The Mistake(101)

The phone rings again.

Grace makes a frustrated noise and presses ignore.

I’m not sure I blame her. Dean told me he ran into Ramona at the bar a few times, but I haven’t seen her since last semester. And I don’t particularly want to.

“She probably just wants to hang out,” Grace says, then switches the phone to vibrate.

She’s about to rest her head on my chest, but she barely makes contact before a loud buzz shakes the mattress. “O-kay then, guess I should’ve picked silent instead of vibrate.” She sits up again, snatches the cell, and freezes.

“What’s wrong?” I try to peek at the phone.

She flips it over so I can see the screen. SOS is all it says. Sent by—who else?—Ramona.

Maybe I’m a cynical bastard, but this smacks of manipulation to me. Grace wasn’t answering, so Ramona decided to make her answer.

“I have to call her back.”

I smother a sigh. “Babe, she’s probably trying to scare you into calling—”

“She’s not.” Grace’s expression is stricken. “We don’t abuse the SOS. Ever. In all the years we’ve been friends, we’ve only SOS’d each other twice. I did it when I thought I was being followed by some creep in Boston this one time, and she did it when she blacked out at a party senior year and woke up with no idea where she was. This is real, Logan.”

Even if I’d wanted to argue, she’s already hopping off the bed and making the call.

*

Grace

I’m actually frightened. Palms sweating, heart racing, lungs burning. But I guess that’s the appropriate response to finding out your friend is being held against her will by a bunch of thugs. When she had to sneak into the bathroom to call you because the thugs in question tried confiscating her phone after she announced she wanted to leave.

In the passenger side of Logan’s truck, I drum my fingers against my thighs in an anxious rhythm. I want to beg him to drive faster, but he’s already speeding. And he won’t stop barking out questions at me, questions to which I have no f*cking answers, because Ramona hung up on me five minutes ago and is no longer picking up her phone.

“What hockey players?” Logan demands for the third time in ten minutes. “Briar guys?”

“For the last time, I don’t know. I told you everything she told me, Logan, so please stop harassing me.”

“Sorry,” he mutters.

We’re both on edge. Neither of us knows what we’ll find when we reach the motel, and as we race toward Hastings, my conversation with Ramona buzzes through my mind like a swarm of bees.

“I thought there would be other people here, but it’s just the players. And they won’t let me leave, Gracie! They promised to give me a ride home and now they’re saying I should crash in their room, and I don’t want to, and I don’t even have my purse with me! Just my phone! I don’t have money for a cab, and nobody will come get me…and…”

At that point she’d started to cry, and fear had flooded my stomach. I’ve known Ramona a long time. I know the difference between her crocodile tears and her real ones. I know when she’s fake-panicking, or freaking the f*ck out. I know what she sounds like when she’s calm, and what she sounds like when she’s terrified.

And right now, she’s terrified.

The ride into town is thick with tension. My muscles are coiled so tight, my body actually feels sore by the time we reach the motel. The L-shaped brick building is located on the outskirts of Hastings, and although it’s nowhere near as nice as the inn on Main Street, it’s not a fleabag shithole either.

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 *s, 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.