Page 27 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth

Cassidy smiles but thankfully doesn’t say anything. Her knowing smile lingers, though. I can feel Thatcher’s eyes on me again, and I don’t dare look back.

She nudges me again, clearly happy from the attention, but I focus on the ice, pretending to watch the other players. My heartis still hammering, though, and I can’t shake the feeling of Jack’s face on the screen. The guy I accidentally killed.

“Oh my God! He’s looking again,” she whispers, her voice filled with excitement.

I can feel the weight of his stare without turning my head. My heart thuds loudly in my chest, the air suddenly feeling too thick. I force myself to keep my eyes on the ice, trying to concentrate on anything but the pull I feel for him.

“Stop,” I mutter. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?” Cassidy grins, clearly enjoying this. “I don’t think so, babe. He’s practically laser-focused on you.”

I sneak a quick glance toward the rink, and sure enough, his eyes are on me, dark and intense, like he’s studying me, searching for something. My stomach twists. I look away again, hoping Cassidy didn’t notice the shiver that just ran down my spine.

As the final whistle of warm-ups blows, I feel a wave of anticipation wash over the crowd. The players gather for a final huddle, and Thatcher stands at the center, radiating confidence. I can’t help but wonder what the actual hell is going on right now. Maybe it’s my paranoia, but I’m suddenly very uncomfortable.

The players stand in a circle as the lights dim. My heart is racing as the announcer comes over the speaker and starts talking about Jack.

“If anyone has any information, please come forward.”

I stare at my hands, completely tuning out the words being spoken. I keep my head down as if I’m saying a prayer for him, but in reality, I’m trying not to sob out of guilt. My ears start to ring, and I don’t think I can stay to watch this game anymore. I’m surrounded by a stadium of people, so I need to suck it up. I need to not cry. Maybe I should get the hell out of here.

This was a shit idea.

When I glance towards the rink, lost in thought, those same eyes pull me right in. The same guy, Thatcher, is fucking staring at me. I cock my head to the side, wondering if I’m right. I look behind me, and there’s no one looking in his direction.

Cassidy smiles at me, and then she places a hand on mine. I pull away with a smile, rubbing my hands together.

When I look forward again, I expect Thatcher to be focused on something else. But no, the asshole is still staring at me.

The game goes by in a blur. Honestly, I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but it doesn’t matter. I’m physically here, but my mind is replaying that night, replaying the announcer’s word of begging someone to come forward with any helpful information. I’m no longer in this realm of reality. I’m lost in my mind, not knowing what will be able to bring me back.

The crowd is booming and roaring, but I’m just sitting here. Cassidy can feel it. I hope she only sees it as depression, nothing more. I don’t need any more questions.

Finally, the game ends, but I don’t want to move. I could sit here forever, and that would be okay.

Cassidy jumps out of her seat to clap with the crowd. She pulls me up, and I’m no longer lost in my thoughts as I clap for the winners.

The team takes a victory lap across the rink, soaking in the crowd’s adoration and cheers.

As they skate, I watch them tug off their helmets, shaking out tousled hair. My admirer’s hair is brown. Swallowing hard, I tried to focus on something–anything else, but my eyes keep drifting back to him.

The crowd cheers louder as he reaches the bench and pulls off his gloves. His movements are unhurried, deliberate. The crowd is still cheering, but my focus narrows on him. He pulls at the collar of his jersey, and for some reason, my pulse quickens as he casually slips it off over his head, revealing the tight shortsleeved shirt underneath that clings to him like a second skin, outlining his built, muscled frame.

He lifts his arm to wipe sweat from his brow and that’s when I see the black band of indecipherable words that wraps around his bicep. The sight makes my stomach drop, a cold rush of recognition washing over me.

It’s the same tattoo, the one that has been haunting my every waking moment since Halloween, the one I would never forget in a million years.

My thoughts spin as everything clicks into place. Jack plays hockey. These guys are his teammates. Thatcher was there that night.

Thatcher is the masked stranger.

Chapter 6

I cut across the quad, keeping my head down. It’s loud—people shouting, laughing, groups clustered around tables and benches like nothing happened.

Maybe nothing did.

My fingers curl tighter around my backpack strap.

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