Stand and Defend (Lakes Hockey Series Book 4)

I’m staying up to watch the game. The Lakes are playing in California, and they went into overtime. It’s a nail biter; I’ve got the chipped polish to prove it. The camera lands on Camden a few times, his chest heaves, and sweat rolls down his forehead, dripping from his brows. He squints when he blinks. His eyes look tired, but I know he’s focused.

I scurry over to the kitchenette in my apartment, tear into a fresh bag of anxiety-relieving Sour Patch Kids and leap back onto the couch in front of the TV, tucking my legs up under me as they begin the second shootout. Chicken Salad whines at my side.

“These are mine. You won’t like them, they’re spicy,” I lie. As if she’s a child asking me to share my snack. California gets one on goal, and my shoulders fall. Shit. She hops off the couch and paws at the door, whining again.

“I’ll take you out, one second. I gotta see if they make it.”

Cam’s up, he shoots, and I hold my breath. The goalie blocks it.

“Nooo! No, no, no.” Ugh, that shot is probably eating him alive.

Chicken Salad barks at me, and I stand, slowly walking toward the door while I keep my eyes fixed on the TV. I grab the leash and attach it without looking down. I can’t peel my eyes away.

A right winger for California takes the next shot, and it gets by Strass.

“Fuck.” My heart sinks for him and the rest of the team. They’ve played their asses off tonight. “Okay, pup. Ready to go outside?” I ask glumly.

With Chicken Salad leashed, we head downstairs. I don’t feel like crossing the house to get my jacket from the laundry room, so I grab one of Cam’s from the closet in the foyer. She impatiently circles while I slip on his slides in the entryway.

“I know, I’m sorry I made you wait.”

When I open the front door, the crisp, cold air makes me wish I had on something longer than these pajama shorts, but Cam’s jacket smells like him and provides warmth from more than the cold temperatures. Like when his arms are around me.

Chicken Salad wanders the frost-covered yard, looking for the perfect spot to pee. “Any spot’ll do . . . I’d like to give a friendly reminder that you’ve got fur pants, I don’t.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I wonder if it’s Cam. He must be so disappointed. When I dig it out, I see the text across the lock screen.

Bryan: Keeping his coat warm . . . how about his bed?

The hair on the back of my neck stands on end, and I jump when Chicken Salad releases a low, deep growl. My eyes frantically scan the front yard, then I see his car on the other side of the gate. Lights are off, but it’s his. Actually, it’s mine, the one he gave to me as a gift. The one I was driving when I got pulled over after he reported it stolen. I wonder if that’s how he got past security at the neighborhood entrance? Did they think the license plate was me?

“Okay, we’re moving to the backyard.”

I stuff the phone in my shorts, and it buzzes again. I ignore it, the last thing I’ll do is give him the pleasure of seeing fear on my face while I read his creepy messages.

“Come on.” I tug the leash, but she steps toward the car, still growling. “Let’s go. Now!”

She obeys me this time and allows me to lead her inside. When I glance to my apartment above the garage, the flicker of the television is seen, clear as day. How long was he watching those windows—watching me? Hurrying inside, I lock and flip the deadbolt. With my back flush to the wall, I peek outside. The headlights turn on and the car drives off quietly into the night.

My heart is racing. He found me. Fuck.

I walk out the back with Chicken Salad. Thankfully, she goes right away, and we haul ass inside. Now I have to pee. I suppose being terrified does that. After hanging up Cam’s coat, I retreat to my living space and turn off the television. Though, it’s pointless trying to hide it when he already knows where I am.

My phone rings, and I nearly jump out of my skin. I don’t want to answer it until I see Cam’s name on the screen. Breathing a sigh of relief, I answer it and level my voice. The last thing I need to do is get him worried.

“Hey, I’m sorry about the game.”

“Yeah. Where are you?”

“In my room, why?”

“Bryan sent me a weird fucking message. Asking if I was renting my apartment above the garage.”

I can’t lie to him.

“He was here.”

“What!” he shouts, loud enough for me to pull the phone from my ear. “You let him in?”

“God, no! He was outside the gate.” I recount what happened. “He left after I went inside.”

“Fuck.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you worry. He was trying to scare me.” It worked. “The doors are locked, deadbolts and all.”

“I hate that he can look at a fucking game schedule and know when I’m away and when I’m not. We don’t fly home until Wednesday. I’m going to reach out to a security firm and see if we can get someone to watch the house at night.”

“That’s unnecessary. I’ll keep an eye out and stay inside. You’ve already got the alarm system. It’ll be okay.”

“Jordan, he’s a stalker. I want you to call the police and file a report.”

“That’ll just piss him off. You said my reactions are what keep him going, I’m not going to engage.”

“He showed up to the house. We’re past that. Call the police.”