Hooked: A Hockey Romance

by Abby Donne

  Work seemed to be the only positive of her week, as weird as it sounded to say. After meeting up Monday at The Seed Emma kind of dropped off the face of the planet again. Layla was determined to do her best to be there for Emma, and luckily she snagged a spare key from Emma’s junk drawer before she left Sunday, but the few times she managed to get over to her apartment Emma was either not there or sleeping. She’d wake up and hang out for a bit but she didn’t seem to be there one hundred percent. Layla was making an effort, though, and when she brought donuts and suggested they catch an episode of the tiny house show they were watching before Layla had to head to work Emma smiled so she was considering it a small victory.

  Between work, class – the awkward midterm presentation with Tyson she fumbled through, the measly two hours she was scheduled at the support center in the student union, and checking in on Emma there wasn’t a lot of time for Tyson. Which was okay, as much as she hated to say it, because he was busy with his own life. The night he did sleep over they spent a good hour talking about this scout from the Royals, his dream team, and he seemed so excited she felt obligated to be just as enthusiastic.

  Layla stayed up for hours after he fell asleep stuck in her own head trying not to cry. The reality of their relationship was always there, lurking in the background. Tyson made no pretense when they started dating about what he wanted, and she told him he didn’t have to. That was before she realized how much she enjoyed his laugh or how waking up to him felt. Before she spent time driving around listening to him poorly rap along to his favorite playlist or cuddled up under her blanket whispering about their travel bucket list. That was before she fell in love with Tyson. It was easy then to think about him leaving.

  Now the thought made her want to throw up.

  Thinking about anything other than Tyson’s future, the future that probably didn’t involve her, sounded like the best way to clear her head so she punched Wade’s name in her phone. It rang twice before going to voicemail. Typical. She tried again while she juggled her overnight bag and backpack. Emma wasn’t answering her door, also typical, but now Layla at least had a spare key. It was probably illegal but she swiped the key from Emma’s junk drawer the last time she was over. Voicemail again. This time he at least let it ring all the way through.

  Feeling a little more that determined she tried again. Her fingers wrapped around the key at the bottom of her bag just as her brother’s voice came over the line, a little clueless and a whole lot annoyed.

  “What’s up?”

  “Can I not call you to talk about you completely avoiding your family or…,”Layla said and toed the apartment door open.

  It was dark. Still. And something didn’t feel right.

  “I’m not avoiding you. I’ve been busy getting everything around for this next album release.”

  She dropped her bags and started walking through the apartment. This was wrong. Something was wrong. Layla’s chest tightened and she felt tears build up. She was afraid to call out. Afraid of the quietness she knew she’d get in response.

  “Layla?”

  “Wade,” She whispered, her voice shaking as badly as her body.

  “What’s wrong?” Maybe she didn’t answer right away – what would she have said? – because he said her name again, a little louder.

  Finding the courage to walk down the hall she admitted, “I don’t know.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Emma’s.”

  She was standing outside her bedroom. Skin goosebumped, she took half a second to get herself together. For all she knew Emma was sleeping in bed. God, she hoped she was sleeping. Layla was just being stupid. This semester was hard on her in so many different ways she was just paranoid.

  Wade’s concern faded when she opened the door. She should’ve moved faster. Dropped the phone. Done anything but just stand there and stare for what felt like forever and just a few seconds all at once. Whatever she was expecting it wasn’t this.

  Emma was in bed, but it didn’t look like she was sleeping. At all. The blanket was wadded up on the ground and she was flat on her back on the bare mattress surrounded by bile, her exposed skin translucent and her lips blue. The smell was absolutely awful; it was more than just the vomit that soaked the bed, a potent mix of musk, sweat, and something else she didn’t want to admit… it smelled like death.

  Like her senses all hit her at once she rushed the bed and picked up a limp arm. It was cold to the touch, and even though Layla had absolutely zero medical training she knew to try to find a pulse. She was vaguely aware of her own voice, babbling Emma’s name over and over again. Aware of her phone ringing from the ground.

  Her phone. As much as she didn’t want to drop Emma’s arm she had to. She dropped her cellphone twice before she was able to type in the three numbers, the bold red ‘emergency call’ staring back at her for just a second before she lifted it to her ear.

  She didn’t even recognize her own voice when she said, “I think my friend is dead.”

  Unlike almost everyone in Ohio, Tyson wasn’t born with a hatred for anything and everything Michigan. His hatred was a newly acquired feeling; it dated back to his freshman year, one of his first games on the ice for more than sixty seconds at Stanberry, when a piece of shit from MSU checked him so hard he got a concussion. Ever since then Tyson felt like he understood why Ohio as a whole hated Michigan. If anything, his hatred made him feel less like a transplant and more like a true Ohioan.

  MSU wasn’t their flashy rival, but man did everyone hate their fucking guts. The entire bus ride from Stanberry to East Lansing was full of shit talking and boos when they crossed the state line. To be fair, the change in attitude was one hundred percent necessary. The Spartans played dirty. Not even a good dirty. The refs were shit, the fans were shit, and the games were so aggressive it made Coach’s attitude shit. They never got sloppy, but they never really played their best when they were on Spartan ice.

  Tyson needed that to be different this weekend.

  He talked briefly with Jordan before he got off the bus and it was confirmed that yes fucking Wakeman would be at the Munn that night to watch him. Him and some prick from MSU but that only made Tyson’s drive stronger. Going in he knew he had to play his best – he knew that before every game – but especially now. What if Wakeman thought Henry Tomlinson would be a better fit for the Royals? Tyson had never even heard of the kid before. Didn’t remember him from the past four years. So why was he even on Wakeman’s radar in the first place?

  Now wasn’t the time for self-doubt, so Tyson finished lacing his sneakers forced himself out of the locker room. Before warm up he usually tried to stretch and pass a ball around. He wasn’t feeling all that social, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to pull a Heath and sulk in the stands like a creep. Even before this season he always did that; for as fun loving of a guy as Heath typically was he got weird before games.

  A few guys were messing around with a hacky sack and it seemed like a hell of a lot more fun than doing lunges until he hated himself so Tyson joined the group.

  “Where have you been hiding?” Austin, one of their defensemen, asked. He volleyed the sack over to Tyson.

  “Had to take a shit,” He lied. It sounded better than ‘I was hiding in the locker room ignoring everyone and everything for a few minutes’.

  “The whole fucking semester?” Austin laughed. Tyson didn’t get where he was going with this.

  Steve said, “He’s been with Layla.”

  “Oooh, Layla.”

  “Shut the hell up. I haven’t seen you at the house in like a month, man,” Tyson said, passing to Steve.

  “Yeah. I’m smart enough to not bring chicks home. You show them your fucking room and they start to psychoanalyze you.”

  “Well not all of us have leather cuffs screwed into our headboards.”

  Austin laughed and missed the sack, dropping it to the ground. “The fuck?”

  “They aren’t leather. It’s nylon and PVC. Tota
lly vegan.”

  “I just saw you scarfing down a cheeseburger four hours ago. Don’t even try to tell me you’re vegan.”

  “I’m not,” Steve shrugged, “The material is better though.”

  “I’m still stuck on this whole screwed into the headboard thing,” Another one of their teammates, John, said. “That’s for real? Like no bullshit?”

  “We all have our vices,” Steve said cryptically, which forced another laugh out of Tyson.

  “How the hell have I gone four fucking years and not known that you’re into freaky shit?”

  “My last girlfriend like to call me Daddy,” John said.

  “Every fucking girl likes to call guys Daddy,” Austin added.

  False but Tyson didn’t want to talk about Layla and he sure as fuck wasn’t going to talk about his sex life with these idiots so he just kept quiet and let them bicker. It was kind of team building, he supposed. Not that he really wanted to know that Austin bagged some sorority chick that only got off on anal or that Steve could confirm this little fun fact.

  They bullshitted a bit longer and luckily the conversation turned from kinky sorority girls to the game. Tyson was open with the fact that a scout from the Royals was going to be there that night because why the hell not? For starters, there was always a scout somewhere. Plus the guys were likely to play even better knowing there was someone from the team that won the fucking Stanley Cup the year before in the Munn watching them play even if he wasn’t there for them specifically. It wasn’t like anyone would sabotage a game because they were jealous. A bad game reflected on all of them.

  When everyone filed back into the locker room to dress for warm ups the air felt different. It was typical on a game day. There was less joking and more of a buzz that filed the air. Despite the itch to check his phone and shoot off a text to Layla or see if his Dad sent him a message he ignored his bag like the plague. He needed to be one hundred percent in the game.

  But God, did he miss Layla. They didn’t really have a chance to talk the day before after Jackie’s class. Their presentation went okay – would’ve gone better if he wasn’t so hyped up and frustrated – but they could’ve failed and he wouldn’t have really cared. Layla didn’t storm out after class like he anticipated. She lingered in the hall with him, giving him a tender kiss that sent him into a panic, and then told him she’d see him later on.

  Later on never came though. She went to work and he went to practice and then stayed to work on some drills since his footwork was still a little sloppy. By the time he finished up at the arena he was so tired he shot her a quick text and went back to his place to crash. They left for Michigan before he had a chance to see her. Tyson wasn’t as superstitious as some of the other guys but he kissed Layla before every game, or kissed her before they left for games, and he was running his best season to date. Not kissing her, let alone talking to her, had him feeling a little weird.

  Don’t let a girl get in your head before what could be the most important game of your life.

  Too bad Layla was more than just a girl and this was more than just a game.

  They won.

  Barely.

  The Spartans managed to sneak in three goals, and the Tornadoes squeaked by with four.

  As anticipated, they played dirty. Tyson was feeling pretty dirty himself, though, so the joke was on them. He eyed down Tomlinson the second he stepped on the ice and made it his mission to outplay him, out score him, and outdo him in every single way. There was no way he was getting a major for fighting, despite how much Tomlinson goaded him, so he stuck with insults like a twelve year old. You can never go wrong with insulting a dude’s dick, Tyson learned.

  While it definitely wasn’t his best ever game it wasn’t the worst. He scored two of their four goals and his shots weren’t terrible. Plus, Artie said he was a beast out there. He was an ultimate hype man kind of guy and Tyson could’ve sucked and he would’ve told him he played well but he decided to say fuck it and put some stock into his praise. Plus since this was a two game series Tyson could take all the feedback he got and apply it to Saturday’s game. Wakeman wouldn’t be there but he could at least pull out another victory over Tomlinson. Fuck that kid.

  The comedown would’ve been better if it was a tighter game. Getting your ass chewed for a sloppy win versus a clean loss, if that even existed, so they took their verbal beating like champs and started to change and pack up to head to the hotel.

  Tyson was pulling on a fresh shirt when he heard his name being bellowed across the locker room. Maybe bellow wasn’t the right word for it. It was too stressed, too panicked. The locker room stilled and Heath charged him with wild eyes.

  “What –”

  A phone was shoved under his nose. Tyson had to pull back an inch and squint his eyes to make out the blurry words. It was a string of texts, all tiny little bubbles. All from Layla. And the more he read the more he wanted to puke. Heath pulled away before Tyson could finish the texts, but he didn’t have to read them all to know something bad happened.

  “I just talked to Emma.” Heath’s arms were frantic while he paced, tugging his hair. “She was fine. She was just fine. Why the fuck would she do this?”

  “I don’t know –”

  Heath stopped abruptly and looked over at Tyson. “We have to go. Like right now.”

  “Right now? We have a game tomorrow.” He winced as soon as he said it. It sounded cold, but what else was he supposed to say? Agree and drop everything to go back to Stanberry? He was pretty sure that would have some serious repercussions. But could he really stay after what he just read?

  “Are you fucking serious?” Heath shouted. He looked like an untethered pit bull, foaming at the mouth. “My girl tried to fucking kill herself and might not make it through the night and you’re worried about a fucking hockey game tomorrow? Fuck you, man.”

  “What’s going on in here?” Coach stepped into the room, trepidation etched on his face as his eyes volleyed back and forth between them. “Heath? Tyson?”

  Snarling, Heath snatched his duffel from his open locker. “Fuck you. I’ll make sure I tell Layla where your priorities lie.”

  Coach started, “Hold on –”

  “My girlfriend swallowed a bottle of pills and his girlfriend found her,” Heath said, his words directed at their coach. “Kick me off the team. I don’t give a shit. I’m out.”

  Then his eyes met Tyson’s across the room.

  In that moment, it all made sense. He thought of Layla in a hospital waiting room, upset and alone. He thought of what she saw – God, he hadn’t even looked at his phone… didn’t even know the full story – and then thought of Heath being the one there to comfort her instead of him. Hell, of anyone but him being there for her.

  It wasn’t even a decision to make at that point.

  Still, he couldn’t believe it was his voice that said,

  “Me too. I’m going too.”

  “Hold on one damn second,” Coach started. He blocked the door with his body, and for a second Tyson thought Heath would barrel right through him. Instead he stood a foot away, body heaving. “Now take a breath and tell me what the hell is happening.”

  chapter twenty

  In the last year she’d spent too many hours waiting in hospitals. This hospital. Last year Emma was conscious, and the stay was relatively short. She was allowed in the room with her. Held her hand through the tests. Now? Now she felt like crawling the walls. She was one ‘I’m sorry we can’t tell you anything’ away from screaming at a nurse. It was better than curling back up in a ball and crying her eyes out. Layla didn’t even think she had any more tears to cry if she wanted to.

  What else could she do? She followed the paramedics to the hospital, but she wasn’t related to Emma so her hands were tied beyond that. After two dozen failed attempts at getting ahold of Tyson and Heath, finally calling Wade back because he’d attempted to call her just as many times since she dropped her phone and telling him no it wasn’t her
who was hurt and no she didn’t think she would be okay, she thought about Emma’s parents. Selfishly they hadn’t been her first thought. Did they know? Did the hospital contact them at all? Layla didn’t have their numbers. She was, however, friends with Emma’s mom on Facebook. Layla was on the phone with her own mother when the unknown Indiana call started to beep through.

  She stood in the hospital waiting room and spoke words she never thought she’d say in a million years. Emma tried killing herself. Yes, there was a note. Yes, she’s alive. Barely. No, they won’t tell her anything else. Layla gave the hysteric stranger on the other end of the line the name of the hospital and then the line went dead.

  Two police officers showed up and interrogated her in a sterile, private room. There wasn’t much for Layla to say. She found her friend. She called nine-one-one. She saw the note. The pills. The half empty bottle of whiskey. It was easy to put together what happened. After her statement they left.

  And she was alone. Again.

  The nurses that refused to tell Layla a thing about her best friend were as sympathetic as they could be. They directed her to the best coffee in the hospital. Unsurprisingly, it still tasted like tar. She drank it regardless because she didn’t know what else to do with herself. She wasn’t leaving the hospital until she saw Emma, and she wasn’t trying to make conversation with the hospital staff.

  Just over two hours after she got to the hospital she met Emma’s parents for the first time. Funny they’d been friends for three years and this was the first time they ever made it to Ohio.

  After talking to the doctor on call they relayed just one thing back to Layla: Emma was alive but comatose.

  It was nearly eleven when she forced herself to sit down in one of the hard plastic chairs. The game should’ve been over by now, but there was nothing waiting for her on her phone. No missed calls or unread texts. Tyson left with things a little strained between them but he always texted her before his games, if not just to say they arrived safe. Layla opened their text thread and scrolled up through all her unanswered messages.