“Alright,” I whisper back, “but you owe me a latte Monday morning.”
“Done.”
It’s an instant answer, and something about makes my heart beat strangely, sending a tremor along my veins.
Thirty minutes later, we’ve smoked his sister and best friend, and Sloane is rolling her eyes at our celebrations, a smile tugging at her lips when she says, “Ohgod—so smug. The two of you deserve each other.”
And for some reason, the sound of that isn’t quite so bad.
Luca
Our winning streak continues.
We go 7-1 for the next eight games, sweeping some teams we were projected to struggle against. Each time, I see and feel the way our strategy sessions play into it. Pushing hard and exhausting teams that obviously prioritize skill over conditioning. Telling Maverick to trash talk those who struggle with mental resilience, bringing them to start fights and landing us in power plays. Even once engaging in no banter whatsoever, which threw the Stars so far off their game that we swept right through them.
Each time I’m in a meeting with Wren, I realize more and more that I might have been wrong about her. That maybe I letthe sting of what happened with Sloane and Callum—the odd sensation of being on the outside of something—influence me to be more suspicious of others than necessary.
And the second Wren walked into my life, a suitable target with a bit of a shady background, I latched onto it, looking for a chance to avoid the same kind of sting again. To prove to myself that I wouldn’t fall for anything.
But there’s no doubt about the fact that Wren has been the missing piece in all of this, and we’re headed firmly for the play-offs if we keep things going like they’ve been.
Things are going so well, in fact, that the meetings with Mandy and the divorce lawyer aren’t as bad as before. I stop fighting over the little things, and she looks at me strangely, like she’s not quite sure what to make of the change.
When I wake up in the morning, I’m more excited than ever to get to the complex. It used to just be the practice—the burn of pushing my muscles to the limit, the thrill of scoring during a scrimmage. But now, it’s the strategizing sessions, too. We’ve increased them to twice a week, and are having one this morning.
I’m just walking out of my place, heading to the car, when a man in a brown leather jacket walks toward me with something in his left hand.
“Can I help you?” I ask, mind searching for the answers to who this could be. It feels, strangely, like the time when Mandy hadthe divorce papers served. The man continues walking toward me confidently, and my gaze drops to the item in his hand.
A manila folder.
“Luca McKenzie?”
“Yeah, that’s me.”
“Right—thought so. This is for you.”
I’m still confused up until the moment he pushes the envelope into my hands, then I realize what this is—the private detective I paid for online all those weeks ago. This is the information he has for me. On Wren.
“Wait,” I say, but it’s too late. He’s already walking down the sidewalk, back to his car. I glance down at the folder in my hands—I should just throw it away.
I already decided I was going to trust her.
My body starts to move, thrust forward by the threat of being late to practice. I am never late, and that’s not about to start now. When I slide into the front seat of my car, I toss the folder on the passenger seat and start the thing up, backing out, my head a mess of thoughts.
I should throw the folder away. I don’t need it.
But I did pay for it. Maybe a cursory glance through it wouldn’t be such a bad thing. And if nobody ever found out about it, it wouldn’t matter.
I can practically hear Sloane’s voice, my mother’s voice, a combination of what the reasonable people in my life would say, all chorusing in my head:You would know, Luca. Do the right thing.
Mom wouldnotbe happy to find out I’d had a private detective check out a new hire. She’s a firm believer that I always take things too far. Like punching Callum when I found out he’d been sleeping with Sloane for months without telling me.
“I know you were upset,” she’d said, pinching the bridge of her nose, “but did you have topunchhim?”
“It was only a matter of time.” Dad had shrugged, though he had a look of disappointment in his eyes. He’d never been the kind of man to resort to violence and always took pride in having a hockey player for a son who mostly stayed out of fights on the ice. Fights are a part of the culture, and he’d always said that was stupid.
By the time I get to the complex, I realize my thoughts have fully deviated from the problem at hand. What to do with the manila envelope in my passenger seat—to look through it, or to throw it away?
