What was Coach thinking? The entire time I’ve been an Emerald, he’s drilled teamwork into our heads. We don’t have star players. We have a star team. While I tend to get passed the puck a lot, it’s because I score the most often when I take a shot. All those years of target practice with Hunter when we were kids have paid off big time. We’d pick a spot or set up a can, and I had to hit it off with a field hockey ball and my stick, and he had to knock it down with the football.
Cohen ignores an open teammate with a clear shot on the screen in front of me, opting instead to take the shot himself. He lights the lamp, which is impressive given his angle and the number of defenders in the way. But that’s not Coach’s style of play at all. Let’s hope he has a plan to kick Cohen’s ass into shape. Otherwise we’ll be worse off than we were before the trade.
Glancing at the clock, I realize it’s getting late, at least for me, and there’s still no sign of Hailey. Part of me wants to check on her, but I don’t want to risk waking her up by opening her door. Also, that might be creepy.
Instead, I fish a pad of sticky notes out of my desk and scribble a note letting her know to help herself to any of the food and telling her what time I usually wake up. That way, if she wakes up at two in the morning starving, she knows she can have whatever she wants.
Then I take myself to bed, my dreams full of Hailey and new teammates and the feeling that I’m chasing something I can never quite reach.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Hailey
I wakeup still in the clothes I flew here in—leggings and an oversized T-shirt—my mouth sticky and tasting awful. The sun filters through the cream colored curtains covering the window. I’m gonna have to get some light blocking curtains if I’m going to live here. My head aches, and my sinuses feel full of lead. The tickle I felt in my throat last night now has me coughing repeatedly.
And I have to peereallybad. And even if I can’t stop coughing, Ihave tobrush my teeth, because god, my mouth is gross.
What did I have last night?
Oh, right. Nothing. I passed out on the bed. Which is why I’m still wearing yesterday’s clothes. There’s a fuzzy gray blanket covering me, and I sit up, clutching my head until the room stops sloshing around, furrowing my brow as I examine the blanket.
I remember unpacking. And I remember trying to decide what to do next. Then I sat down and looked at my phone, wondering if I should text my parents that I’m in Seattle.Instead, I texted a couple of friends that I made it safely. Then I lay down, more out of instinct than from a conscious decision. And that’s the last thing I remember.
This gray blanket wasn’t here, which means Jason must’ve come in and put it on me since I was sleeping on top of the quilt on the bed.
That’s really sweet, actually.
Another coughing fit takes hold, and I lurch to my feet, the room seeming to lurch too. I steady myself on the desk, then the wall, grappling with the doorknob because if I don’t get to the bathroomnow,I’m going to pee my pants. And as sweet and caring as Jason is, I don’t want to have to deal with that level of cleanup or explanation in my first twenty-four hours at his house.
I make it to the toilet and nearly sigh in relief, but it’s hijacked by more coughing. Jesus Christ, what iswrongwith me? I mean, I know I barely slept before I left and spent the day on a plane, but surely that can’t be responsible forthis. I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.
I had a little bit of a cold last week, but I thought I was getting better. It was really just a runny nose. Then I was congested. But not likethis. This is so much worse. It doesn’t seem like one night of poor sleep and an airplane trip should make me feel this terrible.
Groaning, I finish in the bathroom, slurping water from my hand and then blowing my nose before grabbing the small box of tissues from the corner of the vanity to take to my room with me. I didn’t notice any in there before. If there are some, oh well. The way I feel, I’ll likely get through this box in no time, so it’ll just save me the trouble of having to get more later.
I drag myself back across the hall—the room feels more stable and less like trying to walk across a moving Tilt-A-Whirl—and stand in front of the bed. My mouth still feels gross, but notasbad since I drank some water. Do I brush my teeth?
Another coughing fit has me shaking my head. I’ll do that later. I pluck at my shirt, wrinkling my nose. I don’t want to stay in these clothes any longer.
I flip open my suitcase and stare blankly at the empty interior before remembering I unpacked everything. I pull out clean undies, a T-shirt, and a pair of soft sleep shorts to change into, groaning with relief at getting my bra off.
It takes me a few tries and some whimpering to get the quilt and sheet pulled back on the bed—it’s tucked in tight. Does Jason moonlight as a drill sergeant and need to keep his bed-making skills in top shape? But I finally manage to get them back and climb back in, sighing at the feeling of the cool, clean sheets on my skin. And then I start shivering almost immediately. Dammit, why do these sheets feel so cold?
I was warm a minute ago. Changing into shorts was supposed to be good. Pulling the quilt and the fuzzy blanket up under my chin, I curl into a ball and squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself to feel warm again as I shiver a few times. Soon the blankets start doing their job, and I relax a little, blinking my eyes open and coughing some more. I’m still chilly, but not shivering at least.
Reaching for my phone, I check the time. It’s a little after seven, which means it’s … a little after nine in Wisconsin.
I don’t know what time it was when I fell asleep last night, but I have to have been in bed for at least twelve hours, maybe longer. Why am I still so exhausted? How did I go from feeling tired but okay tothisin one night? Like, how is that even possible?
A few minutes after I climb into bed, there’s a soft knock at the door. “Come in,” I croak. Clearing my throat just produces another coughing fit, which prevents me from trying again.
Jason pokes his head in, concern knitting his brows together. “You sound awful.”
“I feel awful.” My voice is slightly less croaky, but that’s the best that can be said about it.
He frowns. “I’m sorry. What a sucky way to start off a new adventure. I was going to go for a run, but do you need anything before I go? You didn’t eat dinner, so you must be hungry. I can make you some eggs and toast really quick. And get you some water. Or juice? I don’t have any on hand, but I can have some delivered.”
“Water would be great, and, uh …” Looking him over, he’s clearly ready to leave for his run right now. He has on athletic shorts and a Seattle Emeralds T-shirt with his phone strapped to his right bicep. Now that he mentions food, Iamhungry, which I’m taking as a good sign considering how I feel otherwise. Eggs and toast sound good, but I don’t want to put him out.
