Page 95 of Face Off
Me
Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Not Hartwell.
Not Hartwell, who?
Not Hartwell, because she isn’t at practice.
Are you alive, slacker?
“Is there something going on in your life that’s more important than practice, Miller?” Coach asks. I look up, and half the team is staring at me. “Do we need to revisit the personal devices policy? I could put it in a picture book. Will that help you understand it better?”
My cheeks flame, and I throw my phone back in my bag before he can yank it out of my hands and read the incriminating messages before the stupid knock-knock jokes.
The ones where I tell her I’m still thinking about her. The photo of her in the shirt she stole from me in Miami, sprawled out on her bed with her hand between her legs.
I should probably delete that, but she looks so damn hot.
“Sorry, Coach. It’s Hartwell. She’s not here,” I say, and the rink goes quiet.
Grant freezes midway through his groin stretch. Liam lifts up his mask. Ethan pulls off his gloves, and Riley drops his stick.
“What do you mean she’s not here?” Coach asks.
“She’s usually twenty minutes early, but I can’t find her,” I say.
“Holy shit,” Seymour says. “I knew something was off when I got on the ice. What if she was murdered? I’ve been listening to a lot of true crime podcasts lately, and over seventy-five percent of the women knew their killers.”
“I can’t even kill a spider. How are people out there murdering other human beings then sitting down at the breakfast table like it’s not a big fucking deal?” Connor shivers. “That creeps me out.”
“What if the Metro crashed? Oh, hell. Maybe she got pushed onto the tracks. That happened at Federal Triangle last week,” Ethan says.
“Sometimes she runs to the arena,” Grant tells us. “She might have gotten kidnapped.”
“All of you need to stop.” Hudson looks at me, and he’s the only one being rational right now. “Did you call her?”
“Can I?” I ask, and Coach sighs.
“Fine,” he says, and I know I have eight seconds before he confiscates my phone for good.
I scramble for my bag. My palms are clammy, and when I call her, it goes straight to voicemail. I try two more times, and there’s still no answer.
“She’s not picking up,” I tell the guys, and someone gasps.
“Try Piper,” Liam grumbles.
I find her contact info in my phone, but it goes to voicemail too. “No luck there either.”
“What if someone hurtbothof them?” Grant asks. “This could be sabotage.”
“Enough with the dramatics.” Coach rubs his forehead. “Do you know where she lives?”
“With Piper, but I don’t have an address.”
“I’m not supposed to give out this information, and if I find out you did anythingwith it besides check and see if she’s okay, I’ll suspend you,” Coach warns me, then he thumbs through his phone.
