Page 67 of Break the Ice
“Who, what?”
“Who made you grateful to be injured?”
The humor fades from her face. Her eyes dim. “I’m not telling you about that.”
“Abernathy?” I guess. I’ve forgotten about my bowl of cereal. I’m tuned into her every reaction, studying her for context clues. “You mean how the asshole made things difficult for you after the affair was made public.”
Marisse sits completely still, her legs tucked neatly at her sides. A somberness has fallen over her. The opposite of nostalgia. She’s trapped in the middle of a bad memory.
Tension cinches my insides. “What is it? Tell me what it is.”
“You should go. I have a lot to do.”
“Marisse—”
“Rafe, this isn’t a round. Which means you have to leave. Now.”
A moment of silence stretches by, where she’s irritated and I’m busy racking my brain for what secret she’s keeping. It becomes clear she’d never trust me enough to tell me.
Marisse March doesn’t simply dislike me. She loathes me and sees me as her enemy. She might’ve let me into her apartment and served me cereal, but those were empty gestures. The hate is visceral in her stare.
I’m obsessed with a woman who hates my guts. Only I would be that fucked up. Legions of female fans and groupies who would piss themselves at the chance to be the object of my obsession—and I choose the one woman in the world who wouldn’t.
Nothing I ever do or say will change how she feels.
But that doesn’t mean I’ll give up my obsession. It doesn’t mean I’m ready to throw in the towel on this game we’re playing and how I’m going to win. I’m going to get everything I’ve wanted.
And I’m going to find out what she’s hiding from me about Abernathy too.
“Then don’t tell me,” I say, standing up. “I’ll figure it out some other way.”
Marisse calls after me, but I’m already done with the conversation.
The entire team’s distracted during our next practice. Seattle PD has once again graced us with their presence. Detective Gomez leads the charge, popping in and out of management offices. His last stop’s Danny Boy Beringer’s. The door doesn’t open again until practice is already up.
Coach Oates briefs us about a couple changes in our lineup for our next game. When he’s not flat out glaring at me, he keeps me in his periphery. Hands stuffed in the pockets of his windbreaker jacket, he shoots me the occasional scolding look as he addresses us.
“Morasca’s out for the foreseeable future,” he says. Then he cuts me another pointed glance. “He’s on a leave of absence ’til he gets better.”
Foley speaks up. “What’s going on with him now?”
“He’d prefer it remain undisclosed. Now hit the showers and give those muscles some rest. Every one of you needs to be in top shape for this season.”
A couple of Morasca’s closest allies glance over in my direction. Apparently, they’re well aware of the truth.
Every last one of them can kiss my ass.
I tear off my helmet, fuming over what’s gone down. I’ve got half a mind to follow them into the locker room and see if they want to settle this with our fists.
The anger follows me into the shower. It’s not until I’m toweling off after that I’m reminding myself even I can’t afford any more fuck ups right now. The investigation into Hawk’s death needs to die down first.
A glance at myself in the mirror tells me I probably need a break from the insanity. Dark circles rim my eyes, and my hair’s gone from unruly to unkempt. Still a face most women would love but marked with unmistakable signs of exhaustion.
No wonder I was extra agitated. I look and feel like fucking shit.
I have been sleeping less. I’ve been spending long hours playing hockey, mixed up in covering tracks, or observing Marisse.
It’s time for a night off. An evening where I’m home instead of fucking around.
