Chapter 3

Muse.

Everyone on campus is raving about the game tonight. They’re curious to know who the winner of the Founder’s Cup this season will be.

I left the room after unpacking, something that I did within twenty minutes, just so I could give the lovebirds enough time to tangle in the sheets however they want, looking for Mr. Gus.

My employer isn’t hard to find. The middle-aged man is lounging in his office when I walk in.

He drops his pipe and cheerfully welcomes me.

I clutch my bag hard, beaming at him as he instructs me on the dos and don’ts. I note them mentally in my head while scanning the framed certificates and photos in his office.

The ones hanging on the wall behind him are pictures of him and the players, carrying a big silver cup– one of their trophies.

The one beside the team picture is of him standing with a tall, lean player whose defined muscles stretch beneath his jersey. Shaggy brown hair, parted to one side, frames a face carved with a finely sculpted jawline. His warm brown eyes seem to reach through the photograph, drawing me in. Then there’s his smile, sharp, confident, and just predatory enough to make anyone feel like willing prey.

The player is beautiful. Achingly, impossibly beautiful. Beautiful isn’t a word people often use for men, but no other adjective fits him quite as perfectly.

“Are you listening?” Mr. Gus’s question pulls me from my reverie, and I snap my eyes away from the guy, from the temptation personified calling out to me like a siren.

What’s wrong with me? I’m not even sure this person looks as beautiful in reality. He might just be in the category of “photogenic” people.

It’s a little late when I realize I’m drooling. Heat floods my cheeks as I hurriedly swipe the back of my hand across the corner of my mouth, wiping away the embarrassing evidence. I clear my throat and swallow hard, silently willing my racing pulse to settle.

Well, too late, Mr. Gus has realized what was distracting me. He looks from the picture and back at me. The man shakes his head sadly like this isn’t the first time it’s happening.

“Jules again.”

Omigod, did he say Jules? As in the Jules?

My heart flips; my ears ring at Mr. Gus’s words. I’m tempted to ask if it’s the Jules I’m here to send to an early grave that’s in the picture with him, but I keep myself from doing that.

If Mr. Gus figures out about me, then I can kiss my mother and sister goodbye. Forever.

How stupid of me to have come here without checking to see what my target looks like.

And to think my target looks like sin on legs. No, that’s not true. The cameraman must have done a lot of editing to make him look like a Greek God.

“So, practice rink closes by 7 p.m once the boys are done practicing, and on days we have games in the grand arena, as we’ll tonight, it might take a while longer.”

“Noted, sir.” I huff in response, my traitorous eyes flicking back up to the picture. Shit, I’m definitely going to gouge my eyes out if that’s what will save me from sinning. Didn’t the bible say so?

“I’ll also need reports on whatever the players need. Don’t forget to make a list.” Mr. Gus points out before telling me to leave or get to work.

I’d rather get to work.

The chair scrapes over the linoleum floor as I rise and adjust my duffle bag, containing the weapon, over my shoulder.

“Thank you, sir.”

I’m already headed to the door before Mr. Gus’s dismissive grunt whooshes into my ears.

Out in the hallway, I clutch a hand over my chest. It’s been beating fast after seeing the picture.

Sucking in a calming breath, I adjust my glasses and snap my spine straight. The hallway is almost empty, and I huddle in the armchair idling against the wall, pulling out my phone fast.

I check Instagram right away, typing his name. My target.

And like an album, his model-like photos flood my screen.

My jaw drops at different pictures of him in various poses. Mostly black and white. Who uses black and white photos lately? It’s archaic to me. But Jules has a way of making it look enchanting.

Of course, he has pictures of him and his team, fangirls and…

“Wait, is that Marina?” I gasp at Marina’s photo with my target, both of them hugging tight. Jules squishes Marina’s face with his lips and hand while the girl laughs, eyes closed like she’s enjoying the kiss.

That’s one of the few pictures that are not in black and white. Marina’s hair is shorter here, but it’s still her, blonde and posh and beautiful.

Did she date Jules? Something bitter floods my mouth. I don’t know what that is. And I don’t want to make findings about it, thanks.

There’s no caption in the photo, just a black rose emoji. That explains it then. They once dated. Marina is bisexual, then. How fitting.

Jules has about four-hundred thousand followers and has made over one thousand posts. I don’t have enough time to watch-bomb him or stalk-bomb him, whichever one it is. All that matters is that I’ve seen what he looks like. A Greek God that gives models and gym-rats a run for their money, although I hate to admit that about my target and my roommate’s ex-boyfriend.

I tuck my phone into my bag after checking the time. The game will start at 7 p.m., and it’s just five p.m now.

I have to hunt the Greek God down then. Through the little map of the school Marina gave me earlier, I find my way to the Black Titan’s practice rink.

“Wow, they aren’t kidding, the guys.” I hum under my breath, watching them from the gallery’s glass window, passing the puck with octopus-like efficiency. I make myself so small, so they don’t notice I’m stalking them.

I check the numbers on their Jersey, searching for number 15, but he’s not there. I don’t know if I should be relieved or worried that he’s not in the rink.

I mean, I’m here to kill the guy, so seeing him and finding out a way to give him this poison is my priority. It should worry me that he’s not here.

“Where’s the captain? We need to warm up more before it’s time for the game.” Number 63 groans through his helmet, drawing to a halt and panting. He seems anxious.

“He told you he’s done, Alex.” Number 18 points out, making the others shrug. “You know the captain, he’s never worried about winning as we do.”

“Because he somehow manages to make us win. That dude is mysterious. I’m beginning to think he’s a beast.”

My spine curls at number 63’s words. So Newman wasn’t exaggerating when he called Jules Beast on Ice?

Now, I’m wondering why it’s like that. What makes him a beast?

“That’s why he’s the captain, Alex. The Talons and Ravens can go suck their pinkie.”

The others laugh at number 18’s words. They’re mocking their opponents. Too much confidence, I see.

I’m curious about my target and why his whole team and rival speak highly of him.

“But where’s he though?” Number 25 asks 18, who pulls off his helmet and shakes his damp blonde hair.

“Locker room, I guess.”

I seize that information, breathing my thanks to the blonde player. Slowly, I sneak out of the gallery and fish out the map again, checking the direction of their locker room.

A few strides down the hallways bring me to the locker room. I sneak in, checking the place out.

Surprisingly, it’s neat. Pristine and smells of fresh detergent, although the cluster of a hockey jersey and gear on the center bench ruins the organization of the room.

I move close to it and pick up the Jersey. My heart flops at the name and number, ‘Jules 15.’

It’s his. They’re all his.

Does that mean he’s here?

The steady patter of water hitting the floor somewhere in the room confirms my suspicion.

He’s truly here. My target.

My pulse gallops with equal parts anticipation and dread about killing someone. The guilt almost stops me from doing what I’m about to do, but the image of a bullet lodged in my mother’s knee flashes through my mind. It steels my spine.

Quickly, I bring out the vial in my bag and reach for his water bottle. There’s a little water left in it, and I open it and empty the serum inside it.

The bathroom door cracks open and my spine snaps taut. He’s coming out. Christ, he’s about to catch me poisoning him.

Way to assassinate someone, Muse.

Hurriedly, I close the water bottle and drop it back on the bench just as he appears. My target appears.

And our eyes lock–cold blue eyes against warm brown pools.