Page 96 of Face Off
“Do you have a lot of secrets on there, Coach?” I joke, trying to lighten the mood, but my heart won’t stop racing in my chest.
“Don’t push it, Miller. She’s in Garden Villas on Connecticut Ave.”
“What?” I frown. “Are you sure?”
“Eleventh floor. Number seven.”
“What the hell? That’s next door to my place. I could throw a rock at her window.”
Did I hear any sirens when I left my place an hour ago?
Was there caution tape outside her building marking a crime scene?
Fuck.
Where the hell is she?
“Go,” Hudson tells me, and I’m already halfway off the ice.
I tear through the locker room like a bat out of hell. I drop my skates on our logo, and I put my shirt on inside out. I’m stilltugging on my shoe when I hop into the players’ garage, calling her another time without any luck.
I nearly rip off the door of my Mercedes and head for Emerson’s apartment, yelling at the traffic that keeps me from doing less than fifty when I really want to do one hundred.
The entire drive through the city, I keep calling her, and she still doesn’t answer.
Panic claws at my throat. I almost leave the keys in the ignition when I park in the visitor’s spot at her complex. A bright piece of paper taped to the elevator tells me it’s out of order for the day, and I curse under my breath.
I head for the lobby. After a ten minute conversation with a security guard and convincing him I’m the same Maverick Miller he watched on TV a few nights ago, he finally points me toward the stairwell.
I climb all eleven flights faster than I’ve moved my entire life, and when I get to Emerson’s apartment, I lean against the wall, huffing and puffing.
“Hartwell?” I call out, knocking loudly. I press my ear to the door and listen. It’s silent on the other side, and I bang again. “Emerson? Piper?”
I hear a faint groan, and I freeze.
Mother fucking shit.
Is she hurt?
Is there someone with her?
Why the fuck did I come here alone?
“You have six seconds to tell me not to break down this door,” I yell.
When I don’t get an answer, I run my shoulder into the barrier until it busts open.
“Goddammit,” I groan.
I stumble inside and nearly fall across the hardwood floor. Pain shoots up my arm, and it’s worse than getting slammed into the boards during a game.
“Pull it together, Miller,” I grumble, and I shake out my shoulder.
I step into the foyer and scan the apartment, searching for any signs of violence. I grab a candlestick off a table and hold it in front of me.
“Hello? Look, if this is some hostage situation, I’ll give you my credit card and you can go wild, all right? Just leave whoever is in here alone. I have a weapon.”
There’s a noise from down the hall, and I take off. I see a room to my right, and I hold the candlestick above my head, ready to attack. I push the door open and find Emerson with her head in the toilet.
