by Elle Kennedy
“You’ll what?” another player jeers. “Beat us down? Go ahead and try, buddy. Not even a bruiser like you can take on five dudes at once.”
“Unless it’s in the ass,” someone pipes up. “I bet he likes it up the ass.”
The other players snicker loudly, but Logan is unfazed. He flashes a pleasant smile and says, “As tempting as it is to beat the shit out of you—all of you—I think I’d rather stay out of jail tonight. But I’m happy to knock on every goddamn door in this place until I find Coach Harrison’s room, and then I’m going to blow the whistle on this little sausage party you’re having and let him deal with you.”
Keswick is smug. “He’ll probably join us. Coach doesn’t give a shit if we get wasted after a game.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m sure he’ll give a shit about what you’re shoving up your nose.”
Logan takes a step forward, and I instinctively tense, expecting him to throw a punch. But what he does is tap Keswick on the side of his nose. Drawing my attention to the white specks that are caked under Keswick’s nostrils.
Logan bares his teeth in a harsh smile. “Your coke is showing, asshole. Now get the fuck out of my way. Stay out here, Grace.”
He charges into the room, and I’m left outside, forced into a stare-down with four very pissed off hockey players. Who, apparently, are all hopped up on cocaine. Panic scampers up and down my spine, fast and incessant, and it doesn’t ease until Logan reappears less than a minute later.
To my overwhelming relief, Ramona is at his side. Her cheeks are whiter than the coke on Keswick’s face, her eyes redder than the bus parked behind us, and she runs into my arms the moment she sees me.
“Oh my God,” she whimpers, squeezing me to the point of suffocation. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“It’s okay. You’re okay now.” I gently stroke her hair. “Come on, let’s go.”
I try to lead her away, but she halts, her desperate eyes shooting toward the doorway. “My phone,” she stammers. “He took it.”
She points at the player Logan referred to as Gordon, and a growl rips out of Logan’s mouth as he charges back to the door. “You took her goddamn phone? Why? So she wouldn’t be able to call for help while you motherfuckers gangbanged her?”
I’ve never seen Logan this enraged. His blue eyes are wild, his broad shoulders trembling. “Give me the phone. Now.”
The assholes at the door do a little shuffling around before one of them finally pulls Ramona’s iPhone from his back pocket. He hurls it at Logan with lightning speed, but my boyfriend has quick reflexes, and he catches the plastic case before it slaps him in the face.
“Get in the car,” he tells us without turning around.
I’m apprehensive to leave him, but Ramona is shaking like crazy, so I force myself to walk away. I keep my gaze fixed on the motel room the entire time, watching as Logan moves in closer and hisses something I can’t make out. Whatever it is, it causes every St. Anthony’s player to glare bloody murder at him, but none of them act on their volatile impulses. They simply stalk back inside and slam the door behind them.
I slide onto the middle seat of the pickup and Ramona settles in beside me, pressing her cheek against my shoulder. “I was so scared,” she moans. “They wouldn’t let me go home.”
I force her to buckle up, then wrap my arm around her shoulders. “Did they hurt you?” I ask quietly. “Force you…?”
She fervently shakes her head. “No. I swear. I was only there for about an hour, and they were too busy snorting coke and drinking vodka straight from the bottle. It wasn’t until right before I called you that they started pawing at me and trying to convince me to strip for them. And when I told them I wanted to leave, they locked the door and wouldn’t let me out.”
Disapproval hardens my jaw. “God, Ramona. What were you even doing with these guys? Why would you agree to hang out with them on your own?”
Another sob flies out of her mouth. “I wasn’t supposed to be on my own. Jess and I ran into them after the game and they invited us to the motel, but Jess had to meet up with her dealer first, so she gave me some cab money and said she’d meet me there. But five minutes after I got here, she texted to say she wasn’t coming.”
My upper arm feels wet, and I realize Ramona’s tears have soaked through my sleeve.
“She bailed on me and left me alone with them. What kind of friend does that?”
A selfish one.
I bite my tongue and rub her shoulder, and a part of me can’t help but feel responsible for what happened to her tonight. I know it’s stupid to think that, but I also know I could’ve prevented this if I’d been more of a presence in her life. Ramona and I had a…balance, I guess. She encouraged me to be impulsive and stop second-guessing myself, and I encouraged her to not be impulsive and start second-guessing herself.
I force myself to banish the guilt. No. I refuse to take responsibility for this near-catastrophe. Ramona is an adult. She made the decision to party with those guys, and she’s fucking lucky that I still feel some shred of loyalty toward her and came to her rescue.
That last thought gives me pause, as it suddenly occurs to me that what I did tonight is the same thing I’ve been criticizing Logan for doing—helping someone who might not deserve it. Allowing years of history and lingering loyalty to drive me to do something I didn’t necessarily want to do, but felt I had to.
I jerk when the driver’s door flings open, but it’s Logan, sliding behind the wheel with a stony look. When he addresses Ramona, however, his tone is infinitely gentle. “Are you okay? They didn’t hurt you?”
“No,” she says weakly. “I’m fine.” She lifts her head, and the look she gives us is swimming with shame. “Thank you for coming to get me. I’m sorry if I ruined your evening.”
“You’re welcome,” Logan answers. “And don’t you fucking worry about our evening, Ramona. The only thing that matters right now is that we got you out of there before shit got out of hand.”
His gruff words circle my heart and fill it with warmth. God, I love this guy. I know his opinion of Ramona isn’t exactly positive, but he still came to her aid tonight in spite of that, and I love him even more for it.
I’m tempted to lean in and whisper it in his ear. Just tell him how much I love him, but courage eludes me.
Truth is, I’m waiting for him to say it first. I don’t know, maybe it’s leftover insecurities from what happened in April. Logan rejected me, and I’m so afraid of it happening again. I’m afraid of being vulnerable, giving him my heart, only to have him throw it back in my face.
So I stay quiet. So do Ramona and Logan, and the drive back to campus is a silent one.
32
Logan
Three days before our first game, the team finally clicks. It’s like someone flicked a switch from oh-God-we-suck to we-might-have-a-chance. I still don’t think we’re one hundred percent there yet, but we’ve shown improvement during our practices this week, and Coach isn’t yelling at us as often, so…progress.
Since midterms are in full swing, Grace and I haven’t seen each other in a few days, but we’re taking a break from studying to have dinner with her dad tonight. And because I had practice, she cabbed it to Hastings with Ramona, who’s visiting her own parents. I’m still not sure how I feel about them rekindling their friendship, but Grace keeps insisting that she won’t let Ramona get too close again, and I guess I have to accept that. Besides, after Friday night’s sexual-assault-waiting-to-happen, I’m feeling a lot more sympathy toward Ramona. Not to mention a lot more rage toward St. Anthony’s.
Did I mention we’re facing them in the season opener? Coach isn’t gonna like it, but I’m fairly certain I’ll be spending a lot of time in the sin bin that night.
I check my phone as I leave the arena. There’s a message from Grace, saying she got to her dad’s okay.
And a message from Jeff, asking me to call him ASAP.
Shit.
Jeff doesn’t usu
ally throw around ASAPs unless it’s serious, so I don’t waste time calling him back. It takes five rings before he answers, and when he does, he sounds agitated.
“Where the hell have you been the last hour?” he demands.
“Practice. Coach doesn’t let us bring our phones on the ice. What’s up?”
“I need you to go home and check on Dad.”
“Why?” I say uneasily.
“Because I’m at the hospital with Kylie, and I can’t fucking do it myself.”
“The hospital? What happened? Is she okay?”
“She sliced her hand open making dinner.” Jeff sounds panicked. “The ER doctor said it’s not as bad as it looks—she’ll just need some stitches. But Jesus, I’ve never seen so much blood, Johnny. They took her in now, so I’m out in the waiting room pacing like a crazy person.”
“She’ll be okay,” I assure him. “Trust the doctors, all right?” But I know Jeff won’t relax until he and Kylie are walking out of that emergency room. The two of them have been madly in love since they were fifteen years old.
“What does this have to do with Dad?” I ask.
“I was over at Kylie’s, and he called when we were leaving for the ER. He was slurring and mumbling and, I don’t know, he might have fallen down? I couldn’t understand a fucking word he was saying, and I’m only one fucking person, John. I can’t deal with two emergencies at once, okay? So please, just go home and make sure he’s all right.”
Reluctance jams in my throat like a wad of gum. Christ. I don’t want to do that. At all. Except there’s no way I can pick a fight with Jeff right now, not when he’s freaking out about his girlfriend being in the hospital.
“I’ll take care of it,” I say roughly.
“Thanks.” Jeff hangs up without another word.
With a ragged breath, I text Grace to let her know I might be late for dinner, then head for the parking lot.
I tap my fingers on the steering wheel during the entire drive to Munsen. Dread gathers inside me, growing and tangling in my gut until it becomes a tight knot that brings a rush of nausea to my throat. I don’t remember the last time I had to clean up one of my dad’s messes. High school, I guess. Once I left for Briar, Jeff became the sole cleaner-upper.
I kill the engine outside the bungalow and approach the front porch the way those paranormal experts in that shitty movie approached the ghost house. Wary, slow with trepidation.
Please let him be alive and well.
Yup, for all my selfish prayers about wanting my father to die, I can’t stomach the thought of walking into the house and finding his body.
I use my key to unlock the door, then step into the darkened front hall. “Dad?” I call out.
No answer.
Please let him be alive and well.
I inch toward the living room, my heart racing a mile a minute.
Please let him be—
Oh, thank Christ. He’s alive.
But he’s not well. Not by a longshot.
My chest clenches so hard I’m surprised I don’t crack a rib or two. Dad is sprawled on the carpet, face down and shirtless, his cheek resting in a pool of vomit. One arm is flung out to the side, the other is tucked close to him—cradling a fucking bottle of bourbon like it’s a newborn baby. Jesus, had he tried to protect his precious alcohol during his drunken tumble to the ground?
I feel nothing as I take in the pitiful scene in front of me. An acrid odor floats toward me. I wrinkle my nose, almost gag when I realize it’s urine. Urine and alcohol, the fragrance of my childhood.
A part of me wants to turn on my heel and walk away. Walk away and not look back.
Instead, I shrug out of my jacket, toss it on the armchair, and carefully approach my passed-out father. “Dad.”
He stirs, but doesn’t answer.
“Dad.”
An agonized moan ripples from his throat. Christ, his pants are soaked with piss. And bourbon leaks from the bottle, staining the beige carpet.
“Dad, I need to check if anything’s broken.” I run my hands over his body, starting from his feet and moving upward, making sure he didn’t break any bones when he fell.
My examination jolts him out of his haze. His eyelids pop open, revealing dilated pupils and a forlorn look that fractures a piece of my aching heart, the part of me that remembers idolizing him as a kid.
He groans in panic. “Where’s your mother? Don’t want ’er to see me like this.”
Crack. There goes another shard of my heart. At this rate, my chest will be a hollow cavern by the time I leave here.
“She’s not home,” I assure him. Then I snake my hands under his armpits so I can prop him into a sitting position.
He looks dazed. I honestly don’t think he knows where he is or who I am. “She went grocery shopping?” he slurs.
“Yeah,” I lie. “She won’t be home for hours. Plenty of time to get you cleaned up, okay?”
He’s swaying like crazy, and he’s not even on his feet. The combined stench of vomit, alcohol and piss makes my eyes water. Or maybe that’s not why they’re watering. Maybe I’m on the verge of tears because I’m about to haul my own father in a fireman hold and help him take a shower. And then I’m going to dress him as if he’s a goddamn toddler and tuck him into bed. Maybe that’s why my eyes are stinging.
“Don’t tell ’er about this, Jeffy. She’s gonna be so mad at me. Don’t want ’er to be mad at me. Don’t wanna wake up Johnny…” He starts mumbling incoherently.
It’s hard to breathe as I lift the stinking, blubbering mess that is my father into my arms and carry him to the bathroom at the end of the hall. Only one thought runs through my head.
My brother is a saint.
He’s a goddamn saint.
He’s been doing this, day in and day out, since I left for Briar. He’s been mopping up my dad’s vomit, and running the shop, and taking care of shit without a single complaint.
God, what is wrong with me? Fuck the NHL. Jeff deserves the chance to get out for a while. To travel with his girlfriend and live a normal life that doesn’t involve stripping his own father naked and lifting him into the shower.
My lungs are burning now, because cold reality has sunk in. Jesus Christ. This is my future. In less than a year, this will be my full-time job.
I’ve never had a panic attack before. I’m not sure what they involve. Out-of-control heartbeat—is that a symptom? Cold, clammy hands that won’t stop shaking? A windpipe that won’t let a single burst of air through? Because all those things are happening to me right now, and it’s scaring the shit out of me.
“Johnny?” Dad blinks as the hot water sprays his head, plastering his dark hair to his forehead. “When’d ya get here?” He staggers in the tiled stall, his gaze darting in all directions. “Lemme get you a beer. Have a beer with your old man.”
I almost throw up.
Okay, yeah. I think I might be having a panic attack.
I’m three hours late to pick up Grace.
My phone died when I was in Munsen, and I don’t have her number memorized because it’s stored in my phone, so I couldn’t even call her from the landline to let her know I’d be late.
My panic has subsided. Somewhat. Or maybe I’ve gone numb. All I know is that I need to see my girlfriend. I need to hold her and draw warmth from her body, because goddamn, I feel like a block of ice right now.
The porch light is on when I park in her father’s driveway, but the yellow glow just ignites a spark of guilt. It’s past ten o’clock. I’m so fucking late, and she’s had to wait around for hours.
Practice, a cynical voice taunts. For all the times she’ll have to do it next year.
My lungs seize. Jesus. It’s true. How many times will something like this happen once I’m in Munsen full-time? How many plans will I be late for or have to cancel altogether?
How long before she dumps my ass for it?
I push aside the fearful notion as I ring the bell. Grace’s dad answers
the door, a frown puckering his mouth when he sees me.
“Hi.” My voice is hoarse, lined with regret. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to dinner, sir. I would’ve called, but my phone died and I…” No. No way am I telling him what I was forced to endure tonight. “Anyway, I’m here to take Grace back to campus.”
“She already left,” Mr. Ivers says ruefully. “Ramona’s mother drove them back.”
Disappointment crashes into me. “Oh.”
“Gracie waited as long as she could for you…” Another frown, a clear rebuke. “But she needed to go home and study.”
Shame funnels down my throat. Of course she waited. And of course she left.
“Ah…okay.” I swallow. “I guess I’ll head home then.”
Before I can go, Mr. Ivers asks, “What’s going on, John?”
The ache in my chest gets worse. “Nothing. It’s nothing, sir. I, uh…had a family emergency.”
He looks concerned. “Is everything all right?”
I nod.
Then I shake my head.
Then I nod again.
Christ, make up your fucking mind.
“Everything’s fine,” I lie.
“No, it’s not. You’re white as a sheet. And you look exhausted.” He softens his tone. “Tell me what’s wrong, son. Maybe I can help.”
My face collapses. Oh shit. Oh fuck, why’d he have to call me son? The sting in my eyes is unbearable. My throat squeezes shut.
I need to get out of here.
“Why don’t you come in?” he urges. “We’ll sit down. I’ll make some coffee.” A wry smile lifts his lips. “I’d offer you something stronger, but you’re still a minor, and I have a strict rule about giving alcohol to—”
I lose it.
I just. Fucking. Lose it.
Yup, I bawl like an honest-to-God baby, right there in front of Grace’s father.
He freezes.
Only for a moment, and then he springs forward and puts his arms around me. He traps me in a hug I can’t escape from, a solid wall of comfort I find myself sagging into. I’m so goddamn embarrassed, but I can’t fight the tears anymore. I held them back in Munsen, but the panic is back, and so is the fear, and Grace’s father called me son, and holy hell, I’m a mess.