Page 43 of The Cruelest Kind of Hate
I slap my hand against hers as a smirk tests the edges of my lips. “I hope you’re not a sore los?—”
“Guys, watch this!” Teague calls out to us, doing a little wiggle before kicking into high gear and speeding right toward the unoccupied goal.
The puck’s in his possession, he has a clear shot, and I’m about to do a victory fist pump in the air for the obvious talent I’ve bestowed upon him…right before he trips over his dominant leg and goes crashing to the ice.
15
HORRIFYING CONCUSSIONS AND HEARTFELT CONFESSIONS
GAGE
Fear. I know it well.
Sometimes it presents itself to me in different forms: an icy grip on my neck, heart palpitations, the burn of bile on my tongue, a short-lived panic that suffuses heat to my head. Right now, I’m experiencing all the above.
Teague’s helmet slams against the ice in a single freeze-frame, and then he goes absolutely still. My world goes even stiller.
My gaze quickly pivots to Cali, and there’s a slash of fear on her face, ripping through her composure as if it’s as flimsy as paper mâché. My throat protests the weight of a scream, but Cali’s pained cry ends up defiling the ambience of the arena. A banshee wail—an omen of something far darker than just death.
“Teague!”
I throw my gloves off and take the lead in skating over to him as fast as I can, not even incapacitated by the anxiety sloshing around in my stomach. Cali’s right on my heels, and I scramble over to Teague’s lifeless body, trying to assess him without moving him.
Come on, Teague.
Multiple sets of unwelcome eyes drag over us, unwilling to lend a helping hand, only willing to exude sympathy.
No, no, no. This isn’t happening. I’m not going to fail him like I did my brother. Realistically, somewhere deep in my subconscious, I know that the worst injury he could sustain is a gnarly concussion, but all I can think about is the possibility that he might not wake up, however irrational that thought may be. I underestimated my brother’s illness, and his condition only deescalated. What if I underestimate this?
“Come on, buddy. Open those eyes for me,” I whisper, waiting a few minutes to see if he comes to on his own, and I’m just about to scream for an ambulance when Teague groggily peels his eyes open with a groan.
“Did I make it?” he croaks.
I’m nearly to the point of tears, but not so far gone I forget to smile, and my lungs rattle with a bottled exhale, shooting out into the fifty-degree atmosphere like a gradually vanishing contrail. I know he’s asking about the goal, but all I say is, “Yeah, buddy. You made it.”
Cali’s a hysterical mess, and maybe it’s because my mind is in fix-it mode, but all I can focus on is alleviating her stress. I’m not granted a moment to lose it, even though that was singlehandedly one of the scariest things I’ve ever witnessed.
Yeah, I’m a hockey player who’s been injured a few times, but watching it happen to someone else you care about—someone who’s just a kid—makes it all the more terrifying.
I squeeze Teague gingerly, then let Cali bear hug him, and I swear she squishes him so tightly his spine almost pops.
My head is still reeling, my adrenaline has yet to come down from its massive spike, and my heart is on its own goddamn warpath with the way it’s pounding against my ribs. I walk overto the edge of the rink—too riled up to skate that far of a distance safely—and I steady myself on the plexiglass.
Even though my body’s not in any danger, it tenses in preparation for the nonexistent threat, all my senses being whaled on from every direction. My thoughts pinball around my skull, and I abandon my effort to go in search of a medic by simply just yelling for one, unsure if I’m stable enough to navigate the freezing corridors in the state I’m in. My vision wobbles and strains, and insuppressible nausea burbles deep in my gut.
I’m still terrified. I can’t—I can’t put into words what just happened. I thought I was about to relive the moment my brother passed away. Nobody in my life, except for Teague and Cali, has ever meant as much to me as my brother did. And when people mean something to you, the hurt and pain they experience affect you in the same way.
My brother’s memory had been shoved down below the depths of my subconscious, never to buoy to the top for the rest of my existence. But in this moment, everything comes flooding back to the surface, drowning me in anger, guilt, sorrow, and regret. Drowning me in all those unresolved emotions I tried to quell beneath a storm-aggravated ocean.
A medic—who the arena keeps stationed here for Reapers practices—comes sprinting over to me with a first aid kit, and I walk him over to Teague and Cali, praying that Teague’s injuries are minimal.
Cali gives the medic room to work, and she joins me a few feet away as I stare blankly at the little boy in front of me, who’s putting on a brave face even after the horrifying experience he just had.
Fuck. Why wasn’t I watching him more closely? I could’ve caught him before he fell. I could’ve prevented this from ever happening.
“Gage, you’re shaking,” Cali says quietly beside me, worry crumpling her features.
“What?” I look down at my pale hands, which are shaking rabbit-fast, and I will them to stop, but it’s like my control’s been capsized.
