them comes from. I’ve noticed it during the team sync.”
Coach waves a hand to dismiss my observation. “Ah, it’s all friendly competition. Nothing worth worrying about.”
But what Oates calls friendly competition seems to be a real animosity. As Rafe celebrates with the rest of his teammates on offense, Morasca shoots several dirty looks at him, his cheeks a ruddy red.
The instant Oates is distracted by practice, I make my escape.
I spend the rest of the day holed up in my office with the blinds drawn on the windows that overlook the ice. I stay parked at my computer desk and ignore the hungry growls of my stomach begging for food. The squashed granola bar at the bottom of my purse will have to do.
The second the clock strikes five p.m., I’m a blur on my way to the parking garage. I morph into the maniac driver I’m always complaining about, weaving between lanes and cutting people off. By the time I make it to the top floor of my apartment building and unlock my door to throw myself inside, I’m practically in the middle of a panic attack.
What the hell am I doing?! What have I gotten myself mixed up in? How can I possibly think I’ll be able to go about my daily life like nothing happened?
It may seem like Seattle PD and the investigators on the case are nowhere close to suspecting me, but what am I going to do once they inevitably are? They’ll review camera footage that shows me arriving at Mr. Hawk’s suite, interview character witnesses and bystanders about what they saw and overheard, and likely even uncover incriminating physical evidence.
There had been broken glass everywhere. Mr. Hawk’s blood had splattered. Surely, the men Rafe brought in to clean up must’ve missed something…
It’ll lead investigators down a rabbit hole I’ve long feared.
My days could be numbered.
I step into the shower and trick myself into thinking the hot steam is all I feel. It’s what I breathe in as I shower. Not the panic rising up my chest, about to pop like a balloon.
I need to call the police. I need to alert the authorities and tell them the truth of what happened that night. Or what little I can remember of the party. It’ll serve more in my favor if I’m seen as cooperative and forthcoming?—
A sharp, insistent knock on my front door interrupts my panic-induced thoughts. I go still under the hot spray of water and listen for any further sounds, halfway wondering if it’s the police outside my door. Have they come to arrest me?
…that’s happened quicker than I anticipated.
