Chapter Three: I need to find her
Riley's Pov
Marvel," I said, the word coming out as a relieved sigh.
He didn't smile. His eyes, usually so warm when they landed on me, were hard. "What's going on?"
"I was looking for you. I came down to... I saw the end of the game." I took a step toward him, wanting to bridge the gap, to get us away from this audience.
"Got lost, did you?" Ray Collins's voice cut through the tension, deceptively mild. "Visitor's room is down the other hall, Hartwell."
The use of my last name, my father's name, in that tone, felt like a deliberate provocation. Marvel's jaw tightened.
Buzzcut chuckled. "She was just telling us how she doesn't support any team, Cap. Neutral party."
I saw the misunderstanding solidify in Marvel's eyes. He thought I'd been chatting with them. With Ray Collins.
"I was waiting for you," I said to Marvel, emphasizing the last word.
But the damage was done. The pride of a losing player, the presence of a rival who seemed to dominate every space he entered, and the girlfriend caught in the middle of it all created a perfect, toxic cocktail.
Marvel gave a short, sharp nod. "Yeah. I see that. Let's go." He turned and started walking, not waiting for me.
I shot one last glance at the group by the locker room. Ray Collins's smirk was gone, replaced by an unreadable, analytical expression. He gave me a slow, almost imperceptible once-over.
Then he turned, shouldering past his teammates with a muttered, "Shower's getting cold," and led them back through the door, leaving me alone.
*******
Ray Collins
The silence in the hallway after they left was louder than the roar of the game had been.
My guys were still buzzing, replaying the winning goal, but the noise felt distant, muffled. All I could see was the back of Riley's head as she followed Martinez down the dim corridor.
"You okay, Cap?" Liam clapped me on the shoulder, his grin fading. "You look like you just took a puck to the teeth."
"I'm fine," I said, my voice coming out flat. "Just tired."
It was a lie. I wasn't tired. I was wired, but not from the win. My skin felt too tight. The image of her face, first soft with concern, then sharp with annoyance was stuck behind my eyes.
Better than him anyway.
Why did those words hook under my ribs like that? She didn't know me. She'd decided who I was from the cheap seats. So why did I give a damn what she thought?
My friends' chatter about the game stats faded into a meaningless hum. I was only half-listening as we filed back into the steam-filled chaos of the locker room.
Guys were laughing, shouting, music blasting from a speaker. Normal victory chaos. I went through the motions: peeling off my sweat-soaked gear, nodding at the right times, but my mind was somewhere else.
It was down that other hallway. Were they arguing? Was she touching his arm for real this time, saying all the right, soothing things? Was he believing her? The thought made my jaw clench.
And why the hell was I thinking about it? This was exactly the kind of "distraction" Hartwell had hired me to monitor. Not to get tangled in.
"Earth to Ray Collins!" A hand waved in front of my face.
I blinked. Liam was standing in front of me, already in his street clothes, eyebrows raised. The locker room was almost empty.
"You've been staring at that locker for five minutes, man. You concussed or something?"
"No," I grunted, finally turning to grab my towel. "Just thinking."
"Well, stop thinking and start moving. Union party at The Rink Bar. You in?"
The Union Party. A stupid tradition. Whenever Falcons or Eagles won a head-to-head, both teams were expected to show up at the same off-campus bar. It was supposed to foster cooperation. Usually, it fostered drunken shouting and the occasional fistfight.
"Not really feeling it," I said, heading for the showers.
"Since when?" Liam called after me. "You're the captain. It's basically mandatory."
The hot water did little to clear my head. Riley's schedule, the one Hartwell had texted me, flashed in my mind. Psychology 305. Mon/Wed/Fri, 10 AM. This was her world. Class, the library, her skates. Not hockey parties.
But Martinez was a hockey player. A star for the Eagles. He'd be at that party. And if he was going...
She'd be there, too. Trying to smooth things over. Playing the supportive girlfriend in a room full of people who'd just watched him lose.
A fresh, sharp curiosity cut through me. What was she like in that setting? Was her cool composure real, or just for show?
Hartwell's voice slithered into my thoughts: "She does not understand what these boys want from her."
My job was to watch. To be there. This wasn't curiosity; it was duty.
I turned the water off with a hard twist.
"Change of plans," I said to Liam as I strode back to my locker, dripping. "I'll go."
