Page 21 of Speed

Outside, ready to leave, I stared at my Maserati. If I wanted to stay low-key, maybe it wasn’t about dark glasses and a hat—it was about ditching the car. So now what?

“Nice car,” Eddie murmured. He and Joan were an older couple who ran the hotel, and he’d followed me outside with some packages to post.

“Yeah,” I said, and it hit me. “Any chance you’ve got something I could borrow for the day? A little more… low-key?”

Eddie glanced at me, and I could see his confusion. However, his expression softened when he called Joan out, and I offered them a way-over-the-odds amount to rent their Toyota for the day. Money has a way of smoothing out questions.

Eddie handed me the keys to an ancient silver Corolla, muttering something about “not driving it like one of those race cars.” Tall and lanky, he’d been the last to drive it, so I had to adjust the seat to fit my five-nine frame.

“Weird guy,” I heard Joan whisper to him as I drove off. But they were satisfied with the money, so that was that.

The drive into Harrisburg was quiet, my phone directing me to the Railers training complex. I still didn’t know what the hell I was doing. I wasn’t a hockey guy—I’d grown up in motorsport, which had consumed my life. I parked the Corolla in the back of the lot, grateful for how nondescript it was, and made my way inside, keeping my head low. The complex was open to the public, so I didn’t have to talk my way past anyone at the entrance, and apart from a bag check—I had nothing—they let me in.

The stands weren’t packed, but enough people were scattered around to make it feel as if every eye was on me. I slunk up to the top row and sat down, hoping no one here cared enough about motorsport to notice me.

What was I doing here? I didn’t know a thing about hockey, and from what I could tell, this wasn’t a real game. On the ice, the players were scattered, most kneeling as the guy in charge—probably the coach—gestured and barked orders.

I leaned back in my seat, watching the organized chaos unfold below me. Noah was easy to spot, even after he put on his helmet, his sharp movements and focus setting him apart. He looked good out there—damn good.

I felt like an idiot. Cars had consumed my life, and sitting alone in a hockey rink, I was pretending I wasn’t here for reasons I couldn’t quite admit to myself.

The pitiful excuses I'd prepared sounded better in my head than they did out loud. Still, I told myself I wasn’t stalking Noah. I was… curious. Curious enough to know where he trained, when he was on the ice, and—okay, yes—I was a stalking stalker. But hell, I wasn’t doing anything nefarious with the information.

Practice shifted into something more intense, the players breaking off into teams—gray shirts against blue. Even from the nosebleeds, I could see the change in pace, the way every pass and play was more deliberate. The rubber disc—puck, I reminded myself—skated across the ice, but my focus was on Noah.

He was the best out there. He moved as if he’d been born to do this. His speed was ridiculous, and I caught glimpses of other players darting across the ice, but they barely registered. Noah commanded my attention, his every movement pulling me in. How he twisted around other skaters trying to stop him, the sharp snap of his wrist sending the puck sailing into the net—amazing.

So, fucking sexy.

My chest tightened as I watched him skate back to the center, his shoulders rising and falling as he caught his breath. He was unstoppable, powerful, and beautiful.

And me? I was sitting in the shadows, trying to convince myself I was here to watch a practice, not to lose myself in how he made me feel like I couldn’t look elsewhere.

I turned my phone back on to check something—anything—that would stop me losing my shit and heading out on the ice to talk to him. The only messages I focused on were one from my grandfather insisting I return home, and the other… well, that I could handle—a message from Jemima.

Jemima:Hey you

Brody: Hey you, back

Jemima: You doing okay, sweetheart?

She addedseveral hearts and kisses—definitely on-brand for the queen of pop.

No, I’m losing my shit, my head hurts, everything is fucked up.

Of course, I didn’t send that.

Brody:I think I’m bisexual

Well,I never expected to send that!

Jemima:I know you are

Brody: ????

Jemima: You remember our midnight chats about Davey?

Shit,yes, I remembered Davey, a roadie, him of the purple hair and the pretty blue eyes and the…

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