Page 22 of Total Shutdown

I blow out a long breath. “Because she’s a very private person, and I didn’t want her to be identified. Besides, I don’t know if you would describe us as friends. She’s someone I know.”

Ezra’s brows pull together. “But you like hanging out with her, right?”

I prop my hands on my hips and shake my head slowly. “I wouldn’t even say that we’ve hung out togeth?—”

“Because I do,” he rushes out, cutting me off. “I like hanging out with her. She’s cool, and she likes bikes, which are way more interesting than goddamn sports.”

“Language,” I scold.

He rolls his eyes and starts up the stairs. “Whatever,” he huffs out as I track his movements until he disappears out of sight.

I stand there, rooted to the spot, wondering what the fuck just happened when my cell starts vibrating on the kitchen island.

I skid to a halt having raced over to grab it from next to Ezra’s laptop before it goes to voicemail.

“Hey,” I say, not even bothering to check the contact.

“Worst. Advice. Ever.” Archer’s unimpressed tone is unmistakable.

“What was?” I ask, my brain still catching up with the conversation I just had with Ezra, never mind processing what my goalie has to say.

“After practice today, I found out Shane was in town, seeing some of the guys for a few beers. With youradvicestill ringing in my ears, I thought it might be a good opportunity to tell him face-to-face—you know, man-to-man.”

I close my eyes and take the stool Ezra was previously using. “And?”

“And I’m calling you ahead of morning skate to give the heads-up on the bruised jaw I now have.”

“Fuck.”

He huffs out a humorless breath. “I can confidently confirm that my playing-around days are over, as is the era of me listening to you.”

“Other than landing one on you, what did he say?”

This time, he does laugh, but it’s dark. “He told me if he ever saw me again, he’d break my legs.”

“Did you hit him back?”

A couple of seconds of silence pass before he speaks.

“No. I didn’t particularly want the title of Bar Fighter to go with Resident Playboy.” He pauses again. “My agent is telling me some photos of the hit made it on the internet. I can’t look at them.”

“Hang on,” I say, grabbing my reading glasses from the counter opposite the island and waking Ezra’s laptop before punching in the password. “I’ll take a look for you. They’re probably already down though.”

Archer shares the same agent as me, and he’s known for being fast at getting shit like this taken down, although seemingly, he’s not as fast as Ezra’s peers.

As soon as I hit the last digit of his password, I pause, staring at the screen.

“Oh fuck, they’re really bad, aren’t they? Coach is going to ream my ass out tomorrow morning.” Archer groans, assuming my silence is in response to what I’m seeing.

I still don’t say anything.

BikerCollins.

An Instagram profilewith over ten thousand followers and a hundred different posts—some Reels and other static images—lights up the screen in front of me.

I click on her latest upload—a Reel of her refurbing the Harley she was talking about. She’s dressed in ripped denim shorts, black Doc Martens boots, and a worn gray Def Leppard T-shirt. Her hair is thrown up in a bun with pieces framing her face as she talks to the camera, walking her followers through some kind of step-by-step instructions. Thankfully all in silence since Ezra has the volume on mute.

How did he find out she had this profile? Did she tell him? Did his friends find it? Or did he perform a random Google search on her first name?

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