Page 42 of The Head Game

Even someone like Luke Crawford—a Boston player with a reputation for being a hard hitter who didn’t care much about the consequences—wasn’t trying to permanently break his opponents.

Crawford might not regret a hard hit, but he probably wasn’t cheering for a guy to get wheeled off in a stretcher unconscious with a potential brain bleed.

It was perfectly normal that August was worried about Nico. Wasn’t it?

Dazed and on autopilot, August punched the down arrow on the elevators that would take him to the level where he’d parked.

He nodded absently at the person in the elevator beside him as he left, shivering a little when the cold air hit.

Belatedly, he realized he’d left his coat in the dressing room and the thin fabric of his suit wasn’t enough.

The underground level was warmer than being outside in the wind, but not by much.

August glanced back at the elevator and groaned. The doors had shut and it would take a while to call the car back.

August should go back to get the stupid coat but at this point he didn’t care what happened to it. Hopefully they’d donate it or something.

Although, damn it. He was now down two winter coats and a toque. This was getting ridiculous.

But it felt unimportant in the face of Nico’s injury.

August trudged to his vehicle, worry still churning in his gut.

After starting the car, he cranked up the heat and sat there a moment until he felt steady enough to drive.

Depending on how heavy traffic was at the border crossing into Canada—and at this hour, it shouldn’t be bad—it was about an hour and a half from Buffalo, New York to Hamilton, Ontario.

August followed the GPS from the arena onto I-190 but when he should have gone left toward the bridge that would take him into Ontario, he hesitated. Instead, he went right, following the signs toward the New York side of Niagara Falls.

He didn’t know why, only knew that he didn’t want to sit at the border crossing or make the drive home.

He didn’t want to sit in his house or try to sleep, wondering what was happening with Nico.

He felt responsible somehow.

What if he’d told someone Nico seemed off? What if he’d made a different call on the first hit?

What if he could have done something to prevent this?

August drove the speed limit, cars flying by as they passed, the lights of the city bright in the darkness as the highway crossed Grand Island, then off it again.

There were signs directing August to Niagara Falls State Park.

Those signs proudly declared it was open to viewing twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

The lot was deserted at this hour in November.

August parked and got out slowly. He popped the trunk and let out a strange strangled laugh as he pulled the blue peacoat out of the bag.

His fingers shook as he did up the brass buttons, remembering Nico’s teasing laughter as he chirped him about the coat.

August’s eyes watered.

What if Nico wasn’t okay? What if he had more seizures? What if it was a brain bleed and he died on the operating table?

What if it was August’s fault?

He was the one who’d insisted that it was a clean hit but what if it hadn’t been? What if he’d missed something?

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