Page 25 of Icing the Enemy

“Have you been doing your exercises?” she asks, focusing on my arm.

“Of course, my body is my career. You know how seriously I take my health,” I say, almost pleading with her to believe me because I can tell something is off.

“Hmm. Well, it seems you’ve been a bit distracted lately, so I had to ask.”

“What do you mean?” Then of course, it hits me. “Are you talking about the press with the girl who stole my truck?”

She says, “I am. Did she have a good reason for taking your truck?”

Her touch is firm as we move to resistance exercises. I know the routine, so she doesn’t have to say push against me, pull or press.

My face tightens when I press against her in a slapshot motion. “Hmm.”

“Has it gotten worse?”

“No, but you’re tense as fuck. Did you ask her or not?” she asks, clipping her words.

I asked Oakley why, but I was talking about her leaving without telling me. “Not really. We were having a fantastic time at Wynward’s wedding, then she disappeared. I thought….”

“Ask her why she took your truck.” Her eyes pool with water. “I’ve been in some messy situations. Instead of ridiculing her in public, sit down and have a conversation with her.”

That’s when I really look at her, and she has a pound of makeup on with a blue tint. Her face is bruised. What the fuck?

“Did someone hurt you? Who?”

She hurriedly wipes the tears that splash from her lashes to her cheeks.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Gloria, it does matter.” Then I remember she was sneaking around with Dousier. The guy who caused Bryce’s concussion last year. “I’m going to kill that mother fucker.”

“It’s not what you think,” she stresses. Her normally steady hands shake.

“Then tell me what it is.” I sit up.

“Worry about yourself, Shearer. This is none of your business.”

“It’s my business if one of my teammates did this to you.”

I pop off the training table and text Dousier.

Me: Where are you?

Dousier: Running in Music Row Park. Why?

Me: I’ll be there.

Gloria hands me a new ice pack. “When you get home, ice it on the top for fifteen minutes. Then, with your arm above your head, ice it underneath.”

“Got it.”

On my way out, the general manager stops me. “Do you have a minute?”

“Actually, I don’t. I’m already late for an appointment.”

“Make an appointment for tomorrow with Delia,” he says, speaking of his executive assistant.

The park is about a five-minute drive from the arena. The running path is a curvy circle so if I stay here, I’ll run into Dousier.

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