I reached for his laptop. He tried to stop me, but I wrestled it from him.
“Really. It'll only take a second. I'm sorry but I gotta check something.”
I typed in GutterSports. I'd never heard of it before. Apparently it was some kind of sports gossip blog.
I scrolled down and, there she was, front page, sexy pose in her panties and all. Honor.
Oh fuck.How the hell did they hack my cell phone?
No fucking wonder she blocked my phone number! I gave the score keeper his laptop back and rose. “Thanks! But I gotta go.”
“Where do you think you're going?” he asked as I threw the penalty box door open and rushed to leave the ice.
“Hey!” coach yelled at me from the bench. “The hell are you doing, Rockwell?”
“I'm injured!” I lied. “Gotta go see the trainers!”
Chapter 23:
Hacked
Honor
I stood at the bus stop. All I could do was watch the blur of traffic fly down the street, feeling hopelessly …numb.
Numb to the sharp stabbing of the knife that Hunter had plunged and twisted in my back.
Numb to the embarrassment of standing in front of those girls.
Numb to the non-stop buzzing of my phone in my purse.
It was Derek. He'd been trying to reach me for the past ten minutes. Madisonhad gone the extra mile and posted thatGutterSportslink on my Facebook. I'd deleted it as fast as I could, but not before Derek had seen it.
Great. Hunter Rockwell, you've ruined my life.
Finally, after a thirty minute wait, the bus arrived. It pulled up to the curb and I waited at the end of the line as people started to climb on.
I read a text from Derek while I waited for my turn: “Sis, answer your phone. I'm on your side, here. I'm just trying to let you know that Mom and Dad saw it too and they're freaking out. Tell me where this Rockwell piece of shit lives and I swear I'll come to Denver just to fuck him up. I TOLD YOU not to do anything with hockey players all along.....you see why now??”
Ugh,I thought to myself.Great. The whole fam' knows. And where does Hunter Rockwell live, you ask? He lives in a fucking hotel because he's a child who needs someone to clean up after him. A child who cashes a multi-million dollar paycheck.
But, with one foot on the bus stairs, the throaty roar of a sports engine growing nearer gave me pause. Tires screeched, horn blaring, as a sleek black car fish-tailed in front of the bus, wedging itself in front, so the bus couldn't leave.
What the hell?
It was a familiar car. A Maserati.
No. No way.
“Honor!Honor!” the driver,Hunter,yelled as he stamped his horn again and again.
The bus driver honked back, yelling, “Get out of the road, you crazy drunk!”
A stand-off. I knew Hunter wouldn't let the bus go until he'd talked to me.
“Oh, for God's sake,” I mumbled. I stepped away from the bus and neared Hunter's car, ready to tear into him for the final time.
His tinted window rolled down as I started yelling, “Hunter Rockwell, you're afucking—”
