"Accident." The word came out thick, my tongue not working right. Blood pooled in my mouth where I'd bitten the inside of my cheek. "Lake Chambeau Road, about two miles past the exit. Horse trailer. The horses…" My voice cracked. "The horses are injured. Please send help. Send everyone."
"Sir, I need you to stay calm. Are you injured?"
"I'm fine. The horses, you need to send a vet. Multiple horses. They're…"My stomach lurched. "Please, they need help now."
"Help is on the way, sir. Can you tell me your name?"
My name. Right. Because this would be on record. By tomorrow morning, everyone would know that Easton Henley, Shadow Wolves’ captain, had destroyed a man's livelihood in a fit of rage.
"Easton Henley."
A pause. Brief, but telling. "Mr. Henley, I need you to stay on the line. Are there any other injuries? Is the driver of the other vehicle hurt?"
The driver had disappeared inside the trailer, his voice low and soothing as he tried to calm the thrashing horses. Thesounds coming from inside would echo in my nightmares for years.
"He's physically okay. But his horses—" I couldn't finish the sentence. What could I say?
"Emergency services are three minutes out, Mr. Henley. I need you to move to a safe location away from the vehicles."
But I couldn't move. I couldn't look away from the carnage I'd caused. My legs had locked, feet rooted to the dark asphalt.
"Mr. Henley? Can you hear me?"
"Yeah. I'm here."
"I need you to move away from the accident site. Can you do that for me?"
Move. Right. I forced my legs to work, stumbling back toward the shoulder of the road. My BMW sat crumpled in the ditch, one headlight still burning, casting grotesque shadows across the scene. Steam hissed from the crushed hood. The airbag hung deflated from the steering wheel like a funeral shroud.
Coach Martin's words from earlier echoed in my head.You're a liability, Henley.
He'd been right. He'd been so fucking right.
Red and blue lights appeared in the distance, growing brighter as they approached. The first siren split the night. Then an ambulance, its lights painting the trees in alternating crimson and white. Then, a large truck with veterinary equipment stenciled on the side.
"They're here," I told the operator, my voice hollow.
"Good. Stay where you are and cooperate with the officers. And Mr. Henley? Try to stay calm."
I ended the call and shoved the phone in my pocket with still-shaking hands.
The police cruiser pulled up first, lights still flashing. Officer Benji Branson stepped out of the vehicle, his hand resting on his holster. I recognized him from the recreational hockey team intown. His hand, still close to his weapon, slowly relaxed as he inspected me; bloodied and swaying on my feet.
"Sir, are you injured?" When his flashlight beam hit my face, I flinched. "That's a lot of blood."
"It's nothing. The horses—"
"The vet's taking care of them now. I need you to sit down before you fall down." He guided me to the back of his cruiser, his grip firm but not rough. Professional. "Paramedics are going to check you out."
Two paramedics jumped out of the ambulance. The vet's truck was right behind them, and a woman in her fifties emerged, already moving toward the trailer with purpose. She had a medical bag in one hand and a sense of urgency that made my chest tighten.
"I don't need medical attention."
"It's not optional." He pulled out a notebook. "Can you tell me what happened here?"
What happened?
Such a simple question for such a catastrophic answer.
