They follow me into a corner of the locker room where we have an ounce of privacy. I cross my arms. “What happened at the house party?”
Confused, Colt asks, “What do you mean?”
“Mia’s acting…strange,” I hedge. “I want to know why.”
They exchange a tense look. Colt lifts his shoulders, and Theo says, “It probably has something to do with Shorty.”
“What about Shorty?” I demand.
“Shorty plays for the Tumblers,” Colt explains. “When Mia found out we were flying to Ohio to play them this week, she looked spooked. If something’s up with her, I bet it has something to do with him.”
My chest deflates.
Of course, it does. I should have known. Should have considered how being here would affect Mia. Should have given her another week off if it would have made her feel better. She still hasn’t told me what happened with her ex. But it doesn’t take a genius to figure out their breakup was far from amicable, and after the hint of abuse the morning she lost her keys? It must be killing her to be here, and I was too self-centered to recognize it.
“Thanks.” I nod and turn on my heel, anxious to find her, but Colt stops me. “Hey, Buchanan?”
I face him again, my expression unreadable.
Scratching his jaw, he looks around the crowded locker room and steps closer. “If you hurt her…”
My chin dips in understanding. I walk away and head back to the main floor of the arena in search of Mia.
The game is supposed to start in twenty minutes. She should be in the locker room filming the team. Instead, she’s missing, and I have no idea where she is.
Reeling in my frustration, I head to the box seats Erika reserved and wait, promising to talk to Mia after the game because I can’t give her the support she needs if she continues to keep me in the dark like this. It’s time she stopped running. From her past. From me.
Buckle up, Brat.
My patience has run out, and I’m ready for some fucking answers.
42
MIA
I wait for the whistle to sound and head down the tunnel. I shouldn’t. I should’ve caught the start of the game on camera, but I couldn’t help it. Not when the idea of seeing Shorty again leaves me wanting to puke my guts out. At least Jeffry’s gone, and I don’t have to worry about being yelled at for acting like a coward. Then again, I’m avoiding his replacement, too, so…
Slowly, I push the oxygen from my lungs and lift my camera, ready to start filming when the ice comes into view. The Lions have the puck in the neutral zone, and Theo snaps it off the board and over to Colt, but Shorty crashes into him, slamming him into the glass before Colt has a chance to make another pass. One of Shorty’s teammates slaps the puck to the opposite end of the rink, and the Tumblers’ fans scream from the stands. Our defensemen battle with the Tumblers’ left wing a moment later, but I miss the epic steal from Greer, too caught up in the feel of Shorty’s eyes on me.
Against my better judgment, I glance his way to find him watching me from the ice. He isn’t even paying attention to the game. Nope. He’s solely focused on me. And I don’t like it one bit. When our gazes connect, he lifts his chin and smiles, the look alone leaving an oily film across my skin.
I do my best to ignore it. To focus on the game. To focus on my job. But I swear he uses every opportunity to skate close to the Lions’ bench. When the referee blows his whistle a minute later, I find Shorty a few feet away, his attention rolling over me from head to toe. It makes me feel exposed. Bare.
The knowing look in his eyes makes my stomach curdle. It’s as if he’s picturing me naked. And what’s even worse? He doesn’t need to use his imagination. No. He knows exactly what I look like. Every curve. Every tattoo. Every freckle.
“Shorty!” one of his teammates warns, closing in on him. “You can focus on pussy later!”
His gaze darkens. “I look forward to it.” He skates past me with a cocky grin, and I drop my camera to my side.
Why is he such an asshole?
Why does he still get under my skin?
He doesn’t matter.
We aren’t together anymore.
He can’t hurt me.
He. Can’t. Hurt. Me.
Ignoring the way my hands shake, I force my limbs to move, hitting the record button as Greer smashes into the Tumblers’ center, and the rest of the period passes in a blur. I don’t know how much time elapses before the whistle blows, and the Lions skate off the ice, preparing for their twenty-minute intermission in the locker room. Instead of Shorty heading to his own tunnel, he stays near the Lions’ bench.
His stare pins me in place as he calls, “Hey, Mia!”
I keep my eyes glued to the camera screen, pretending I’m busy checking footage, when Beck hooks his thumb over his shoulder toward Shorty.
“You know him?” Beck asks.
“Uh, yeah,” I mumble through the cotton in my mouth. “He’s my ex.”
Beck’s eyes widen with understanding. “Oh, shit.” He lifts his hands in surrender and steps around me. “Good luck.”
“Yeah,” I mutter under my breath.
“Mia, c’mon. Give me a second.” Shorty calls. “I only wanna say hi.”
The bastard’s full of shit, and we both know it, but I don’t want to cause a scene. Not here. Not now. Not when it could potentially make the Lions look bad.
Squaring my shoulders, I force myself to look up at him. “Hey, Shorty.”
“How’ve you been?”
“Great, grand, and wonderful,” I lie. “But I should probably get back…”
I start to turn around when he stops me in my tracks.
“Did my buddy Darryl come say hi?”
Mother. Fucker.
Facing him again, I march closer to the edge of the ice and grit out, “What do you think?”
Shorty’s mouth lifts. “I’ll take it as a yes.”
“Fuck you, Shorty.”
“Ah, come on,” he pleads as I give him my back. “It was funny.”
“Oh, it was?” Twisting around again, I step even closer, grateful for the barrier separating us because I honestly might strangle him. “Was it funny when you Tweeted about my OF account too?”
His amusement dissipates. “Shouldn’t have had an OF account in the first place.”
“I’m sorry, are you my daddy?”
“I used to be,” he growls. “You need me to slap your ass again, baby?”
“Not necessary.” I turn around again and smack into a very hard chest. Warm hands grip my biceps, holding me in place as I lift my head and realize it’s Henry. But he isn’t looking at me. He’s staring over my head at Shorty.
“Everything okay?” he demands. Cold. Calculating. Downright lethal.
Hello, business shark Henry.
“Yeah, it’s great,” Shorty returns. “Just catching up with an old friend.”
My nose wrinkles, but I bite my tongue to keep from causing a scene. I hate the word. I hated it when I slapped the term on my relationship with Henry. And I hate it as soon as it slips past Shorty’s lips in an attempt to describe what we were to each other.