Page 76 of Her Name in Red
I grab my phone again and pull up the hockey schedule. Home game tonight against St. Andrews. The arena will be packed. Riggs will be in his element. Fast, dangerous, adored by thousands.
His last text sits unanswered from this morning.
Dropped off coffee and those disgusting vegan donuts you pretend to like. Good morning, nightmare.
I grab a Dr. Pepper from the fridge and check the time. His game starts in an hour and a half. Not that I’m going to watch him play.
Except...
I could. I could just show up. Watch him play.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I'm in the shower, washing away days of self-isolation. I even put on mascara and my good jeans, the ones that make my ass look phenomenal. I tell myself it's not for him. I'm just tired of looking like death warmed over.
“This is such a bad idea,” I say to my reflection as I grab my keys. My doppelganger doesn't argue.
The drive to the arena gives me plenty of time to turn around but I don't. I park, buy a ticket, and find a seat close enough to see the guys on the ice but obscured enough he won’t be able to notice me at all.
The arena erupts as the teams skate onto the ice. The crowd is a sea of black and red, everyone standing and screaming like their lives depend on it. I slouch further into my seat.
Then I see him. Even with the helmet on, I'd know that body anywhere. He glides across the ice with a grace that makes my mouth go dry. I pull out my phone before I can stop myself.
The game starts, and I'm reminded why I've always secretly loved watching hockey. The players can be fucking vicious on the ice. When he body-checks another player into the boards, I almost feel the impact go through me.
That hit was unnecessary. You just wanted to show off.
A few minutes later, he takes a hard elbow to the ribs that the ref doesn't call. I grip my armrest so hard my knuckles turn white.
Protect yourself. Your pretty face is the only marketable thing about you.
By the second period, I've developed a rhythm. Watch Riggs dominate on the ice, text him something cutting about it, pretend I'm not impressed.
When he scores early in the third period, the crowd loses their collective mind. He slams into the glass, teammates piling onto him.
Lucky shot. The goalie was practically inviting you in for tea.
I watch him laughing with his teammates, high on adrenaline and victory. This is the version of Riggs most people know—the golden boy, the hero, the guy who makes it look easy. Not the man who pressed bruises into my thighs and kneeled at my feet in an alley.
The final buzzer sounds. Home team wins four-two. I’m walking out of the arena and send one last text.
Good game. I might have almost been impressed.
I stare at my phone for a long moment before adding to the text thread.
The coffee was cold. The donuts were stale, and I'm not your nightmare.
Leaning against my car, I flip my phone to selfie mode. The arena lights glow behind me, red and gold against the night sky. I tilt my head slightly, making sure my collarbones show just above my shirt.
I snap the photo and examine it. It's good. I look good. I look like I don't give a fuck that I just spent hours watching him play hockey after ignoring him for days.
I attach it to a new message.
The view was decent.
My phone buzzes almost immediately, but I don't check it. Instead, I get in my car and leave.
He’ll take it as the invitation it is and will show up.
Chapter 26
