“Same.”
Honestly though? Kinda want to watch Ryan demolish people without worrying about my own shifts.
At practice this morning, he leveled Jenkins. Not sure what the sophomore was running his mouth about, but Ryan let the grizzly bear out to play. The hit was brutal,but legal. And my husband even “accidentally” let the blade of his stick hit the back of Jenkins’ helmet as he skated away.
Fucking beautiful.
When the next song starts, Ryan leans in, placing a hand on the small of my back. “I'm gonna hit the bathroom. Want anything?”
“I’m good. Still got some beer left.”
He kisses me before heading across the row and then heads up the stairs.
Joan Jett launches into “Crimson and Clover,” and I collapse into my seat. My goddamn husband wanted to stand the whole time, so it feels good to get off my feet.
I pull out my phone and scroll through Instagram. Same bullshit as always. Until an image of Veronica pops up. An official wedding announcement.
Her face is completely dead, like she's checked out, given up. Her fiancée, Damien Reinhardt, looks cold and threatening.
Normal for him.
The guy has a reputation for beating women. And yet, the Callahans gave their daughter to that psycho anyway.
I shake my head and keep scrolling. Another song starts, and Ryan isn’t back yet. Maybe he’s in line for concessions?
Another picture of Veronica and Damien is on a business news account I follow. Ben’s off to the side, barely in frame, like he’s trying to disappear into the fucking wall. He’s probably pissing himself, wondering when his father’s gonna sell him off to close a business deal. Bet the spineless little fuckling will just cry and go along with it.
The third song starts, and Ryan still isn’t back. Sweat collects along my brow. I swipe at it, scanning the area. When I still don’t see him, I open my text app.
Me: You’re missing the best part. Everything okay?
No response.
“Cherry Bomb” starts. Ryan should be back. My leg starts bouncing as I call his phone. It goes straight to voicemail. So, I hang up and try again.
No answer.
When he doesn’t pick up after the third time my pulse goes from zero to fucking sixty. Something's off. Ryan doesn't bail, especially not from Joan Jett.
I stand, scanning the crowd.
Nothing.
My screen lights up. Thank fuck. But it’s not Ryan. It's my piece of shit father. I tap ignore and try calling Ryan one more time.
Voicemail.
Again.
I push through the row of seats, stepping on people's feet. Fuck their dirty looks.
My shoulder clips someone, but I barely feel it. Blood roars in my ears, drowning out the music thundering from the stadium.
I hit the concourse, heading for the nearest bathroom. Maybe his phone died. Maybe he's sick. Maybe I'm being fucking paranoid.
But my legs are already moving faster, practically running.
I crash through the doors of the men’s bathroom. “Ryan!” A few guys look at me like I'm crazy, but I don't give a fuck. “Ryan! You in here?”
