Maybe Iamoverreacting. Maybe Heather just decided to stay home tonight and forgot to tell me. It wouldn’t be the end of the world.
Except she wouldn’t forget. She knows how much it means to me having them here. And if she knew she wasn’t going to make it, she would’ve sent me a text, at the very least.
A shot comes my way and I deflect it. Then another, and I knock it away with my pad. The opposing team is pressing hard now, no doubt picking up on the fact that I’m off my game.
“Tighten up out there!” Dunaway yells from the bench.
I’m trying. Dammit, I’m trying.
But my eyes drift back to those empty seats where Heather and April should be every time I have a moment to myself.
By the time the buzzer finally sounds to end the second period, the score is tied. We’ve given up our lead, and I know it’s at least partially my fault.
In the locker room, Dunaway doesn’t call me out directly, but I can feel the weight of his stare along with the concern from my teammates.
“We need to wake up out there,” he says, his voice sharp. “Third period, we come out strong. We take control. Parker—” He looks at me. “I need you sharp. Whatever’s going on in your head, you need to let it go until you hear that final buzzer. Can you do that?”
“Yes, Coach.”
It’s not entirely a lie. I can push through. I’ve played through worse—through injuries, through exhaustion, through grief.
I can play through this gnawing worry in my gut, but that doesn’t mean it’s going away.
The third period crawls by. Every second feels like an hour. I make save after save, running on pure instinct and muscle memory. We score with five minutes left, and the energy in the arena changes as a few thousand Aces fans start to get excited again.
We’re going to win, and I should probably care more about that than I do.
The final buzzer sounds, and I let out a breath. I’m not even relieved that we won, just that it’s finally over.
I go through the post-game handshakes on autopilot, barely registering the congratulations from my teammates or the disappointed looks from the other team. All I can think about is getting off this ice and figuring out what the hell is going on.
“Good game, Parker,” Theo says as we skate toward the tunnel, but there’s a question in his voice. He knows something was off tonight.
“Yeah,” is all I manage.
In the locker room, I strip off my gear faster than I ever have before. Chest protector, leg pads, skates—everything gets thrown into my bag with none of my usual care or organization.
“Parker, are you okay?” Noah asks from across the room.
“I’m fine. Just need to make a call.”
I grab my phone from my locker, and my stomach drops when I see the screen.
Still nothing.
I pull up Heather’s number and hit call, pressing the phone to my ear as I continue stripping off my gear.
Straight to voicemail.
I try again.
Voicemail again.
My hands start to shake as I send a text.
ME: Where are you? Are you okay?
ME: Please call me.
