I wake up with the text still burned into my mind. The words are etched there like they were carved instead of typed: You’re asking the wrong questions. Meet me tomorrow. Alone. If George finds out, it’s over.
I do not know if it is a threat or a warning. Maybe both.
I keep replaying the possible voices behind it. A teammate? Someone who knew Connor? Some random person who just wants to mess with me? The problem is, I cannot tell if my curiosity is stronger than my sense of self-preservation.
Practice is at four. My plan is simple: show up, keep my head down, get through it without drawing attention, and figure out a way to meet whoever sent that message without anyone noticing. Especially George.
By the time I walk into the rink, the team is already scattered across the ice, pucks cla
