Eight
Colt
Exhaustion pulls at my limbs as I make the drive home.
Practice was tough, but not anything insane.
Coach wants to make sure we’re at the top of our games and well-conditioned, but she doesn’t want to burn us out early in the season.
No, we push it in the weight room, on the bikes.
But on the ice we…finesse.
We work hard, we battle and get our heart rates up, but it’s the finer details rather than the intense exercise that conditions us for the season.
Still, that doesn’t mean I’m not ready to get home, shove some food in my mouth, and pass out.
Only…
It doesn’t work out that way.
Because as I turn the corner, thoughts on dinner and my bed, I see a familiar little red SUV on the turnout.
On our turnout.
Frowning, I slow and pull to a stop behind Kylie’s car.
It’s leaning heavily to the side…
The tire blown out.
The irony of the situation slides through my head, but it’s quickly chased out by concern as I shove open my door and hurry toward her car. Hers isn’t a tire that’s low on air. It’s one that’s in shreds and…
This near to the edge of the road, to the drop-off that’s far too close, to the cluster of evergreens and the giant granite boulder?—
Fuck.
My heart is pounding by the time I reach the driver’s side door.
I don’t think as I reach for the handle and find it locked.
“Fuck,” I whisper. Her hands are clenched on the steering wheel, forehead resting between them, and the engine’s still running. I knock on the window, watch as she jumps.
The car drifts forward a couple of feet before she realizes what’s happening and slams on the brakes.
“Unlock the door, Kylie,” I say loudly enough to be heard through the glass.
There’s a pause, her eyes holding mine for a moment.
“Hit the locks, baby.”
She jerks, but her hand reaches toward the door and a second later, I hear the locks disengage.
I have the door open and I’m leaning over her, shoving the transmission into park and turning off the engine before I realize that I’m crowding her, that I might be scaring her.
“Fuck, Ky. I’m sorry,” I say, maneuvering out and crouching.
Her hands are still clenched on the steering wheel and I’m close enough to see her throat work as she swallows. “I-it’s okay,” she whispers. “Thanks.”
