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“We’ve been waiting for a new bus for over an hour.” Brant stands at the door, ready to catch me if I fall. We’re the last ones off the bus. It’s colder than an ice bath, and the wind slaps me in the face. I trip up the steps to the new bus and welcome the heat. Lying here in the doorway seems a reasonable place to rest.
“Don’t leave without me,” Brant yells, but he’s not behind me.
I don’t care about usual seats as I flop into the first open one and snuggle into the pile of coats.
My eyes are closed for exactly two seconds before someone’s shaking me. “Mav… Mav, where’s Brant?”
I blink at a panicking O’Keefe. He’s not the type to panic.
“Let me sleep. He’s fine. He gave me his jacket to keep warm.” I roll and look at the empty seat next to me. “Where’s Brant sitting?”
“Coach,” O’Keefe booms, and runs up to the rear of the bus.
The guys’ irate faces stare at me. “Did Brant get on the bus?”
“Yeah, maybe?” My head’s fuzzy, and my heart sinks. He yelled not to leave without him, but I was so happy to find a seat, I forgot.
Coach stands up. “We’re turning around, but we need to find a safe place so the bus doesn’t get stuck. It seems we’re missing Brant and Ari Dimon.” There’s a chorus of curses, and Grayson takes charge, barking orders and clearing out seats for Brant and Mr. Dimon to lie flat when we find them. Brant being stranded is my fault, but my confused brain can’t process why our GM, Ari Dimon, is out in the snowstorm.
We can barely see out the windows; it’s snowing so hard. It takes another few minutes for the bus to pull into a plowed parking lot and turn around.
Grayson’s standing in the door well with emergency blankets unfolded. I wouldn’t be surprised if he jumped out while we are still moving.
“I see someone,” the bus driver shouts.
Every minute takes an hour as we wait for them to return. Grayson carries Brant aboard with blue lips and fingers. Mr. Dimon’s hair is frozen, and he’s mumbling that he didn’t know.
The team doctor insists we stop at the local hospital to have Brant and Mr. Dimon checked out. There, I’m given more meds and a comfy bed for a nap. My congestion clears, and the smell of antiseptic is yucky. Time gets fuzzy, and we’re at the hospital for a few hours or possibly days. O’Keefe grumbles it’s the longest day of his life, so it has to be the same day.
When the plane lands in New Jersey, it’s dark, but the sky is clear enough to see the moon. My ears are killing me, worsened by the argument between O’Keefe and King about whether they should send me home alone or take me with them.
They don’t ask my opinion.
My angel appears to save me, and I throw myself at him. “Skylar!”
King steadies us so we don’t fall over.
“Rhys Brant called me? Said Mav is in rough shape and needs a ride home?” Sky asks in a small, unsure voice.
“Perfect.” O’Keefe slaps my shoulder. “No need for us to get whatever you’ve got.”
“Where’s Brant? I’ve been waiting for hours, and no one bothered to call me when you were delayed.” Sky can’t hide his annoyance.
There’s more arguing, and Skylar agrees to take me home.
Finally, we get into a nice warm car, but he’s muttering, “Spoiled hockey players.”
“Don’t be mad at me,” I plead. “I’m so happy you found me,” I say, falling face-first into his lap, but he pushes me over. “I’m sick.”
He pats my head. “Yup, you are.”
Chapter 8
Skylar Engelhardt/ Lark Angel
Mav’s in my king bed snoring away, but at least his fever broke. It spiked again once we got home, and I had to call Grayson, their trainer, who gave me his number in case Mav got worse. Poor Mav kept mumbling in his sleep, calling out for me, asking me not to leave, and telling me he’ll be better. He’s so sick and upset; it’s heart-wrenching.
I’m an idiot for putting myself in this situation. From the arguments, someone from the team would’ve taken him home last night. It didn’t have to be me, as Brant insisted.
