Page 87 of Nowhere to Hide
“The policy is nobody cries in a stairwell alone when I’m in the building.”
I laugh, but it’s ugly and dies a second later.
She climbs the steps, sits beside me, and puts a coffee in my hand. “Sorry.”
“For what?”
“It’s not your usual,” she says. “It was for Professor Huang, but you need it more.”
I take it anyway. “I’m fine,” I say.
“Sure.” She pulls her knees up. “Moreno?”
I nod.
“She’s tough,” Ivy says.
“She’s right.”
“Both things can be true.” Ivy takes a sip of her coffee and extends a hand. “Come on.”
“Where?” I say.
“The game is on soon, and you need a controlled environment in which to scream.”
“Wait a sec,” I say.
I pull out my compact and wince at my reflection in the mirror. My eyes are so wrecked and my nose is so red that I should go home, wash my face, and figure out what to do about the fact that everyone can tell I’m hiding something.
But if I do that Ivy will know something bigger is wrong, and then she’ll ask more questions and I’ll cry some more. So The Den it is, where at least it will be loud and there will besomething to focus on that isn’t the wreck I’ve made — Mason has made — of my life.
I wipe my eyes on my sleeve, then put concealer under both eyes and blot my mascara. The girl looking back at me is passable. Not great, but passable, and that’s probably better than I’ve managed the rest of the week.
I pull out my phone and text Rowan.
Sloane: Good luck tonight.
Then I take Ivy’s hand, and we walk out of the building and into the cold.
The Den is insane.
The line outside the doors wraps down the hill, and inside, somebody’s painted RAVENS RISE on a bedsheet and hung it from the rafters. As we make our way to the student section, I can already feel the chants vibrating through the soles of my boots.
“You look sad and hungry,” Ivy says, dropping into the seat beside me with two pretzels, then holding one out. “I can help with one of those.”
“Thanks,” I say, taking it.
As she bites into her pretzel, she gestures at the St. Adrian’s section across the rink, where every single fan appears to be wearing the same shade of crimson. It’s far more organized than anything Halden can manage.
“Do they coordinate in a group chat, or do they just emerge from the factory like that?” she says. “It’s a major ick.”
“Debatable,” I say. “But they look good…”
She looks at me like I’ve committed a murder. “That’s an ick too.”
The house lights cut and The Den goes black, then the boards start pounding and the noise comes up from the student section in a wall. It builds and builds, and then the spotlight finds the tunnel, and I lean forward without meaning to.
Rowan comes out first, imposing as he taps the raven on the wall and glides onto the ice. But he looks heavy — not slow, exactly, but like he’s carrying something — and I know I’m part of what he’s carrying.
