Page 86 of Don't Cross the Blue Line
I have to pull my eyes away from memorizing the color of her wet curls to look at her. Pull myself back to reality again. I don’t know. Or maybe I just don’t want to admit it.
I clear my throat. Sit up. “Yeah.”
I climb back to my feet, back to solid ground, turning to help her up. She stands on shaky legs as the sound of running footsteps ricochets from the service corridor.
Aw. Here we go again.
Fifteen
Everly
I so want this to be over.
And for a second, I thought it was—me in Beckett’s arms. A look in his eyes that suggested—shoot, maybe I just wrote it in, but you saw it. He wanted to kiss me, right?
And then…something. I don’t know. Or maybe I wish I didn’t know.
But now there are footsteps echoing out of the darkness, running full speed toward us.
Beckett the Hero steps in front of me, taking up his stick again.
But it’s not one of the thugs who emerges from the shadowy mall.
It’s Cole Thompson. Sprinting like his life depends on it and leaping over the sideboard. He’s on the ice, and he’s not slowing down. His face is set with an expression I’ve never seen him wear before—not fear, not guilt. Determination. Grit. And he’s not running at us.
Every nerve in my body alerts as I turn back and see what he’s seeing.
So much for Beckett’s slap-shot ending. Bad guy numero four is getting up. He’s crawling toward the gun, reaching it.
I don’t even have time to react. I suck in a breath, close my eyes, brace for the shot.
Cole hits him at full speed, and they both go down—a collision of bodies that sends them spinning across the ice, fists flying. I’ve been to a lot of hockey games. I’ve seen brawls up close. This is every drop-gloves moment I’ve ever watched from the bench. Cole takes hold of the man’s collar, landing a hard blow across his jaw. It’s reciprocated with a shot to his stomach.
They roll. The ice doesn’t pick sides—it just makes everything harder. Every scramble for position sends them spiraling. Cole takes another hit, absorbs it, doesn’t stop. There’s no technique here. Probably just muscle memory. Years of taking hits and doling out punches. He can take it.
They hit the boards, and Cole’s head snaps against the fiberglass, goes down.
My hand reaches for Beckett on instinct, but he’s already on the move, running their direction as best he can.
There’s blood on the ice, and I don’t know whose it is.
And then Cole is on top of the guy, arm pressed to his opponent’s throat. “Stay down!” he growls. Shaking. Everything shaking. But holding.
Holy redemption arc, Batman.
Beckett lands next to him and helps restrain the man.
Then, from everywhere at once, that blessed sound, like the triumphant arrival of the cavalry—sirens.
Not one. Multiple. Red and blue lights pulse through the arena’s high windows, strobing through spray, turning the flooded rink into something surreal. Something cinematic. Something nobody would believe if I wrote it.
Someone spotted the smoke, or the busted front door, in the growing light. However it happened, all that matters is, rescue is here.
The doors burst open, first responders flooding in and heading every direction.
Firefighters first, heading straight for the office with the good sense to take the long way around rather than our brilliant little shortcut. Next, the police. Then the EMTs, with their blankets and questions and the gentle, practiced concern of people whose job is putting humans back together.
The bad guys are collected. One by one. Zip-tied, limping, bruised. The guy from the service corridor is going home today with a little extra treat—a nice new set of rose-colored eyeballs, curtesy of the bear spray. And then there’s the fourth. Cole and Beckett hold him in place, Cole with his arm pinned against the guy’s neck, looking very much like he’s willing himself not to move until someone official says he can.
