The King's Hart

The wrong message

I don't delete the message.

That's the thing I keep coming back to as I walk home through the freezing dark. I should have deleted it. Any normal person would have deleted it. But instead I read it four times on the elevator ride down, and then I saved it to my phone like evidence.

Stay away from my son, you broke little w***e.

Gregory Kingston knows my name. He knows my number. He looked at me for ten seconds in a hallway and now he knows enough to threaten me.

I shove my phone into my coat pocket and keep walking. The sidewalk is slick with ice. My shoes are too thin for this weather, but I can't afford new ones. I can barely afford the rent I'm about to be evicted from.

The Den is three blocks from campus. It's the only bar that doesn't card at the door, which means it's packed with students on a Tuesday night. Music thumps through the walls. Someone's laughing too loud by the entrance.

Marcus is waiting for me.

The inside of The Den smells like cheap beer and fried food. I spot Marcus immediately—he's at a booth in the back, waving at me like I'm the best thing that's happened to him all day.

"Sophie! Over here!"

He's already got a pitcher of something on the table. His smile is wide and easy and completely uncomplicated. No dark secrets. No fathers who threaten girls in elevators. Just a nice boy in a Vipers hoodie who remembers I exist.

"You came," he says as I slide into the booth across from him.

"I said I would."

"Yeah, but you always say you're busy. I figured you'd cancel again."

There's no accusation in his voice. Just honesty. Marcus is the kind of person who says exactly what he means, and for a second, I feel guilty. I didn't come here because I wanted to see him. I came here because I wanted to prove something to myself.

"How's the tutoring going?" he asks.

"Terrible."

"Terrible how?"

I pour myself a glass of whatever's in the pitcher. It's beer. Warm. Disgusting. I drink it anyway.

"Jace Kingston is impossible," I say. "He doesn't listen. He doesn't do the work. He thinks he can charm his way through everything."

Marcus laughs. "Yeah, that sounds like King."

"You're friends with him?"

"Teammates. There's a difference." He shrugs, easy and unbothered. "Jace is good on the ice. Off the ice, he's kind of a mess. Everyone knows that."

"What kind of mess?"

The question comes out too fast. Marcus notices. His eyebrows lift slightly, but he doesn't push.

"Just... mess," he says. "Parties too hard. Disappears for days. Shows up to practice with bruises he won't explain." He pauses. "Why? You worried about him?"

"No."

"Because you asked real quick."

"I'm his tutor. His performance affects my paycheck."

Marcus holds up his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay. Just asking."

But he's watching me now. Not suspicious, exactly. More like he's trying to figure something out.

"So you don't like him," he says.

"I can't stand him."

"Good."

"Why is that good?"

Marcus grins. "Because I've been trying to get you to hang out with me for three months. If you had a thing for King, I'd be pretty disappointed."

My face heats up. This is not where I expected the conversation to go.

"I don't have a thing for anyone," I say. "I don't have time."

"That's a cop-out."

"It's the truth."

"It's a cop-out wrapped in a truth." He leans forward, elbows on the table. "You work all the time. You study all the time. You never let anyone in. I've been sitting next to you in the library for two semesters, and I still don't know your favorite color."

"Blue."

"That's not the point."

"Then what's the point?"

He tilts his head, studying me with those big brown eyes. Nothing like Jace's blue ones. Nothing like the storm.

"The point is that letting people in is terrifying," Marcus says. "But it's also the only way anything good ever happens."

I don't have an answer for that. So I drink my warm beer and pretend I'm not thinking about Jace Kingston bleeding in his hallway.

The door of The Den bangs open.

Cold air rushes in. Then noise. Then a group of hockey players, loud and rowdy, spilling into the bar like they own it.

And at the center of them, somehow already looking right at me, is Jace.

Our eyes lock across the room. His are hard and unreadable. The bandage on his cheek is stark white against his skin. He's wearing a black Vipers hoodie, hood pulled up, jaw set like he's walking into battle.

"What's he doing here?" I mutter.

Marcus turns around. "Oh. Team thing, probably. We do Tuesdays here sometimes."

"You didn't mention that."

"Didn't think it mattered. You said you hate him."

Jace is still staring at me. The other players are heading toward the bar, but he's frozen by the door like he's deciding something.

Then he walks toward our booth.

"Crap," I breathe.

"Just be cool," Marcus says. "He's probably just saying hi."

Jace doesn't say hi.

He stops at the edge of our table. Towers over us. His presence sucks all the air out of the booth. He looks at Marcus first—a quick nod—then his eyes land on me and stay there.

"Hart."

"Kingston."

"Didn't expect to see you here."

"It's a free country."

"You don't strike me as a bar person."

"You don't know me."

His jaw tightens. The muscle in his cheek jumps.

"She's my study buddy," Marcus says, his voice light but pointed. "We're working on a pre-law thing together."

"Pre-law thing," Jace repeats. "Right."

"Is there a problem?"

Jace finally looks away from me. When he meets Marcus's eyes, something passes between them. A warning, maybe. Or a question.

"No problem," Jace says. "Just surprised. Sophie doesn't seem like the type to hang out with hockey players."

"I'm full of surprises," I say.

"Yeah." His eyes flick back to me. "I'm starting to see that."

The tension is unbearable. It's a live wire stretched between us, sparking and dangerous. Marcus is watching us with growing confusion. I'm gripping my glass so hard my knuckles ache.

"Thursday," I say. "Don't be late."

"I won't."

"Good."

"Good."

He doesn't move. For a long, agonizing moment, he just stands there, looking at me like he's trying to solve a puzzle I don't want solved.

Then his phone buzzes. He glances at the screen. His expression darkens.

"I gotta go," he says.

And just like that, he's gone. Back through the crowd. Out the door. Into the cold.

Marcus lets out a long breath.

"Okay," he says. "What was that?"

"What was what?"

"That." He gestures at the door Jace just disappeared through. "The staring. The tension. The whole 'stay away from her' vibe he was giving off."

"He wasn't—"

"Sophie. Come on."

I stare at my glass. The beer is flat now. Warm and flat and useless.

"He's my tutoring assignment," I say. "That's all."

"Then why did he look at me like he wanted to put me through the glass?"

"Because he's a jerk."

"Because he likes you."

My head snaps up. "He doesn't."

Marcus doesn't look angry. He looks curious. A little sad, maybe, but mostly curious.

"I've known Jace for two years," he says. "I've never seen him look at anyone the way he just looked at you."

"And what way is that?"

"Like you're something he's afraid to want."

The words land in my chest and stay there. Afraid to want. Like I'm something precious. Like I'm something dangerous.

It's exactly how I felt in his hallway. Exactly how I felt when he said you deserve more than nice.

"I can't," I say. "I can't do this. Any of this."

"Can't do what?"

"Boys. Relationships. Feelings." I push my glass away. "I have rent to pay. I have a future to build. I have a mother who died because she loved the wrong man. I can't afford to make the same mistake."

Marcus is quiet for a moment. Then he reaches across the table and touches my hand. Just briefly. Just kind.

"I'm not saying you should date him," he says. "Jace is a mess. We all know that. But maybe you should figure out why you're so determined to hate him."

"I know why I hate him."

"Do you?"

I don't answer. Because I'm not sure anymore.

My phone buzzes. I grab it too fast, and Marcus notices.

Another message. Unknown number. My stomach drops.

Unknown: I saw you at the bar. You think I'm playing? Stay away from my son or you'll regret it.

The bar is too loud. Too hot. Too crowded.

I shove my phone into my pocket and stand up so fast the table rattles.

"I have to go," I say.

"Sophie? What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I just—I forgot I have a shift."

"You're shaking."

"I'm fine."

I'm not fine. Gregory Kingston is watching me. He's here. He saw me with Jace. He saw me with Marcus. He's somewhere in this bar or outside it, and he knows exactly where I am.

"Let me walk you home," Marcus says.

"No. Stay here. I'm fine."

"Sophie—"

But I'm already moving. Through the crowd. Past the hockey players. Out the door into the freezing night.

The street is empty. The snow is starting to fall. I scan the sidewalks, the parked cars, the dark spaces between buildings.

Nothing. No one.

But he was here. He's always here.

My phone buzzes one more time.

I look down.

Unknown: Smart girl. Now keep walking.

I don't run. Running means they win. But I walk fast, my heart in my throat, my fingers frozen around my phone.

And I don't stop until my apartment door is locked behind me.