Page 122 of Snap Shot

“Who were you texting?”

Bea smirks and does that stupid eyebrow waggle of hers. “Probably Gym Guy.”

“Noteverythingis about Gym Guy.”

“Then who was it?”

“It was Cooke. Cooke Wagner. Radek's agent. Asking me to attend some after-game thing.”

Bea gasps. “You have to go!”

“Nah.” I loop my arms around their necks. “I'm here with my girls. I'll tell him we'll meet another time.” My face switches between theirs, eyeing their reaction. “And anyway, what will you two do if I go?”

“We'll befine.” Bea pshaws and pats my sister's back. “I'll show Anika here a good time. And you can join us after.”

I hum. “Are you sure?” 'Cause I really wanna see Landon lose his goddamn mind.

“Hell yes!” My sister throws both fists above her head.

“I'm sure you’re disappointed.”

She's not hiding her eagerness to drink endlessly without my watchful eye.

“Fine,” I surmise. “I'll go to the thing and then meet up with you wherever you are.”

Me:Where am I supposed to meet you?

—————

The arena clears as the game ends with the Regents' winning on Radek's sole goal. Nik blows drunken kisses my way, her arm hooked in Bea's. I fidget with the jersey length while waiting for Landon's PA on the ground floor.

Trevor finds me and waves, then hands me a lanyard and leads us past security. “He's still doing press,” he says, leading us down a long hallway. The kid extends a hand by a set of heavy velvet curtains. “But he asked if you'd wait here.”

“Did he say how long it'd be?”

He responds with a shrug. “Shouldn't be too long.”

Ten minutes later and not a soul has passed me by. Curious to see what's behind them, I pull one panel of the curtain aside. The now-darkened arena comes into view. I look left, then right, and worm my way through.

Only the rink is well-lit. The Zamboni whirs across the ice in calculated, hypnotic turns.

“Lost?”

I gasp and jump back a step as I turn. “Oh,uh, yeah.”

Sutton McCrimmon tilts his head as he studies me.

“It's my first time here.” He's not quite as tall as Landon, but built like a fridge, and better looking in-person than his foster photo. I almost look dainty next to him. “Silly me and my lack of direction.” A nervous laugh slips from my mouth.

He hums. His walnut brown eyes give me a once-over. “You look really familiar.”

“Me?”

“Sutton McCrimmon.” He extends a large hand.

“Nice to meet you.” I politely return the greeting, but his grip lingers, eyes flattening to slits. “I'm—”

“No, let me guess. I've seen you somewhere.”

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