That’s when Jared started to scream. I looked where he was looking. Blood. A trail of it.
I walked past the cop and followed that trail of blood right up to the counter. And then, I looked to my left, where Dad was being attended to by EMTs.
“Fuck, no. Dad.” Jared rushed over and tried to take his hand.
“He’s lost a lot of blood,” one of the EMTs said. “He’s unconscious.”
“We need to get him into the ambulance,” the other one said as they carefully lifted Dad onto a gurney.
Liam had me by the arm. “We’ll follow them to the hospital.”
We spent hours at the hospital. It was after two when the surgeon came out to the waiting room to talk to the four of us.
“I’m sorry,” he said, that same look of pity in his eyes that the cop had. “We did everything we could. He’s gone.”
And in that moment, a part of all of us was gone also.
CHAPTERSIXTEEN
Winter
Hunter’s been acting distant.
When he first landed in New York, he was sweet and caring in our text exchanges, a conversation that he initiated. I didn’t necessarily expect to hear from him so soon, but I so appreciated him reaching out.
But other than a brief, “Goodnight, Princess” after the New Orleans Fire crush New York, I don’t hear from him again.
He’s been eerily radio silent.
I text him a quick “congrats” after each win, and he either sends back a thumbs-up emoji or a “Thanks, Winter” with nothing else attached.
I waffle between fearing that something’s wrong to thinking he’s just taking his space and enjoying the time away with the guys.
Whatever’s going on, it’s not hurting his performance on the ice. The way he’s playing is, for lack of a better word, a match to his team name—Fire.
Hunter’s been locked in during the games in a way I’ve never seen him. I didn’t watch all of his games over the years, and I don’t know a ton about ice hockey, but I know some, and I definitely know enough to recognize when a player is completely, utterly dominant.
That’s been Hunter throughout every game of this road trip.
He’s owned nearly every possession.
He’s played like his life depends on him scoring or helping someone else to score.
The last time I saw him this focused on the ice was the first game he played after his father’s funeral.
Liam also seems extra intense. The two of them look like they could be beating their opponents by themselves. If Hunter isn’t scoring, Liam is. And Hunter scores a lot.
Just one more away game—this time in Nashville tonight—and then the team flies home. I don’t know if Hunter’s arriving late tonight or tomorrow morning, and I haven’t wanted to bug him with a text.
But I’m so excited to see him it’s a bit unnerving. I’ve had Theo for company, and we’ve snuggled together for every game, and then he’s slept at the foot of my bed at night. But I’ve missed Hunter something crazy. I can’t deny it, certainly not to myself. And I find myself craving the games just so I can get a look at him. Is it nuts that I feel like I’m spending a couple of hours with him during every game? Yes, it most surely is.
Peyton and Ashley arrive at the townhouse to watch the game with me. Peyton left the morning after Hunter kissed me in public at the game to go with Scott on a visit to his parents. I used her absence as an excuse to put off Ashley whenever she tried to get me to tell her what was going on with Hunter.
I promised I’d fill her in but only when the three of us could be together.
“Okay. Let’s just get right to it, shall we?” Ashley tosses her bag on the couch and throws her hands on her hips. Her jeans fit her like a glove, and her blue silk blouse is the perfect compliment. Her auburn hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun, and she’s wearing no makeup. Ashley is the epitome of a natural beauty. As usual, she looks like she spent hours getting ready but, in reality, spent about five minutes. “Peyton’s here—check. I’m here—check. And you’re here. So spill it.”
Peyton puts down the take-out Mexican food she offered to bring and gives me a hug. “I guess I missed some things while I was away, huh?”
