The Mistake
Page 83
When Logan pulls into the parking lot, his blue eyes immediately darken. I follow his gaze and notice the shiny red bus parked on the pavement.
“That’s the St. Anthony’s bus,” he says in a curt voice. “They’re playing Boston College tomorrow, so I guess it makes sense for them to crash here for the night.”
“Wait, this is the team you played against tonight?”
He nods. “They’re assholes, each and every one of them, coaching staff included.”
My concern escalates. I’ve heard Logan trash-talk opponents before, but even when he does it, I can tell there’s a level of respect there. Like the rivalry with Harvard—Logan will bitch about it, but you’ll never catch him saying the Harvard players are hacks, or attacking their character the way he just did with these St. Anthony’s guys.
“Are they really that bad?” I ask.
He kills the engine and unbuckles his seatbelt. “Their old captain was suspended last season for breaking a Briar player’s arm. Our guy didn’t even have the puck when Braxton smashed into him. Their new captain is an entitled shithead from Connecticut who spit on the guys on our bench tonight every time he skated by them. Disrespectful POS.”
We hop out of the pickup and march right up to Room 33, which was one of the few details I’d managed to pry out of Ramona while she’d been sobbing. Logan grasps my arm and moves me behind him in a protective gesture.
“Let me handle this,” he orders.
The deadly gleam in his eyes is too terrifying to argue with.
He pounds his fist on the door, so hard he rattles the doorframe. Loud music blares inside the room, along with raucous male laughter that turns my veins to ice. It sounds like they’re having a raging party in there.
A moment later, a tall guy with dark hair and a goatee appears in the threshold. He takes one look at Logan’s Briar jacket and curls his lips into a sneer. “What the fuck do you want?”
“I’m here to pick up Ramona,” Logan snaps.
Rap music blasts from the open door, the bass line vibrating beneath my sneakers. I peek from behind Logan’s broad shoulders, trying to see what’s happening inside the room. All I can make out is a wall of big, bulky bodies. Four, maybe five of them. Horror eddies in my belly. Oh God. Where’s Ramona? And why the hell did she think it was a good idea to party with these guys—alone?
“Go home, asshole.” The St. Anthony’s player smirks. “She just got here. She doesn’t need a ride.”
Logan’s jaw turns to stone. “Get out of my way, Keswick.”
The music dies abruptly, replaced by a beat of silence, then the menacing thump of heavy footsteps as Keswick’s teammates come up behind him.
A blond behemoth with ice-blue eyes gives Logan a mocking smile. “Awww, how sweet. You crashing our after-party, Logan? Yeah, I get it. You want a taste of what it’s like to be a champion, huh?”
Logan’s answering laugh is humorless. “Yeah, I’m so fucking jealous of you for winning a pre-season game, Gordon. Now move aside so I can make sure Ramona is all right, or God help me, I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” another player jeers. “Beat us down? Go ahead and try, buddy. Not even a bruiser like you can take on five dudes at once.”
“Unless it’s in the ass,” someone pipes up. “I bet he likes it up the ass.”
The other players snicker loudly, but Logan is unfazed. He flashes a pleasant smile and says, “As tempting as it is to beat the shit out of you—all of you—I think I’d rather stay out of jail tonight. But I’m happy to knock on every goddamn door in this place until I find Coach Harrison’s room, and then I’m going to blow the whistle on this little sausage party you’re having and let him deal with you.”
Keswick is smug. “He’ll probably join us. Coach doesn’t give a shit if we get wasted after a game.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m sure he’ll give a shit about what you’re shoving up your nose.”
Logan takes a step forward, and I instinctively tense, expecting him to throw a punch. But what he does is tap Keswick on the side of his nose. Drawing my attention to the white specks that are caked under Keswick’s nostrils.
Logan bares his teeth in a harsh smile. “Your coke is showing, asshole. Now get the fuck out of my way. Stay out here, Grace.”
He charges into the room, and I’m left outside, forced into a stare-down with four very pissed off hockey players. Who, apparently, are all hopped up on cocaine. Panic scampers up and down my spine, fast and incessant, and it doesn’t ease until Logan reappears less than a minute later.
To my overwhelming relief, Ramona is at his side. Her cheeks are whiter than the coke on Keswick’s face, her eyes redder than the bus parked behind us, and she runs into my arms the moment she sees me.
“Oh my God,” she whimpers, squeezing me to the point of suffocation. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“It’s okay. You’re okay now.” I gently stroke her hair. “Come on, let’s go.”
I try to lead her away, but she halts, her desperate eyes shooting toward the doorway. “My phone,” she stammers. “He took it.”
She points at the player Logan referred to as Gordon, and a growl rips out of Logan’s mouth as he charges back to the door. “You took her goddamn phone? Why? So she wouldn’t be able to call for help while you motherfuckers gangbanged her?”
“That’s the St. Anthony’s bus,” he says in a curt voice. “They’re playing Boston College tomorrow, so I guess it makes sense for them to crash here for the night.”
“Wait, this is the team you played against tonight?”
He nods. “They’re assholes, each and every one of them, coaching staff included.”
My concern escalates. I’ve heard Logan trash-talk opponents before, but even when he does it, I can tell there’s a level of respect there. Like the rivalry with Harvard—Logan will bitch about it, but you’ll never catch him saying the Harvard players are hacks, or attacking their character the way he just did with these St. Anthony’s guys.
“Are they really that bad?” I ask.
He kills the engine and unbuckles his seatbelt. “Their old captain was suspended last season for breaking a Briar player’s arm. Our guy didn’t even have the puck when Braxton smashed into him. Their new captain is an entitled shithead from Connecticut who spit on the guys on our bench tonight every time he skated by them. Disrespectful POS.”
We hop out of the pickup and march right up to Room 33, which was one of the few details I’d managed to pry out of Ramona while she’d been sobbing. Logan grasps my arm and moves me behind him in a protective gesture.
“Let me handle this,” he orders.
The deadly gleam in his eyes is too terrifying to argue with.
He pounds his fist on the door, so hard he rattles the doorframe. Loud music blares inside the room, along with raucous male laughter that turns my veins to ice. It sounds like they’re having a raging party in there.
A moment later, a tall guy with dark hair and a goatee appears in the threshold. He takes one look at Logan’s Briar jacket and curls his lips into a sneer. “What the fuck do you want?”
“I’m here to pick up Ramona,” Logan snaps.
Rap music blasts from the open door, the bass line vibrating beneath my sneakers. I peek from behind Logan’s broad shoulders, trying to see what’s happening inside the room. All I can make out is a wall of big, bulky bodies. Four, maybe five of them. Horror eddies in my belly. Oh God. Where’s Ramona? And why the hell did she think it was a good idea to party with these guys—alone?
“Go home, asshole.” The St. Anthony’s player smirks. “She just got here. She doesn’t need a ride.”
Logan’s jaw turns to stone. “Get out of my way, Keswick.”
The music dies abruptly, replaced by a beat of silence, then the menacing thump of heavy footsteps as Keswick’s teammates come up behind him.
A blond behemoth with ice-blue eyes gives Logan a mocking smile. “Awww, how sweet. You crashing our after-party, Logan? Yeah, I get it. You want a taste of what it’s like to be a champion, huh?”
Logan’s answering laugh is humorless. “Yeah, I’m so fucking jealous of you for winning a pre-season game, Gordon. Now move aside so I can make sure Ramona is all right, or God help me, I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” another player jeers. “Beat us down? Go ahead and try, buddy. Not even a bruiser like you can take on five dudes at once.”
“Unless it’s in the ass,” someone pipes up. “I bet he likes it up the ass.”
The other players snicker loudly, but Logan is unfazed. He flashes a pleasant smile and says, “As tempting as it is to beat the shit out of you—all of you—I think I’d rather stay out of jail tonight. But I’m happy to knock on every goddamn door in this place until I find Coach Harrison’s room, and then I’m going to blow the whistle on this little sausage party you’re having and let him deal with you.”
Keswick is smug. “He’ll probably join us. Coach doesn’t give a shit if we get wasted after a game.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m sure he’ll give a shit about what you’re shoving up your nose.”
Logan takes a step forward, and I instinctively tense, expecting him to throw a punch. But what he does is tap Keswick on the side of his nose. Drawing my attention to the white specks that are caked under Keswick’s nostrils.
Logan bares his teeth in a harsh smile. “Your coke is showing, asshole. Now get the fuck out of my way. Stay out here, Grace.”
He charges into the room, and I’m left outside, forced into a stare-down with four very pissed off hockey players. Who, apparently, are all hopped up on cocaine. Panic scampers up and down my spine, fast and incessant, and it doesn’t ease until Logan reappears less than a minute later.
To my overwhelming relief, Ramona is at his side. Her cheeks are whiter than the coke on Keswick’s face, her eyes redder than the bus parked behind us, and she runs into my arms the moment she sees me.
“Oh my God,” she whimpers, squeezing me to the point of suffocation. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“It’s okay. You’re okay now.” I gently stroke her hair. “Come on, let’s go.”
I try to lead her away, but she halts, her desperate eyes shooting toward the doorway. “My phone,” she stammers. “He took it.”
She points at the player Logan referred to as Gordon, and a growl rips out of Logan’s mouth as he charges back to the door. “You took her goddamn phone? Why? So she wouldn’t be able to call for help while you motherfuckers gangbanged her?”
