Page 81 of Tempest

25

Odette

Tori gasps and grabs my arm. Half of the arena gasped with her; the other half is too distracted by the win to have seen the hit.

“Get up, Dad,” she chants, and I wrap my arm around her as we both stare down on the ice. He’s not moving. Neither am I, but Tori trembles in my arms. “Come on, Dad. Get up.”

The crowd starts to quiet as everyone notices Gavin hasn’t gotten up yet. My heart beats wildly. Britton rubs my arm. There’s a scuffle on the ice, our guys attacking whoever hit Gavin, but I can’t pay attention to that right now.

Finally, after what feels like several long minutes but is really only seconds, Gavin’s chest heaves. He tries to get up, but the trainers are there to stop him. Conversations are happening that we can’t hear. Gavin shakes his head a few times and I’m relieved at the movement.

“He’s going to be okay,” Isla says, turning around to assess Tori, who only nods but doesn’t say anything.

After a few more minutes, Gavin stands with the help of Cillian and Letty.

“Oh, thank fuck,” Tori says, breaking down in tears now that the initial shock has passed. “Can I see him, Isla?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” she answers. “You two make your way down to the family room. I’ll see who I can get in touch with and find out what’s going on.”

“Thank you, Isla,” I say.

“Of course,” she says before asking her sister to take Sadie home with her. Meanwhile, I give my keys to Britton and tell her to take my car home. Isla says she’ll meet us downstairs, and Tori takes the lead since I have no idea where to go.

It’s a long walk to the other side of the stadium, through the throngs of people trying to leave. I hold Tori’s hand tightly, not wanting to lose her but also to comfort her, as she’s still visibly shaken.

I am, too. But breaking down won’t do either of us any good. It’s terrifying to watch someone you love quit moving.

Someone I love. Another truth. One I’ve been too scared to admit. Seeing him lying there makes me not want to fight against it so hard. Because we’ve missed so much time already. What if we don’t have much left?

For months, I’ve thought maybe it wasn’t worth the risk. When really, it’s the only thing that is. I could spend the rest of my life without him with the assurance of being lonely and heartsick. Or I can take a leap of faith and maybe finally find the happiness I’ve so desperately missed.

Sounds like an easy decision when your trauma finally takes a back seat in your life.

We come to a bank of elevators with security standing in front of them.

“Hey, Tori. Hope your dad is okay,” one of them says to her, pushing the button.

“Thanks, Sam. I’m sure he is, he’s tough.”

“He sure is,” Sam says, holding his arm over the doors that have opened and letting us in.

We exit the elevator into a long hallway that’s eerily quiet compared to the bustling thoroughfare above. It’s like a whole other world down here. But as we get farther, we start to hear chatter from members of the press loitering in the hallways. Before we reach them, Tori opens a door on the left that leads into a room filled with sofas, armchairs, and tables. A small table is set up just inside the door and laden with snacks.

A baby cries softly from the corner as several toddlers run in circles around their mothers. I recognize many of the faces, but not all. Isla once told me a lot of the wives with smaller children choose to come down here for the games, where the little ones can run free instead of sitting mostly still in the stands.

Tori takes the first available seat, pulling her knees up to her chin. She holds her phone tight and stares at the blank screen. Probably hoping her dad will text her that he’s fine.

“Do you want some water? Or coffee, maybe?”

“No, thank you, Odette. Can you just sit with me?”

“Of course,” I say, taking the seat next to her on the sofa and once again wrapping an arm around her.

“I’ve seen a lot of guys get injured. But never my dad. It used to scare me a lot when I was little. I’d have nightmares about a blade cutting him. I never told him that, I didn’t want him to quit for me or anything.”

“You kept the fear to yourself,” I say. “Something I can understand.”

“I’ll miss watching him play, but I’m also happy he’s retiring. It makes me feel like an asshole to say that.”

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