Page 34 of Her Name in Red
Maren shrugs, a lazy lift of one shoulder that somehow manages to be both dismissive and seductive at the same time. “Waiting for you.”
The simplicity of her answer knocks the wind out of me harder than any check into the boards.
She pushes off the wall with a fluid grace that makes my mouth go dry. The cheerleading uniform hugs every curve of her body, the pleated skirt swishing against her thighs as she takes a step toward me. My number on her cheek looks like a brand, a claim, a warning.
“You know, I've watched you play sixteen times now,” she says, voice pitched low enough that I have to strain to hear it over the distant roar of the crowd. “But I've never seen you lose control like that before.”
She reaches out, not quite touching me, her fingers hovering over the split in my cheek.
“What did he say to you?” she asks, and her voice has that dangerous edge I recognize. “Must have been something special to make Captain Golden Boy snap like that.”
“It doesn't matter,” I mutter, flexing my fingers, feeling the sting as fresh blood seeps from the cuts.
“Liar.” She steps closer, close enough now that I can smell her. “Was it about me?”
The question hangs between us, and I know my silence is answer enough. Her lips curve into a smile that doesn't reach her eyes.
“You like the violence, don't you?” she says, and it's not really a question. Her gaze drops to my hands, to the blood drying between my fingers. “The way it feels to lose control. To hurt someone who deserves it.”
My breath catches in my throat before I play this little game with her.
“And you like watching,” I counter, voice rough. It's not a question either.
She doesn't deny it. Just tilts her head slightly, studying me like I'm some kind of fascinating science experiment gone wrong. “I like watching you,” she corrects. “There's a difference.”
She reaches up, her fingertips hovering just above the cut on my cheek. Not quite touching, but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her skin. “He call me Bloody Mary?”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. My hands are shaking. Whether from the fight or her proximity, I can't tell anymore.
“And you just…what? Lost your mind?” There's something in her voice I can't place. Not mockery, not exactly. Something softer. Wondering.
“He said you were making the rounds with the team,” I say, the words like acid in my mouth. “Said he was gonna get his turn after they won tonight.”
Maren scoffs, a sharp sound that echoes against the tunnel walls. Then she actually laughs—a rare, wild sound that makes my chest tighten. Her head tilts back, exposing the pale column of her throat, and I have to clench my fists to keep from reaching for her.
“As if I would touch any of the fucking hockey team,” she says when her laughter subsides, eyes glittering with amusement. “What do they think I am—desperate?”
She steps closer, close enough that I can count her eyelashes, see the tiny flecks of silver in her irises. “Well, anyone butyou, huh, Riggs?” Her voice drops to a whisper, intimate and mocking all at once. “Wouldn't want to call myself a hypocrite.”
“Why are you here, Maren?” I ask, my voice barely recognizable to my own ears. “You hate hockey.”
“I hate most things,” she corrects, that half-smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “But I don't hate watching you lose control. Don't hate watching you bleed.” Her gaze drops to my hands, to the crimson smeared across my knuckles. “You know what they say about blood, Riggs?”
I shake my head, mesmerized by the way her lips form each word.
“It always tells the truth.” She reaches out and takes my hand, turning it to examine the damage.
She's holding my hand, her finger now making slow circles against my palm. It's such a small point of contact, but it's burning through me.
“You should go be the golden boy now,” Maren says, releasing my hand. The loss of contact is physical, like someone ripped a bandage off too quickly. “Go wait in the locker room 'til Coach Calloway dismisses you.”
She takes a step back, and I feel myself sway forward, like there's an invisible thread connecting us that pulls taut when she moves away.
“And if I don't want to be the golden boy?” The words escape before I can stop them, raw and honest in a way I rarely allow myself to be.
Something flickers across her face—surprise, maybe, or satisfaction. Like I've finally said the right thing on a test I didn't know I was taking.
“If you wanna be a little bit bad,” she says, her voice dropping to that dangerous register that makes my stomach clench, “come see me.”
