Page 3 of Must Love Hockey
“Hey, miss?” he calls after me. “Are you okay?”
I open my mouth, but only a squeak comes out. “Yes?” The Brooklyn lights shimmer around me, and I close my eyes to try to focus on getting home.
When I open them again, he’s come closer. “You don’t look okay. Can I help you? Grab you a taxi, maybe?” The voice is so polite, especially in contrast with the badass, muscular body standing in front of me.
“Okay,” I rasp, because even though I can’t afford a taxi, I feel too woozy to navigate the subway.
“Why are you pulling on your collar?” he asks, tilting his head to the side.
I drop my hand, because I hadn’t realized I was. “My throat is…” I swallow. “It’s a little hard to breathe.” Even as I say these words, fear slides down my spine. Something is wrong, and I don’t know how to make it right.
“Come inside for a second,” he says gently, touching my arm to steer me toward the loading bay. “The light isn’t very good here. But I think you’ve got spots on your throat.”
“Spots?” I gasp. I push my hand into my bag to try to fish out my phone. The zipper catches my sleeve, pushing it up my forearm. I raise my hand and stare in disbelief. There are bright red spots on my inner arm. I can only gape at them in terror.
“Holy cannelloni,” he says. “Come with me.”
TWO
MAKE IT STOP
James
This girl is not okay. She’s impeccably dressed in a sweater, a skirt, stockings, and shiny shoes. She’s wearing a wool coat and pearl earrings. At some point earlier today, she was probably doing just fine. But she practically staggered around the corner of the building.
At first, I thought she might just be drunk. But drunk women don’t breathe funny. And they don’t have hives all over their neck and wrists. Those spots—bright red blotches against her smooth, golden-hued skin—look angry.
Something is very wrong, and her dark eyes look frightened.
As quickly as she can manage, I lead her through the loading dock and down a ramp toward the locker rooms. There’s a security guard waiting outside the locker room complex. He cocks an eyebrow as I approach with a stranger.
“Rudy, did you see Doc leave?” I ask.
Rudy shrugs. “Go on in and check.” He holds the door open.
“What’s your name?” I ask the ailing young woman on my arm. She’s holding on for dear life.
“Emily Chen,” she gasps.
“Nice to meet you, Emily. I’m James, but everyone calls me Jimbo. I want to see if Doc Herberts is still here, okay? Sit.” I lower her onto a bench in the outer locker area, where the players keep their coats and street shoes.
Most of the players are gone already, but Anton Bayer gives me a curious glance as he shrugs his coat on. “You okay, Jimbo?”
“I need Doc. Is he still here?”
Bayer winces. “I feel like I saw him bolt out of here. There’s a train he likes to catch if nobody is bleeding.”
Shit. I pull out my phone and hit his number.
Luckily, he answers right away. “This is Herberts. Jimbo? Is there a problem?”
“Hey Doc—what does a bad allergic reaction look like? I have a fan here with hives and shallow breathing.”
“Slow down, kid. Can I talk to him?”
“Her,” I correct. “Her name is Emily. I’m putting you on speaker.” I hit the button and hold the phone near Emily. She looks panicked.
“Hi, Emily,” Doc’s voice says. “I hear you’re having some trouble. Can you describe it?”
