Chapter 8 · One Way Out

"Move," I said.

Torin Black didn't move. He filled the tunnel doorway the way a semi fills a two-lane road — shoulder pads still strapped on, one skate blade scraping the concrete when he shifted his weight, and that stare he'd been giving me since the penalty box like I was a line item he hadn't finished reading.

"Game one's in the books," he said. "Congratulations. You survived it."

"I don't need your play-by-play. I need to get to my car."

"Car's the other way." He tipped his head toward the gate behind him, the one with the buzzer and the keypad, the only exit that didn't dump me back into a mob of reporters asking why the team's new fixer had a fresh bruise ring around her wrist. "This one's mine tonight."

My pulse kicked up before my brain caught why. The tunnel smelled like rubber mats and Zamboni exhaust and him — sweat and cold metal, something under it that was just skin.