Page 164 of Slapshot Bride

Kai catches my eye while I’m putting my jacket on and doesn’t try to stop me. Instead, he follows me, wordlessly offering to drive me home. I don’t object because I’m not ready for another back and forth with him.

At the door, Theo claps my shoulder. “Have a good night, man. See you next week.”

I’m supposed to be back on the ice in a week. I got Coach Brennan’s text this morning. The club is retaining me. It’s good news, but there’s one more thing I need to do.

The talk with Mason.

36

RILEY

The Longest Three Minutes

The nausea wakes me before the light does.

I’ve been queasy for three days now. Not sick, exactly. Just off.

The nausea shows up in the morning and thins out by afternoon, and it’s always accompanied by a tiredness that sleep doesn’t fix. I keep waiting for it to turn into a proper cold, a fever, something with a name, and it never does.

These past three days have been exhausting.

I’ve decided it’s the emotional stress of the week. This month—all of it. It’s the grief. The late nights I’ve forced myself through, editing photographs taken during the day, to keep my thoughts from wandering to him.

I’ve stepped out of the house once. And that one time, the paparazzi followed me everywhere. It was hell.

So, when Rachel’s texts came in last evening, the excitement that came with seeing it quickly dissipated, knowing I couldn’t step out of the house without a camera or a mic being shoved in my face.

Yes, the Preston situation has died down, but fans are beginning to have questions about Easton. Questions that remind me too much of what I’ve lost. Questions that I have no answers to.

I’m still on the bed when my phone beeps. I reach for it from the nightstand to see another text from Rachel. I forgot to respond last night.

Rachel:

So Coffee? Whenever you’re up for it. No pressure. Or, I could stop by. Just know I’m here for you, Riley.

I read it and smile.

I quickly respond.

Me:

I’d really love to have you around.

I hit send and drop the phone.

I roll onto my side, and a fresh wave of nausea hits me. I wince and press my face into the pillow.

I must've drifted off because the next time I open my eyes, bright morning sunlight is streaming through the open window.

There’s a knock on the door almost immediately, and I groan, knowing it’s my mom. She’s here for her morning ritual of trying to convince me to get out of the house and ignore the cameras.

“Riley… dear.”

She lets herself in with a tray holding dry toast and ginger tea. She sets it on the nightstand and sits on the edge of the bed. Her eyes scan my face. Her hand moves toward my face, tucking a stray strand behind my ear.

“You need to get out of this room, Riley. It’s been almost a week already.”

“I know, Mom…”