Too late.
We hear another scream, and we all look up the rickety staircase leading to the second floor.
Mina.
She’s at the top of the stairs and there’s a man behind her, dressed in all black and a hood draped to cover his face. He’s not very tall, but he’s got her by the hair and a knife to her throat.
He snarls down at us. “Get the fuck out of my house before I call the police.”
And then, without any warning, he throws Mina down the stairs.
She doesn’t even scream. Just a thud, halfway down. Her limbs tangle beneath her. Her neck is at a wrong angle and Tara does what I’ve been trying not to.
She throws all up, all over herself and Eric.
The man storms after her, boots thundering. He raises one foot and stomps on the side of her head.
The sound is sickening. Final.
Lexi screams and is hanging on my brother who isn’t returning the gesture. This doesn’t feel real. None of it feels real.
I can’t move.
Callum scoops me up and bolts.
We’re out the door and then off the porch.
Callum is running, his breath is ragged. His grip is unrelenting on me. He’s never going to let me go, and I don’t want him to.
And all I can do is hold on.
CALLUM
The puck drops.
I slam my shoulder into a forward from Western State and steal possession, angling my stick to pass the puck down the ice before their defense can regroup. It’s just a practice game because we have one more game of the season. Coach Kav is hellbent on us having the best end of the year so we can start off strong in the Fall. It’s been a fast, aggressive game. Heavy on speed, light on patience.
Just how I like it. After everything that went down the other night at that stupid mansion, I need to get some anger out.
Coach Kavanagh yells something from the bench about defensive rotation, and I wave a hand in acknowledgement, already cutting across center ice. He’s got the same crash-out energy as Hayden. He’s volatile, relentless, and I joked earlier in the pre-game meeting that they could be father and son. They both got pissy about the comparison, which just proved my point, if you ask me. But it works for hockey. Works for us.
At least when we’re focused.
I dig in hard and launch a shot off toward the other team’s goalie, but it hits the post.
“Shit,” I mutter, circling back.
We’re down by one in the second period. I skate over for the face-off, sweat dripping down the back of my neck beneath my helmet.
As I crouch low, I glance toward the stands and that’s when I see them.
Madison and Winter, standing by the glass.
Hayden and Tristan’s girls. Both in jackets, arms crossed, watching intently. Hayden skates past the glass and catches some guy I don’t recognize trying to talk to Madi, and he immediately veers off course and slams his shoulder into the plexiglass.
It makes a loud crack. The guy jumps, startled.
Madison lifts a brow but smiles, shaking her head like she’s used to his antics.
