Page 158 of Secret Obsession
They nod, smiling.
Truthfully, I had lost track of where he went after he graduated. I knew he was recruited by the NHL—Knox frequently mentioned it, and especially how he wanted to end up on the same team as him. While Knox plays center, Jacob plays defense. On the defensive, he and Steele were a force to be reckoned with.
I duck into a bathroom stall and change into the jersey, grateful to be out of the stained pink sweater. Once my hair is fixed—goodbye, sex hair—and makeup touched up, I rejoin them outside. Miles takes my sweater and shoves it into the bag with his shirt. His fingers lace with mine.
“We’re going to our seats,” Violet says. “We’ll see you… after.”
“After?” I question.
Violet doesn’t meet my gaze. In fact, all of them look a little shifty. Except Miles. He’s just watching me.
“What do you mean?”
“Come on, let’s go see Rhodes. Wish him luck.”
He squeezes my hand and leads me away from our friends. He pulls a pass on a lanyard from God-knows-where, showing it to a man in a suit by an elevator. The man nods once, hitting the button to call up the elevator. When the doors slide open, Miles and I step in alone.
We go down a floor. My stomach is flip-flopping for some reason, and I try not to think about how sweaty my palms are getting. I don’t know why I’m nervous. Maybe just because I realizesomethingis off, especially in the way Violet acted.
She’s a shit actor.
We’re back on the lower level, opposite where we entered earlier. We’re at the corner of the rink, with a view of the visiting team—the Titans—warming up. I catch Jacob’s number on his back,Rhodesprinted above it, as he skates past.
“Whiteshaw?” someone calls.
A woman in a cherry-red pantsuit. She’s got a badge on a lanyard around her neck, although I can’t quite make out what it says.
“Yes. And this is Willow.”
She shakes his hand, then mine. “Pleasure. This way, please.”
I glance at Miles, then the woman, but she’s already striding away. Miles ushers me along.
“We expected you an hour ago for sound check,” she says over her shoulder. “But we’re all set up. Here’s your room. I’ll have my assistant come in and wire you up.”
Door.
Taped to it is a piece of paper with my name on it.
Small room. Couch, table and chairs, a mini fridge with waters. A vanity with a mirror surrounded by lights, an array of makeup. Flowers.
Sound check?
My mouth is dry.
The door closes. Then opens again, seemingly before I can take a breath. Another woman, all in black with a headset on, comes in. She clips a battery pack to the waistband of my leggings, threads it up under my jersey, and fits a piece in my ear.
“We’ll come get you in a few minutes. The arrangement was sent over by Ms. Masen yesterday, and it’ll play in your in-ear monitors.” The woman smiles, and it’s probably meant to be reassuring.
But I can’t fucking breathe.
The door closes again, and I yank my hand out of Miles’ grip.
“What is this?” I croak.
“Breathe,” he advises.
“Just fucking tell me why they strapped me up like I’m about to—” I shake my head, my voice failing.
