Page 1 of Enticing the Enforcer
1
Ingrid
It’snights like this when I understand why musicians use drugs. I always feel high when I’m on stage. It’s a natural rush that comes from performing. It’s the crash after that makes me feel a little lost. That’s when I want to reach for something to keep the feeling going. Since I don’t use drugs, I tend to channel that energy into something less destructive. Writing another song. Eating a greasy cheeseburger. Taking a run. And if luck is willing, spending the night with my boyfriend and getting that dopamine hit between the sheets.
Tonight was only a rehearsal. Tomorrow, after the concert, will be a million times worse.
And due to my ex, right now I’m shit out of luck.
I roll over and grab my phone off the hotel nightstand.
Another hotel, another arena, another town I’ll barely get to see. Don’t get me wrong, I’m living my dream, but after months of being on tour, it’s all starting to blur. I lay back on the bed and look around the room. Even I can admit that this one has a unique vibe. The boutique hotel is on the edge ofWittmore’s campus, and each room is decked out in collegiate swag. Pennants and framed images of the campus, the football team, or hockey team hang over the walls. Even the soap in the bathroom is in the shape of their mascot, a badger.
The suite is up on the top floor, and Madison, my assistant, is in the second bedroom, while Marv, my security guard, is most likely out in the common area.
There’s a saying, “Even in a crowd, you can feel alone.” That’s how it is sometimes—with the fans, my Flock, as they call themselves, my assistant and best friend, Marv, and the other members of my team. They’re always here, but once we settle down for the night, there’s always a little restlessness. A touch of isolation that never seems to fade.
I know it’s that feeling that drives me to open my phone, and do the thing I’ve promised not to–check out Jake’s ChattySnap account.
Big mistake.
He’s smiling in every post. That smile I used to wake up to. Holding a guitar in one, a new girl in the other. I scroll faster, like speed will lessen the sting.
Nope.
I back out of the app before I spiral. Open a browser instead. Search:Wittmore's best hamburger.
First thing that pops up:Serendee Cult Disbanded After Leader Captured and Jailed.
Okay... not what I asked for.
Second:Wittmore Hockey Team Heads To Frozen Four For The Second Year In A Row. Will They Clench It This Time?
I swipe into the images, and that’s when I see it. A shot of the team, mid-celebration, black and yellow jerseys, mouths open in a cheer. My eyes drag past the blur of bodies until they lock on one number.
#23. Jefferson Parks.
And just like that, the static in my chest fizzles.
I remember the note. The one taped to his locker in the dressing room I’ll be using for the concert. It’s folded neatly, tucked inside my purse. This time I get off the bed and cross the room, digging in my designer bag for the folded-up piece of paper.
No phone number. Just:
“Not trying to be that guy, but I’d kick myself if I didn’t say something. If you ever want an escape, a behind the scenes tour of Wittmore, or to learn how to skate without falling on your ass–I’ve got you.”
—Jefferson #23
I don’t know why I let Marv give me the letter. Fans try to reach out to me all the time. Letters, notes, posters, songs, artwork, little trinkets, and jewelry. Most are sweet. Encouraging. But some? A fucking nightmare. People are psycho out there. The parasocial relationships are real, and we have to be careful.
But here I am, with the note in my hand. I flop back on the bed, open my phone again, and stare at the screen for a few seconds. Then, heart thudding, I swipe over to ChattySnap.
He’s got a public profile. A few hockey shots. A dumb reel of his shirtless, tattooed teammate jumping over a couch in their house. And one recent photo of him, sweaty and laughing, leaning on his stick at practice.
He looks fun. Easy.
Hot.
I hover. Then hit the DM arrow.
