Page 37 of Wicked Games

“Because she?—”

“Loves you?”

No.

Because she’s worse than Uncle when it comes to twisting the world into her own masterpiece. No one else’s opinions matter.

“What’d she say?”

“She wants you to apply for Harvard,” he says. “Early decision.”

I cough.

“Fuck, no.” That would lock me into it if I got in—and there’s a high chance someone would donate in the Asher name, and suddenly I’d be hiking my ass up to Cambridge, Massachusetts.

“Make a list,” he orders, standing. “I want to see where you’re thinking of going, and I’ll do my best to get some recruits to your games. Once you’re back on the roster, of course.”

I stand, too. I know a dismissal when I hear one.

I don’t wait for him to roll out the red carpet and usher me out. He closes the door behind me, and I duck into the locker room down the hall. There’s a door in the back, much like the girls’. I unhook the alarm and shove the door open.

So fucking done.

Of course my mother wants to micromanage where I go to school. It’s not just hockey that’s a concern. In fact, they’d be thrilled if Ididn’tplay hockey. They think I should focus on business classes. Double major in two fancy degrees, then go on to get my master’s in business.

All of it to prepare me to take over the family business, but even that wouldn’t happen until years of working under my uncle.

It’s stupid.

I can’t speak out against it, though. Not to anyone except my coach and friends… and maybe, eventually, Margo.

I get in my car and speed back to my house. Not Eli’s, because his parents would absolutely question me being home too early.Mine. I go through the house, ignoring the drab, dust-coated interior, and unlock the glass door that leads to the patio. There’s a path down to the guest house, which was built a moderate distance away from the main house.

Goosebumps rise on my skin the closer I get. I unlock the door to Margo’s old home and turn on a light. We rarely came in here as kids. I think her mom preferred the luxury of the main house—or the solitude after we were gone. Either way, most of my memories of Margo are either at school, in the backyard, or in my house.

Before Margo returned, I hadn’t been in here in years.

Now, I examine it with a new light.

Her parents’ room is a wreck. I crack that door, taking in the broken furniture, the scattered clothes and glass, bits of wood. The air is stale and a little sour.

This place doesn’t affect me like it does Margo. But then again, I don’t have visceral memories. My imagery comes from stories Keith Wolfe spun on the stand while he begged for a not guilty verdict. The trial ended abruptly, after two weeks, with a plea agreement between parties.

It’s not what he deserved—but the prison time made the deal worth it. Especially when my uncle told me he could’ve gotten off completely free.

Margo’s father’s lies encompassed all of us. Me, my parents, Margo, her mother.

She doesn’t know—but she might begin to unravel it. She’s digging. Trying to remember.

I go into Margo’s old room. It feels like it’s been frozen in time. Unlike her parents’ room, which a tornado went through and then was abandoned, a ten-year-old Margo could’ve raced in behind me and I wouldn’t question it.

I close the door and touch the scratches in the painted wood. Long gouges, about waist-high on me. A thousand of them.

What would make a ten-year-oldthatdesperate to get out?

Old blood has dried to a dark brown. Broken nails… a cut? I don’t ever remember her being injured like that, so when did this happen?

On the dresser is what I came for: the bracelet Margo refuses to wear. I palm it, holding it tightly for a moment before sliding it into my pocket. Half of me wants to march back to her room and superglue the latch—then she really would be stuck with it.

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