Page 83 of Don't Cross the Blue Line
Because…shoot, I’m in love with this woman, and the fact is, I probably have been since before either of us knew what to do with it. Jealous, yes. But also curious, and maybe even a little mesmerized by all that gorgeous red hair and spitfire spirit.
But—not now, Beck! There’s no time to think about the photo or what Everly just said. There’s still another thug out there. It’s time to get out of here. No more plots, no more traps. No more crazy Home Alone scenarios.
No more crying. For the love.
So yeah, I tuck myself back together, wipe my eyes, fast and hard, hoping she didn’t see that. (Okay, I’m not stupid, but…maybe she’ll think it’s the sprinklers?) Then I slide the backpack off my shoulders, unzipping the back pocket. I stuff the photo inside, cramming it next to Everly’s laptop bag, and then hold it out to her. “Pack up the file. We need to go.”
Everly wastes no time. She tucks the folder inside, and when she’s finished, I heft it back onto one shoulder and grab her hand.
My fingers thread through hers—I’m choosing to push aside the thought that the last time I took her hand like this, the evidence of her betrayal sat burning a hole in my pocket.
There will be time to unpack that later. For now, we run.
Sorta seems like a theme at this point, but…whatever.
We take off through the corridor. Through the water and the smoke. Toward the arena—the fastest route to the south exit—through the rink, across the ice.
The rink is chaos.
The sprinklers have flooded the ice surface—inches of standing water on top of the existing ice, which is the worst possible combination for human locomotion outside of a greased trampoline. The Zamboni sits, drained, on the center of the ice. Dawn is leaking through the high windows, gray light filtering through steam and spray, turning the rink into something that looks like a cathedral being baptized by a plumber with a grudge.
We step onto the ice.
I’ve been skating since I was two years old. I’ve played on frozen ponds and hacked-up public rinks. But this ice is different. It’s faster, smoother—like an oil slick.
I slip. Grab the boards, my stick cracking hard on the fiberglass. I drop it as Everly slips and grabs onto me. I try and hold her up, but I’m losing.
“This was your shortcut,” she says, her feet making a break for anywhere besides solid ground.
“Yeah, that was before it turned into a slip and slide.”
“Can you skate in sneakers?”
“Can anyone skate in sneakers?”
“You’re the hockey player?—”
“Hockey players wear skates, Everly. That’s the defining characteristic. Without the skates, I’m just a tall man with good reflexes and a big stick.”
“So we’re stuck.”
“We’re not stuck. Just—go slow.” I pull myself up and then steady her. We find our feet. “Careful now.”
We shuffle. Waddle is more like it. Progress measured in inches. Every step feels like a negotiation with gravity.
I hang on to the boards as we work our way toward the exit.
Then the sound. It’s small, metallic, and changes everything about a room the instant it enters.
A gun being cocked.
At the far end of the arena—at the main entrance, the sunrise glow of the mall acting as a backlight—a figure stands. Not one of our three. A fourth. Bigger. Broader.
The backup. The insurance policy.
Maybe even the boss.
“Nobody move.” His voice is icy calm, relaxed and unhurried. He’s standing on solid ground, and we’re in the middle of the ice like sitting—or rather, sliding—ducks.
