Attached to You (Carolina Rebels 4)

Until the player comes out of the sin bin and flies across the neutral zone. I never see him coming because my eyes are focused elsewhere. Thing One comes up on the other side of me and I want to make a pass. The puck leaves my stick and is on its way to him.

The hit blindsides me, feeling like a semi ran into my back with enough force to snap my neck back while pushing me forward and slamming my body onto the ice. Do my hands even reach out to stop me? I’m not sure. I blink, the ice cold against my cheek, and idly watch the puck reach Collin.

Get up, Brayden. You never stay down if you can get up.

Is the arena quiet or suddenly thunderous with the roar of thousands? I want to wince at the sound of it and the whistle blowing. I push myself up onto my hands and knees, deciding to quickly make a go at standing, but the ice moves underneath me and I’m back on my hands and knees. Fuck.

“How about you wait here for a second?”

I glance up to see Collin and nod. Bruiser beats the hell out of some guy over in the corner. What for? What happened?

Collin tries to help me stand and that’s when I realize the...fuck, what are they called? I shake my head and try to focus on what the trainer who walked from the bench says as I’m escorted off the ice to see a doctor.

Not that it matters.

Dread fills me quickly, overwhelming me before I can stop it.

This is not good.

***

Brayden: Thanksgiving is canceled.

Me: What? Why?

Me: Hello? Brayden? What happened?

Me: Answer me!

Me: I’m coming over.

An uneasy feeling worries me as I drive to Brayden’s house. It morphs into dread when I pull into his driveway and find his truck door open. What in the hell happened? I walk to the truck with Otis trailing after me on his leash, spot his cell phone in the middle seat, and grab it. Why would he leave his cell phone in the truck? Gently closing the door, I head for the house.

My worry

quadruples. His keys dangle from the deadbolt. That’s not very helpful if you want to keep intruders out. After I remove the keys, I push the door open. “Brayden?” I call out.

No answer.

Otis seems calm, which relaxes me just a little. That means no one who shouldn’t be here is in the house, right? Otis leaves me for the couch the moment I unhook his leash, so I hope so. He can’t bite someone in my defense if he’s napping on the couch. I jog upstairs to Brayden’s bedroom, calling out his name once more. There’s still no response. Where is he?

I find him lying in bed, but something isn’t quite right. He has a pillow over his head as well as his comforter over that pillow. Carefully crawling onto the bed, I pull the comforter back and then remove the pillow. He’s sound asleep. Do I wake him? Is he... I tug the sheets down a little further. He’s still in his suit from the game. What in the world?

I shake his shoulder. “Brayden.”

He groans, but I soon see those green eyes. He frowns and blinks a few times. “What are you doing here?”

“Because I’m extremely worried. First, you text me that Thanksgiving is canceled and you don’t respond to my texts. Then, I get here and your truck door is open, your phone is inside, your keys are still in the front door, and you’re sleeping in your suit.”

He glances down at himself and a brief flicker of surprise appears on his face when he sees that I’m not lying.

“What happened?” I ask as he throws the sheets completely aside to get out of bed.

“I got hit during the first period,” he mutters. I’m confused. What does that have to do with Thanksgiving? Or anything else that happened? I watch him change his clothes. “I sat out for the rest of the game and by the time it was over, they diagnosed me with a concussion. I’m not going on the trip to Canada, so you and Mom aren’t going either. Can you look to see if she’s texted me back?”

Once I’ve unlocked his phone, there are not only texts from his mom, but also about a dozen missed calls. His text to her was similar to mine, except he asked her to deal with his travel agent in canceling everything.

He sighs when I report my findings. “I don’t want to talk to her.”