Page 4 of Her Name in Red
“Yes, Coach,” I mutter, skating into position. My teammates are already lined up, sticks at the ready. I take my place at the front, gripping my stick tighter.
We run through drills like a well-oiled machine. Pass, shoot, score. Rinse and repeat. The satisfying thwack of stick against puck, the scrape of blades on ice, the grunts and shouts of my teammates.
I weave through the defense, my stick an extension of my arm as I deke left, then right. The goalie's eyes widen as I approach, but he's too slow. I flick my wrist, sending the puck sailing over his shoulder and into the net. The red light flashes, and a cheer goes up from my teammates.
“Nice one, Rhodes!” Coach Calloway calls out, a hint of approval in his gruff voice.
We move on to scrimmage, splitting into two teams. The competitive fire that's always simmering in my gut roars to life. This is what I live for. The rush of the game, the thrill of outsmarting my opponents, the pure adrenaline of it all.
I lose myself in the rhythm of play, my body moving on autopilot. Time becomes meaningless, measured only in the space between breaths and the arc of the puck through the air.
My legs burn, sweat dripping down my back beneath my jersey. Coach’s voice echoes off the rafters, a constant stream of critique and instruction.
“Rhodes! Cover your man!”
“Jenkins, watch that blue line!”
“Martinez, get your head out of your ass and block that shot!”
Before I know it, his whistle is blowing again, signaling the end of practice. My lungs burn and my muscles ache, but it's a good kind of pain. The kind that reminds me I'm alive, that I've earned my place here.
“Hit the showers, boys,” Coach Calloway barks. “Good work out there today.”
We file off the ice, the tension of practice giving way to easy banter and laughter. I trail behind, savoring the last moments on the rink. This is where I belong, where everything makes sense. Out here, I'm not the guy who almost lost it all. I'm just Riggs Rhodes, team captain, top scorer.
In the locker room, the air is thick with the smell of sweat and body spray. Guys strip off their gear, comparing bruises andrehashing plays. I peel off my own sweat-soaked jersey, wincing as I discover a new bruise blooming on my ribs.
I shower quickly, letting the hot water sluice away the stink and grime. The guys are still bullshitting. I nod along, mumbling agreements as I towel off and pull on my jeans.
“See you at Theta Chi tonight?” Martinez calls as I shoulder my bag.
“Yeah, maybe,” I lie, knowing damn well I won't show.
Throwing my hand up in a wave, I walk out of the locker room, pulling my hoodie on as I go. My hair's still damp, sending a chill down my spine as the wind whips past.
Ducking my head to avoid eye contact as I cut across the grass, my steps falter when I see someone off the side of the quad. My heart does the weird-ass stutter-skip thing it always does when I think about her.
She's standing under a massive oak tree, its branches nearly bare now. Dead leaves crunch under her feet as she shifts her weight, her eyes fixed on something in the distance.
She looks…different. Her hair is darker now, almost black in the fading light. It falls in messy waves around her face, like she couldn't be bothered to run a brush through it. But it's her eyes that really get me. They're emptier somehow, like someone scooped out whatever light used to be in there and left nothing but shadows.
Fuck, she looks like a ghost. Like something out of one of those artsy black and white photos, all pale skin and dark hair against the backdrop of skeletal trees.
As I get closer, I notice more details. The dark circles under her eyes, stark against her skin. The way her clothes hang a little too loose on her frame, like she's lost weight she couldn't afford to lose. There's a cigarette dangling from her fingers, the smoke curling up into the air.
She takes a long drag, her cheeks hollowing out as she inhales. When she exhales, the smoke comes out in a steady stream, like she's breathing out all the oxygen in her lungs. It's weirdly mesmerizing, watching her slowly kill herself one puff at a time.
Maren turns her head, and our eyes lock for the first time in a year. It's like a fucking gut punch, knocking the wind right out of me. Even like this, she’s still the hottest girl I’ve ever seen.
She doesn't look away, and I can't help but take a step closer. It's like there's an invisible string between us, pulling me in. My heart's pounding so hard I swear she must be able to hear it.
Maren takes a step towards me too.
I open my mouth to say something—anything—but before I can, I hear the whispers.
“There goes Bloody Mary.”
The words drift across the quad, carried on the autumn breeze. I see Maren flinch, just slightly, like she's been slapped. But she doesn't back down, doesn't look away from me.
