Page 89 of Lovefool

I don’t have a lot of time before my adrenaline wears off, so I do the unwise thing and peer around the corner as discreetly as I can. I manage to catch sight of the other culprit’s face with some meticulous maneuvering of my body.

A tall, lean man is half-hidden in the shadows, wearing a tailored suit that matches the swoop of his salt-and-pepper hair. A few lines decorate his face, alluding to old age.

Dread metabolizing and stirring in my belly, I don’t follow the normal course of action and simply move on. Their words are hushed, but I am able to see the giant wad of cash that travels between steady hands.

I rear back instantly, distancing myself as if witnessing a monetary exchange is a crime by proximity. But that’s not even the worst part. The worst part, above spying on an exchange between two people, is that Buford appears to be the recipient.

The rose-colored film on my life begins to peel.

There has to be an explanation for this, right? Maybe that old dude bought something from him and is paying for it?

That’s weird, Lake. People buy things online nowadays. Plus, what could Cataracts possibly be buying that would warrant him to pay Buford in the creepy hallway of a hotel?

You’re right. What if it’s drugs?

Not all drug dealers are bad. They need to make a living somehow. I thought you supported small businesses. Maybe the buyer needs the drugs for chronic pain or something.

Yeah, and patients get those drugs prescribed to them by doctors. Not a twenty-something kid in college.

Don’t be judgmental, Inner Me. We don’t know what the situation is.

I need to get out of here. Not before I take a picture though.

And right as I’m about to snap a noiseless photo on my phone, I hear the man say to my ex: “Tell anybody about this, and you’ll have hell to pay. The next game. Get it done.”

Once I secure the evidence I need, I bolt down the passageway without considering how loud my footsteps are, and I don’t stop running until I make it to the other side of the hotel, where another vending machine greets me.

Buford is a piece of shit, sure, but he wouldn’t deal drugs, would he? Something like that could get him disqualified from playing in the Frozen Four. And I don’t think your average Mary Jane costs as much as that poor bastard was paying, so it must be something stronger.

Heroin? Cocaine? Fentanyl?

Give him the benefit of the doubt, Lake. Would Buford really stoop that low?

Yes. Yes, he would.

This is bad. Like, really bad. Why did I need to get involved? And what…what am I going to tell Sutton? Do I even tell him?

I thump my forehead against the oily glass of the vending machine, sipping in a breath that does absolutely nothing to slow my rib-breaking heart rate. My vision is swimming, my nape is smeared in sweat, and my stomach is burbling like a vat of acid.

I don’t know what to do. If I let this go, I’ll be keeping a humongous secret from everyone in my immediate circle. But if I tell the truth about what I saw, it could ruin the hockey team’s dynamic and create strife between everyone on the team. I suffer the same chance of losing said circle, and I made a promise to myself to hang on to the people I care about for as long as I can, because you never know when the universe plans on taking them away.

Either way, I’d be adding stress to Sutton’s life. Stress that will only bog down his performance this weekend.

I have to shelf my martyr tendencies. This isn’t my fight. If Buford is being reckless with his life, the truth will come to light eventually, right?

I stare at the bag of barbecue chips teetering on the edge of its respective spiral, my mind taking a violent list sideways like a stylus dragging over a record groove. I don’t even remember what Sutton asked me to get him.

Despite being outside, my lungs refuse to take in oxygen. The silence is unnerving. There’s no gale of wind, no untraceable rustle in the nearby vegetation, no buzz of faulty building equipment, no indication of nightlife at all. I’m all alone, and for someone who’s trying to be better at taking accountability, things are off to a rocky start.

I’m half-dead by the time I drag myself back to the hotel room, depositing way too many snacks onto the bed to compensate for my unnaturally long excursion.

Sutton immediately perks up at the sight of food. He put on his sweats while I was gone, but he’s still gloriously shirtless.

I hate that I can’t be giddy about that.

“Ugh, thank you, Lake. You’re the best,” he rushes out, already ripping open a miniature-sized bag of Doritos that probably won’t make a dent in his appetite.

He stuffs cheesy goodness into his piehole with zero decorum, and I’m staring at the carpet like I just saw a ghost.