Page 93 of Secret Obsession
Waiting for you
Okay. Maybe I believe it, maybe I don’t.
Meet me by the locker doors
I grab my bag, my keys, and nudge Knox. “You’ll distract Finch and Rodrigues tonight?”
He snickers. “You mean keep them at Steele’s? Yeah, dude, I can do that.”
My phone goes off again, and I glance down.
Aspen
Steele said I should tell you…
W’s drunk. I think it’s kind of bad this time.
Fuck.
I crush my phone in my grip. At least, it feels like it. I go out of the locker room doors and find it empty, and I drop my sticks and bag on the floor. I follow the little blue dot up to the next level, the long wraparound hallway that has openings to each section, up and down.
I find Willow standing on one of the folding chairs, arguing with Violet.
Violet seems… stressed.
Greyson appears a moment later, his hand landing on my shoulder. “How do you want to play this? I’ve dealt with drunk Willow before, but…”
“Nah.” I shake him off. “I got it.”
“Ooh,” Willow jeers when she spots me, swaying on the spot. Only Violet and Aspen manage to keep her from pitching headfirst into the row lower. “Big bad goalie.”
I grit my teeth. I get to the row above her and stalk down, but she dances across the seats and skips down one.
I’m chasing a fucking five-year-old.
“Nice try, you asshole,” she calls over her shoulder.
Steele appears in the next aisle over, quickly jogging down. She’s too busy paying attention to me, trying to get away, and fails to notice the hulking defenseman blocking her route. O’Brien snatches her up and lifts her off her feet.
Willow screeches like a banshee.
The sound bounces around the nearly empty arena, garnering us a look from the Zamboni driver. I meet Steele in the aisle, and he hands her off to me. I adjust my grip on her, tossing her over my shoulder, and strike her ass once.Hard.
She falls silent.
Thank fucking God.
“Miles—”
“Save it,” I snap at Violet, who appears ready to take Willow from me. No one’s taking her from me. Not when she’s clearly determined to self-destruct.
Violet’s had a month to steer Willow onto a better path. Or provide any support at all—and she’s gotten worse.
At least I’ve noticed.
At least I’m trying to do something about it.
Willow’s gone limp over my shoulder, but I’m not fool enough to think she’s passed out. No, she’s probably biding her time. I feel her fingers tracing the edge of my sweatpants, pushing the hem of my shirt up to touch my skin.
