“Chill the fuck out!”
“Jesus. Get a medic.”
“Fuck that, get a stun gun.”
I fight it, I fight it all. Until something heavy connects with the back of my head, and everything goes quiet and blissfully cold.
Chapter four
BECKETT
Myhandsareshakingas I shift into park. I shouldn’t have driven home. But I just had to get out of there.
Coach screaming at me. Team doc trying to force me into an exam. Julius and Grady getting up in my face. I had blown them all off, hit the shower, and hid out in the back of the bus. Which made me the last one on the plane. I armored myself in headphones and an eye mask, hoping everyone would leave me alone.
It mostly worked.
We won. Kane sank the puck I shot down the ice with two seconds to spare. So spirits were high. The doc pestered me a few times but gave up.
When we landed, I should have called for an Uber. This wasn’t my first concussion. And it wouldn’t be my last. Even the short twenty-minute drive was a dumb idea.
I bang my head against the headrest and immediately regret it. It’s like someone is shoving ice daggers in my head. If I move too fast, I’m nauseous.
I look up at the house. Liam always leaves the porch light on when one of us isn’t home. They’re probably in bed by now. The flight was only an hour, but it takes so damn long to get everyone on the plane. I shut the driver’s door as quietly as I can to keep the sound waves from bouncing around my skull. My shoulder screams as I heft my gear bag. I grit my teeth, grab my overnight bag, and focus on not stumbling up the porch stairs.
The house smells wonderful. It always does. Liam’s caramelly oak scent is the strongest here. We’ve always joked that Pierce smells like clean laundry, even when he’s nasty from twelve hours at the gym. You wouldn’t think that goes with my cinnamon, but it does somehow. That’s how our pack has always felt. Mismatched in the best possible way.
They’re still up. I can hear them in the kitchen. A “fuck you” rings out. Hard to tell if that’s one of Pierce’s affectionate and joking “fuck you’s” or a pissed-off one, because he only has those two operating modes. I drop my bags by the door as my stomach growls. I skipped post-game refueling.
I rub my middle. That could be part of the pounding headache. You burn a lot of calories on the ice.
Liam’s voice slices through the air as he says, “You have to take this seriously.”
“I am taking it seriously. I’m just not going to get all emotional about it.” Pierce is defensive. I can hear it in his voice.
“We have to tell him.”
“The fuck we do.”
“Tell me what?” I turn around the corner and interrupt their little party. Liam is pacing by the stove, and Pierce is sitting on the counter, legs dangling.
“Hey,” he says, jumping off and coming right at me. “You ok?”
“Yeah, fine. What are you not telling me?”
He grabs my face with both his hands and runs a thumb over my split lip. It’s affectionate, sure, but he’s also checking to see if my pupils are dilated. His grimace tells me he doesn’t like what he sees.
“That was some fight,” he says and kisses me. I wince because my lip stings, but the pounding in my head backs all the way off.
“You watched the game?”
“Of course we watched the game,” Liam says, sliding next to me too, rubbing my back. “You want food?”
I don’t have to respond because he’ll make food, anyway. Liam’s love language is snacks.
“That asshole Bugrov was dogging your ass all third period. What’s his deal?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. Bugrov wasn’t the problem. I was.
