Page 31 of Don't Cross the Blue Line
Yeah, I’m going to miss this place.
My gaze carries toward the stands, skirting over the silver rows where my mom used to sit—when she could make it. I got used to those empty stands early in the morning, when it was just me and Coach Hart on the ice.
Movement near the top row catches my eye, and my breath hitches. I freeze the way you would spotting a deer in the wild. No sudden movements.
Her stunning red hair catches the fluorescents like that final sliver of sunset. Her laptop balances on her knees, her gaze entirely focused on her work. She’s got that look, determined and completely in her element, and…and she’s beautiful. I let out a sigh. Of course she’s up there. One last glimpse of the girl in the stands.
“You’re still here?”
I turn to find Conrad striding from the tunnel, duffel slung over his shoulder.
I force a laugh. “Yeah, just taking it in one last time.”
He stops beside me and slaps a hand on my back, a reminder that despite the way it feels lately, I’m not entirely alone on this team. “Well, don’t take too long. There’s a blizzard coming. I heard they’re shutting down the mall early.”
I nod. “Yeah, all right. I’ll just be five minutes.”
“I’ll see you Monday, man.” Conrad gives my back one more slap for good measure, and then he’s gone.
Minutes pass. The Zamboni shuts down, tucks back into its room, the roller door shutting it away. The arena crew kills the main lights, leaving us in the silvery twilight.
I don’t move. And neither does she.
“Locking up the arena side,” the Zamboni driver calls. “Head through the mall when you’re done. Building manager’s doing a sweep in thirty.”
“Five minutes?” I ask.
“Make it three. Power’s on life support.”
The lights stutter to cosign his assessment. I grab my bag, cast one more glance at the upper stands.
She’s still there. Same ferocity. Earbuds in. Typing like the keyboard owes her money.
She can’t hear the evacuation. She can’t hear anything.
I should tell her.
I can be here. Deal with it.
I look at her in the stands. I look at the exit.
She probably heard the guy, right? Besides, she’s an adult. She’ll figure it out.
I walk toward the exit.
Outside the arena, the doors to the parking lot are dark and blustery. Mallgoers are dwindling down, packing up. Shops closing. Moms zipping the jackets of disgruntled little hockey players too tough to admit they need it.
I chuckle, remembering my own objections to my mother’s help at that age.
Trust me, kid. Resistance is futile.
That’s when I spot Cole.
Not heading for the south lot with the rest of civilization. Swimming upstream—shoulders hunched, phone death-gripped in one hand, beelining toward the back corridor near the old arena offices.
Everyone else is heading toward the dwindling daylight. Cole Thompson is heading into the dark.
The image of him in the Staff Only office earlier today, his terrified expression, his less-than-friendly companions, stops me dead in my tracks. Where is he going?
