I thought about Blair as I watched him. The way his voice had stayed calm though his hands hadn’t. I hated to see his composure slip. But I hated even more that it was because of Travis.
If anyone was going to shake Blair like that, it’d be me.
I didn’t waitat the coffee pot with the rest of the group members. I went for the door.
Chicago cold hit my face. I grimaced and shook my head.
Blair was halfway down the block, head down. He walked with a neat, steady pace. A moment passed and he stopped at the corner under an old awning.
I couldn’t help but wonder if an anger management therapist contemplated how many people might wish him harm.
My thoughts drifted for a moment to Travis, and my skin crawled.
Blair waited to cross the street, unfazed by the hustle and bustle around him. Or maybe it was a front, a carefully crafted act.
The WALK sign was counting down.
Twenty-three.
A camera over the market door threw a red dot into the glass window of the shop. Everything flashed through my mind at once, contracts, sponsorships. Millions at stake. All in Blair’s hands.
I came up beside him and took the curb.
“Counselor,” I said.
But Blair didn’t look at me. His eyes remained locked on the WALK sign. The crosswalk countdown ticked.
Twenty.
My agent’s voice crawled into my ear. One game missed was fifty grand down the drain.
Paper before ice. His pen before everything else.
The part of me that swings stayed where Blair could see it.
I wanted to back him up against a brick wall until he told the truth. Deeper down, I thought he might open his mouth if I asked.
“You gonna tell me why you watched the video again?” I asked, each word deliberately chosen. “Or do you want me to help you name it?”
He swallowed and finally looked over at me. “Excuse me?”
I stepped close enough that the air between us thinned. Blair had to tilt his head back and stretch his neck to meet my gaze.
His pulse was visible in his throat and, for a second, I wanted to press my thumb there, to feel it hammer.
“You didn’t watch it once,” I said. “You rewound me. I want to know why you have such an interest in me, Blair. In the fight.”
I hated that I gave a damn in the first place. That some part of me needed to know what Blair saw when he pressed play.
The crosswalk counted thirteen.
Maybe he planned to use it against me, or dissect me on paper for his files, or write a case study about the hothead hockey player who snapped in a game. Or maybe Blair was thesame as the rest of them. Eager for a show and addicted to the blood.
His lips parted, a denial likely ready, but nothing came out. His breath stuttered instead, a noise so small it barely counted as a sound at all.
“You were scared the first time,” I said, my voice low as strangers passed us. “But you pressed play again. Why?”
Nine.
