“You Chesty LaRude?” He held up one of her trading cards. “I’m a big fan. Can I have an autograph?”
Her mouth worked silently. She was frozen in fear. Normally Pisa, her derby wife, was at her side. She knew better than to leave Chelsea alone. But Chelsea’d been high on game endorphins and had left Pisa tightening the screws on her skates.
And now she was here alone in the hall with a strange man.
Her breathing rasped in her throat. Panic shot through her. She couldn’t breathe. Her sweaty hair stuck to her neck and she managed a small shake of her head. She didn’t think she could hold a pen at the moment if she tried.
His lip curled at her denial. “You think you’re too good for me? Fuck you.”
She wanted to say something. Protest. Tell him to go fuck himself. But she couldn’t speak. Chelsea was utterly frozen.
She had to get away. Had to. She stumbled forward, crashing into the swinging door of the bathroom. “Leave me alone,” she managed to choke out.
“Fucking bitch,” he called after her.
She skated into the bathroom, her steps jarring, desperate.
A moment later, she heard the door crack open, and for a frantic second she thought he was going to come in after her.
It was going to be just like last time. Not again. Not again. No. Please.
The light flicked off and she heard a ridiculous juvenile laugh. The door swung shut again.
A prank. Nothing more. He was just trying to freak her out.
But the lights off was just as bad—maybe worse—than a stranger touching her. Chelsea whimpered and dropped to her knees, hugging them. Her skates rolled her forward and she gently bumped against the wall. She collapsed against it and hugged her knees tighter to her chest. Hot tears poured down her face.
The dark.
She hated the dark.
Someone had to find her. Help her. Please. I’m here. Someone find me. The words swirled in her mind but wouldn’t make it past her throat. It might have been ten minutes or a hundred. Chelsea sat there, unable to move, frozen in fear.
“Chesty? Chels?”
Pisa’s voice. But she couldn’t answer. She was frozen, just like before.
The lights in the bathroom flicked on. A moment later, Pisa skated in, her eyes wide. “Oh, my god, honey. Are you okay?”
“Someone turned the lights off,” Chelsea said in a small voice. She sniffed and rubbed a hand over her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh, sugar, it’s okay.” Pisa moved to her side and hugged Chelsea against her. “Everyone was wondering where you were. Did . . . did someone touch you?”
Pisa knew Chelsea’s secret. The reason why she froze in fear. The reason why she couldn’t stand the dark. She’d understand why Chelsea had just shut down in a stupid public restroom.
Chelsea shook her head. “Just a fan wanting an autograph. He . . . startled me.”
“Prick.” Pisa remained next to Chelsea. She rubbed her arm. “You’re shaking like a leaf. Do you need meds?”
Chelsea shook her head. “I’m fine. I promise.”
“Uh huh,” Pisa said, but she stood up and helped Chelsea back to her feet. “Call me crazy if I say I don’t believe you.” She leaned forward and wiped at Chelsea’s face. “Your eyeliner’s running all down your face, sugar. Black HellVet’s gonna take one look at you and bench you for the rest of the game if you don’t shape up.”
She nodded. “I’ll pull my shit together. I promise.” Somehow.
“You should have waited for me,” Pisa said, grabbing paper towels and wetting them so she could help with Chelsea’s makeup.
Chelsea nodded again, but even as she did, she hated herself a little. Why couldn’t she keep her cool enough that her friends didn’t have to treat her like a baby? Why was it the moment a guy touched her, she lost her mind? Hadn’t years of therapy gotten her past this point?
There had to be a way to get past this. Had to.
Or else she was going to be fucked up the rest of her life.
Chapter Three