I wait a few seconds, holding my breath and hoping to see those three little chat bubbles that’ll tell me she’s typing out a reply.
Nope. No bubbles. No reply.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, already pulling on my clothes over my still-sweaty compression gear.
I don’t bother with a shower or any of my usual post-game routine. I just grab my bag and head for the door.
“Grant, wait—” someone calls behind me, but I’m not stopping.
I need to get home so I can see Heather and April with my own eyes. I have to know they’re okay.
The arena hallways are still crowded with staff and lingering fans, but I push through them without stopping. My truck is parked in the players’ lot, and I make it there in record time, then peel out of the parking lot.
The drive feels endless. Every red light is torture. Every car in front of me is moving too slow. I try calling Heather again, then again, but it goes straight to voicemail every time.
“Heather, it’s me. I’m on my way home right now. Please call me back. Please just let me know you’re alright.”
My mind races through possibilities, each one worse than the last. An accident. An emergency. Something with April. Something with work.
But none of those explanations feel right.
I try calling one more time as I turn onto my street. Still nothing.
My house comes into view, and the first thing I see is Heather’s car in the driveway.
Relief hits me so hard I almost have to pull over. She’s here. She’s home. She’s alive.
But then the relief flips to something darker and more urgent.
Her car is here. That’s all I know for sure so far. If she was okay, she would’ve—but no. Fuck that. I’m not letting my brain go there, even though I haven’t been able to come up with a better excuse all night.
I park behind her car and practically throw myself out of the truck, leaving my bag behind as I run for the front door.
It’s unlocked.
I push it open, and the sight that greets me makes my heart stop.
Heather is in the living room, frantically throwing clothes into a suitcase. April’s backpack is on the couch, already stuffedfull. There are bags and boxes scattered everywhere, like she’s been packing in a panic.
“Heather.”
She doesn’t respond or even look up to acknowledge I’m here. She just keeps moving, grabbing things from around the room and shoving them into bags with shaking hands.
“Heather,” I say again, louder this time as I take a step into the room.
Still nothing. She’s either deliberately ignoring me, or lost in whatever panic has taken hold in her mind.
I watch her for several long seconds, trying and failing to make sense of what I’m seeing in my own living room.
And then I spot it.
There’s a bruise on her upper arm. It’s dark and ugly, in the shape of fingers.
Someone grabbed her. Someone hurt her.
A wave of protective fury crashes over me so intense it makes my vision narrow. My hands clench into fists at my sides, and every muscle in my body contracts with the need to do something. To fix this. To find whoever did this and make sure they never touch her again.
“What the hell happened?” The words come out low and controlled, but barely. I’m holding on to my composure by a thread.
