I rake both hands through my hair. My fingers are shaking wildly. I’m geared up in my lower pads, hockey pants, and socks. But up top I’m in a wife-beater. My shoulder and elbow pads spill haphazardly out of my locker. My chest protector is on the bench.
Swallowing hard, I sweep my gaze around the room. I’m about to break every rule in the captain’s handbook.
I wanted to be a good captain. I wanted to put the team first, support my guys, be patient with them, follow all the rules I’ve been compiling since the season started. I promised myself I wouldn’t let girls interfere with hockey, and now I’m about to throw the rulebook out the window…for a girl.
But there is literally no other choice here for me. Guys like Garrett, Dean, Logan—I think they’d understand. I think they’d never put sports ahead of their women. So if my team hates me, so be it. All I know is, if Demi’s in trouble, then she comes first.
“Guys.” My voice is rough. “I’m sorry. I can’t play tonight.”
Nobody utters a word.
Guilt spirals through me and forms a tight pretzel in the pit of my stomach. “Trust me,” I continue desperately, “I don’t want to miss this game, but even if I went out there right now and played, I would only be a detriment to you. My head isn’t here, it’s with Demi. I won’t be able to concentrate until I know she’s safe and—”
“She just climbed onto the ledge,” Matt blurts out, his eyes glued to his phone screen.
Dr. Davis freezes in the doorway. I’m sure the sheer terror in his eyes reflects my own.
“She did what?” I demand. “What’s happening now?”
“I dunno. This tweet just says there’s now two people up on the ledge. No other deets.”
My heart pounds so fast I feel faint. I suck in an unsteady breath, then scrub my hand through my hair again. I want to tear it out. “I’m sorry,” I tell my team. “I need to go.”
“Dude, why the fuck are you sorry?” Matt demands.
“And why the fuck are you still here?” drawls Conor. The lazy tone is belied by the serious glint in his eyes.
I wearily glance at Coach, who offers a brisk nod. Then I snatch my sneakers off the floor and race out of the locker room.
“This is it,” I announce five minutes later, concern and impatience warring inside me. “The lot entrance is up there on the right.”
But when we try to turn into the parking lot, we find the Hastings police sectioned it off. Across the lot, I spot an ambulance and three police cruisers, along with two campus security cars.
I curse in frustration. “Just stop here on the side of the road. If you get towed, I’ll just give you my car, okay?”
He’s as impatient as I am as we dive out of his BMW. The winter chill slaps me in the face, same way it did when we’d barrelled out of the arena. It’s freezing out. Yet it’s not the temperature that’s making my bones ache. It’s fear. Pure, paralyzing terror.
When I gaze up at the roof of Bristol House, a hiss of horror flies out. “Jesus.”
“Oh my God,” Dr. Davis says at the same time. He lets out a tortured moan, and when I look over he’s covering his eyes with the back of his hand, as if he can’t bear to look again. Then his arm drops limply and he gives a determined nod. “Let’s go.”
We hurry forward, but the police roped off the scene. The scene. Christ, I’m already viewing this as the scene of a crime. Or rather, a potentially devastating accident.
I stare up again, my throat tightening to the point of asphyxiation. Although Demi’s dark hair is blowing in the wind, she stands as motionless as a statue. She’s in a red sweater and black leggings, and she looks so small and vulnerable up there. I wish I could hear her voice or see her eyes.
Beside her, TJ is in a T-shirt and sweats, his skinny arms planted firmly at his sides.
They’re talking. I don’t know what they’re saying. I don’t care what they’re saying. I want to go up there and pull that little asshole off the ledge—and then throw him the fuck over it for endangering Demi’s life.
I force myself to take a breath. Then I notice that Demi’s father is about to hurl himself over the blockade, despite the protests of the young officer who’s attempting to stop him.
“You can’t go beyond this point, sir!”
My gaze flies toward the cop’s face. I know that guy. What was his name again? Alberts? Albertson!
“That’s his daughter,” I explain, stepping between the two males. Albertson’s eyes widen when he recognizes me. “And she’s my girlfriend. You know her, Albertson—she was the one in the holding cell with me.”