Page 110 of Don't Cross the Blue Line
“Oh, absolutely, Mike. He’s playing like a man with something on his mind. Which, given the week he’s had, is not entirely surprising. The Benson story has been everywhere, the mall incident, the press conference—but on the ice, that’s not somewhere you can afford to be somewhere else mentally.”
“Right, right, and there it is again—oh, and the shot gets through, Wyatt freezes the puck, and Coach Jacobsen is not pleased, you can see it from here. Looks like a shift change.”
I turn the volume up another notch.
Another few minutes pass while my heart thunders in my throat as I listen to the announcers. And all I can think is, Beckett’s off his game, he’s distracted…because he’s looking for me.
“Come on!” Yes, I’m shouting.
“—oh, and Benson is in the box, folks—boarding call, two minutes—and that is a penalty, there’s no disputing it. He drove that winger hard into the boards. Blue Ox are going to have to kill this off?—”
“He’s been chippy all period, Mike. Lots of energy looking for somewhere to go.”
“Fair point. Now let’s see if Reyes and Kingston can hold the fort?—”
Traffic is finally moving, and I nearly peel out when I reach the exit. Thankfully, the arena is just off the interstate, and I turn into the first parking ramp I can find. I might have driven a little recklessly up to the fourth level before I found a spot.
“We’re down to thirty seconds left of Benson’s penalty, but I’ll tell you, if he can’t get his head in the game, I think we’re in for more of those tonight?—”
I turn off the car and run.
The arena is loud, even in the parking-ramp stairwell, the bass of eighteen thousand people vibrating through the concrete under my boots. I take the stairs two at a time, wishing I’d spent just one percent of my day on cardio every once in a while so I won’t feel like I’m gonna puke by the time I reach the top.
I scan my ticket at gate two, entering the fray of the main concourse.
It’s a wall of noise and blue jerseys and the smell of hot dogs, glimpses of action flashing through the stairs as I search for signs leading to the Blue Ox players’ family box. There—Suites.
I break into a run down the corridor that leads to the elevator, which leads to the place where my father has had a standing reservation for me since forever, one I’ve never once used until tonight.
I push through the door.
The box is warm and smells like hot chocolate and pretzels, and the first thing I see is the ice—vast and white and immediate through the glass wall. And I’m there in seconds, standing at the edge, as close as I can be.
My eyes search over the ice—is he still in the penalty box? No?—
He’s not on the ice.
I glance at the bench. And there he is.
He finds my eyes at the same moment I find his.
And then he winks.
And right now, my body is sort of absorbing that, trying not to crumple.
“Oh,” says a voice to my left.
I become aware, suddenly, that there are three women in this box, and they are all looking at me.
“I think we figured out who our Blue Line’s been looking for all night.” The voice belongs to a woman already on her feet—warm eyes, dark hair, bright smile. “You must be Everly.”
I blink in surprise. “Um, yeah.”
“Don’t be too impressed,” another woman says, the one striking a familiar chord—petite, dark hair. “Penny here is an investigative journalist. But it doesn’t take a detective to recognize you from the coverage that’s been all over the news.” She extends a hand. “I’m Coco, Wyatt’s wife.”
“Oh, you ruin my fun,” Penny says, dropping into the open seat next to Coco. She smiles up at me with a troubling glint in her eye that tells me I’m going to like her. “And I’m with Conrad.”
“It’s nice to meet you both.”
