Page 3 of Enticing the Enforcer
But something nudges at me.
When I finally pull it out, I see the notification.
ChattySnap: New message from IngFlock.
My heart actually stutters. Like missteps. Like when you hit the boards a little too hard and lose your breath for a second.
I stare at the screen.
Got any suggestions for a really good hamburger?
I read it twice. Then a third time.
It’s her.
Ingrid Flockton.TheIngrid Flockton.
I exhale, almost laugh. Her profile icon is a falling feather.
She got my note.
I never expected her to actually read it. I wrote it half as a joke. Folded it up and stuck it to the vent of the locker room on the way out the door. Figured someone would throw it away or her security would toss it before she even saw it.
But now…
Fuck. I swipe my thumb over the keyboard, thinking for a second. Then I type:
Best burger in town’s at the Badger Den. If you want the Jefferson Parks Special, you’ll have to show up in person. Comes with fries and zero paparazzi.
I stare at it for a beat, a thin coating of sweat beading on my neck. Jesus, since when does Jefferson Parks get nervous about sliding into some chick’s DMs? I suck it up and hit send.
A slow grin pulls at the corner of my mouth.
It could be nothing. A bored pop star looking to fuck around with an idiot fan. Someone on her team who gets off on catfishing.
Or maybe Ingrid’s ready to play.
Either way, I pass the pizza place and make my way to the Den. Reese, our captain, gave us specific instructions not to go out tonight. Zero fuck-ups because the bus leaves early as hell, and the next few days are the most important ones in our lives.
But now I’ve got something just as interesting as a win.
I’ve got her attention.
3
Ingrid
It’s barely past ten,and I’ve already lied three times tonight.
First to Madison. I told her I needed fresh air and wouldn’t go far. Second to Marv. I said security could stand down, that I was exhausted and not planning to leave the hotel. And third to myself, when I stood in the bathroom mirror, pulling on the worn gray high school hoodie Madison left hanging on the back of the door, and tucking every strand of lavender-streaked hair beneath a faded Yankees cap.
I told myself I wasn’t really going.
But I am. Every step away from the hotel is proof.
I wince as my sneakers hit the sidewalk, feeling the tender blisters on the back of my heels from the boots I wear on stage. The pain is worth it though. I look amazing in those boots. Like always, I push the pain aside and duck away from the buzzing streetlight. I’ve performed all over the world, in big cities and massive arenas. Wittmore is small, but there’s an energy from the student population that gives it a bigger feel. More worldly. The old brick buildings are pretty, and have alleyways that smelllike pizza or stale beer. It’s the kind of place that would’ve made me ache when I was sixteen, stuck in green rooms and dressing rooms and rented-out luxury suites. College life: classes, dorm rooms, frat parties… a whole life where I didn’t wake up every morning, worried about what the tabloids were saying or the weight of employing hundreds of people who help form and shape my career.
According to the map on my phone, The Badger Den is only a few blocks from campus, the kind of college dive that’s never seen a reservation and wouldn’t know what to do with a vegan menu. From the tags on socials, it appears to be a hockey bar–the spot where the team and fans hang out during and after games. I’d looked it up after he messaged me, just to see if it was walkable. It was. Too walkable. Stupidly close. Close enough that I’ve been wandering for half an hour trying to talk myselfoutof this.
