Page 4 of Don't Cross the Blue Line
Despite what you’d think, being the most hated player on a hockey team doesn’t get you out of these snobby charity dinners. Your money’s good either way. No, they just seat you near the bathroom and hope you don’t make a scene.
Fact is, I’ve peed in more cups this season than I’ve played games. That’s not a metaphor. Six months of probation. Clean tests every two weeks. Random locker checks. A team-appointed “accountability partner” named Toby, who carries a clipboard and the personality of a damp towel. All because Cole Thompson pointed a finger and the league decided guilty until proven innocent has a nice ring to it.
The press convicted me in October. The NHL cleared me in November. The Blue Ox put me on probation in December. And I’ve been clean for eleven years.
Here’s the part that keeps me up at night: I did use PEDs. My freshman year of college. I was young and stupid and hungry for approval. I made a poor choice, and I paid for it. I’ve never touched the stuff again, not in eleven years.
Eleven years. And one accusation from Cole erased all of it.
Back to the bathroom—ten minutes earlier, when I bolted in there to dodge the press. After a longer-than-appropriate moment, I checked to see that the coast was clear and headed back into the ballroom. These things are all the same—fancy table settings, over-the-top floral arrangements, sappy videos of kids stumbling across the ice, suits and gowns and ties. I stifled a groan, scanning the room for my teammates.
Near the entrance, a small signing table was set up with a placard: “E.J. Hartley”—just the name. The banner over the doorway gets the book cover and title: “Author of Thriller on Ice—Signing Tonight.”
Stacks of hardcovers were arranged in a neat fan beside a glass of water nobody’s touched. The chair was empty—whoever E.J. Hartley is, they’ve wandered off. I can admit I slowed for a half step. Scanned the cover. A crime thriller. Hockey adjacent. Figures. But I almost picked one up.
“Beckett,” a woman’s voice called out—polite, professional. I turned to see Felicity, our publicist, winding through the crowd. She’s on her game tonight. She had that same look I find in the rink, and trailing after her was a middle-aged couple. A man with salt-and-pepper hair and his wife, who’s rocking one of those short-in-the-back, party-up-front haircuts. “Hi, Beckett, these are the Hendersons. They’re huge fans of ‘Blue Line’ Benson. I thought it might be nice if they could get a picture with you.”
A buzzer sounded inside my head, and I was in the game. I smiled bigger. I shook hands. Mrs. Henderson’s nephew played hockey in Duluth. Fascinating. Across the room, Cole Thompson laughed with donors—easy, relaxed. He caught my eye, and something flickered across his face before he turned away. Oh, I hope it was fear.
A man in an expensive suit clapped my shoulder. “Staying out of trouble these days?” He winked, and wow, I wanted to make a fast break for the door, thank you very much.
I just needed thirty seconds of cold air—into the lobby and back—before Felicity noticed.
I started toward the massive front doors to the ballroom, froze as a swath of familiar donors wandered through the doors. Nope. I veered off course, following a waiter through a small door on the opposite side of the room.
A service hallway. Maybe Someone was looking out for me.
Aw, doubtful. And then, at the end of the hall, I spotted the doors of a small elevator sliding shut. I didn’t think. I broke out in an almost run and shot my hand through the gap at the last moment.
I stepped inside, smacked that little star button for the lobby, loosened my tie, and slouched back against the handrail. That’s when I noticed the other passenger.
It was a three-second impression: short, dark hair, simple black dress, no sequins. Something on her wrist catching the fluorescent light. And then?—
And then the lights died. And the stranger made a joke about cannibalism. And I laughed for the first time in what felt like months.
Maybe it has been months. Maybe it’s been more than that.
Anyway, here we are.
I pat my suit jacket, searching for my phone. Nothing. I groan. “Left my phone in my coat…at coat check.”
“Left my purse at my table…”
“So, no phones.”
“No phones. No light. No rescue party.” She chuckles, the sound of her voice silky in the dark. “This is either a meet-cute or a horror movie, and I’m not sure which.”
Meet-cute. That’s a romance novel term. And I know that because that’s what I read. Romance novels. Which is information I will be taking to my grave. “Let’s go with meet-cute. Less screaming.”
“You don’t know that. Serial killers need to meet people too.”
Even though I can’t see her, I still glance up at her, the black swirling in my vision. “You’re a little morbid. You know that?”
“I’ve been told.” There’s warmth to her voice, humor cutting through the cynicism. I sort of like that.
“How about the emergency phone?”
She shifts in the dark, the sound of something scraping against metal. “No dice. Buttons are out too.”
