Page 1 of Pucking Unhinged
PROLOGUE
WINTER
Aloud crash wakes me.
Not the kind that comes from outside. Not thunder. Not a car door. Not the wind knocking something over.
No, this is louder. Much sharper. Familiar enough to tear me from a restless sleep.
I hear glass shattering.
Something slams against the hardwood floor.
Then again. Louder this time. Metal crashes into the wall, the thud of something heavy hitting the floor. A low, guttural sound tears through the air. It’s absolutely half rage, half panic, and it makes my stomach twist.
I sit bolt upright in my bed, breath already caught in my throat like my body knows before my mind does.
It’s Tristan.
He’s having another night terror.
I throw the blankets off, my bare feet hitting the cool hardwood as I rush out of my room. The sounds are escalating, and that’s got my stomach twisting. This is hardest on him, but it’s never easy for me to see him like this either. There’s a grunt, the screech of furniture being shoved or tipped, another crash that seems so loud that the walls should tremble.
He doesn’t always yell. Sometimes it’s quiet. Sometimes he thrashes and claws at the door like he’s trying to tear his way out of a nightmare. Sometimes it sounds like he’s in a fight for his life, and to be honest sometimes I think he is.
I don’t bother knocking on my foster brother’s door. I push it open fast enough for it to bounce off the wall. They always tell me not to wake him, every single professional, his father, even his brother. His teammates, Hayden and Callum keep their mouths shut because they’re confident in me that I know him better than anyone. He won’t hurt me. He never does. He calms down as soon as he realizes that it’s me here with him.
“Tristan,” I say his name, but I know he can’t hear me. He’s mid-nightmare and I’ll have to touch him in order to bring him out of his own personal hell.
The room is a war zone, dark except for the moonlight spilling through the curtains he let me put in here. He’s standing at the far end near his closet, chest heaving, eyes wild but unfocused. He’s shirtless, and there’s sweat gleaming off his skin. His fists are clenched like he’s seconds from striking again. The nightstand I picked out for him is sideways. A lamp is shattered in the corner. The mirror above his dresser has a crack spiderwebbing from the center like something heavy hit it. Judging by his bloody knuckles, I can take a wild guess what that something is.
Tristan’s eyes sweep over me, but he doesn’t see me.
Not really.
“Tristan,” I whisper again, stepping closer to him. He’s fucking huge, dwarfing me by more than a foot, but I’m not afraid of him. My heart is cracking in my chest for him.
He turns toward me too fast, muscles tensed, whole body coiled like I’m the threat.
“It’s me,” I say, calm and quiet, reaching out to rub my hand along the top of his forearm. “It’s Winter.”
Tristan’s breathing hitches and his head jerks like he’s trying to shake something off. But then, for the briefest second, his eyes clear when I pull my hand away.
He blinks. His body stutters. His fists loosen.
And then, in the smallest voice I’ve ever heard from him, he whispers, “Winter.”
My heart cracks in half.
I wait until I’m sure he’s fully back, like the fog has cleared enough to let him see me before I touch him again.
“We’re okay. We’re not there anymore.” I know exactly what night he’s remembering right now.
Tristan’s voice cracks. “I thought?—”
“I know,” I cut in gently. “But we’re home. We’re safe.”
He sinks down to the edge of the bed like his legs won’t hold him. He drags a hand through his hair, jaw tight.
