Chapter 11: Ice

We sat on the library steps under the lamp and I took his phone.

I read every chat he had.

Most of them were hockey: drill times, bus calls, a long argument about a goalie's gloves.

The team thread was called Wolves Official, and I scrolled it back to August.

It was there.

A rookie had written: Fifty says Hendry and the barista by Halloween. Who's in?

Six guys had put in money.

Minutes later Maddox had written: Delete this. Her name stays out of your mouth or you're off my line.

Under it he had written: Pool's dead. Anyone who pays in answers to me.

Nobody had written anything after that.

There was no chat called WOLVES (PRIVATE).

There was no message that said Hendry won.

I handed the phone back, and then I held out mine.

He looked at the number that had sent me the screenshot for a long time.

"I don't have it saved," he said. "It's not anyone I know."

"Someone knew I'd be sitting next to you in the truck."

"Someone who knows my team's name for me, and knows your name."

His eyes met mine.

"Don't believe me," he said. "Ask them. Come to practice tomorrow and ask all of them, out loud."

I thought about the empty chat, and the text he had written under the rookie's.

"I believe you about the message," I said. "That's not the same thing as the rest."

"I know."

"I need to hear it from them."

"Then hear it."

He walked me home.

He did not touch me, and he did not open my door when I shut it.

I traded my opening shift to a coworker for a Saturday.

At 6:45 the next morning I walked into the Westbridge arena through the players' tunnel.

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