“Uh-huh.” I could barely hear her over the buzzing in my ears.
A choked squeal left my lips as the plane lurched, speeding down the runway with the intention of taking off. Every muscle in my body locked as the front half of the plane tilted upward. I could tell we were half off the ground. That was, until there was a slight bob beneath my feet, and a quick peek out the window showed the buildings on the ground becoming smaller with each passing second. We were entirely in the air now.
Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.
We passed through clouds, rising above them, and that’s when I lost it. We were too high. All I could see in my mind’s eye were those images of the wreckage that played on a loop on TV when I was a child—the shattered fragments of what had once been people and a jet larger than this one, along with the hole in the ground where the impact had happened.
My hands flew to my throat as I tried to draw in air, but my lungs never filled, burning with the need for oxygen. I clawed at the skin in my desperation. My mind battled between the need to stand up, to find a way to get off before it was too late, and the paralyzing fear that unbuckling my seatbelt would mean certain death.
There was no winning scenario. I was going to die on this plane.
That was the last thought I had before I lost my vision, the panic pulling me under.
Chapter 11
Maddox
Noise-canceling headphones were amust for anyone who traveled as much as I had over the past fifteen years. The trip to Pittsburgh was short, a little over a full hour in the air, so it provided just enough time to catch up on an episode of my favorite hockey podcast. The two guys who had started it were former players, and there were no-holds-barred. They shared their honest opinion about the league, the teams within it—as well as their management staffs—and often had featured guests who were current or past players. Not to mention, they had put out their own hockey-branded pink lemonade vodka that was fucking amazing.
I’d started the episode the minute I sat down on the plane, so I was halfway through it not long after our ascent. A hand on my shoulder had me pausing and slipping my headphones off before turning to see who needed my attention.
Wyatt Banks, one of our starting defensemen, stared down at me with crease lines marring his forehead, his lips turned down in a frown. “Coach, we have a problem.”
I stood, instantly on high alert. “What is it?”
He tilted his head toward the back of the plane, where almost everyone in that section was standing, huddled around a particular row. The hairs on the back of my neck rose when I didn’t notice a flash of red among their ranks.
“The new girl—“
Before he could finish that sentence, my feet were moving down the aisle toward the crowd. Shoving some male reporters out of the way, I pushed to the front, desperate to get to Bristol.
In the center of it all, I found the girl I couldn’t stop thinking about gasping for air, her eyes unfocused as her fingernails drew blood along her slender throat. Alyssa Simon sat beside her, digging through what I could only assume was Bristol’s bag, searching for something.
“Alyssa, I need you to move,” I commanded, and her blue eyes flashed to me.
She shook her head before returning to her quest. “I think she’s having an allergic reaction. If I can only find her epinephrine autoinjector . . .”
I knew Bristol wasn’t having an allergic reaction. She was deep in the middle of a panic attack, and if we didn’t get a handle on it soon, she was going to pass out.
“Now,” I barked, causing Alyssa to jump in her seat.
She stood on shaky legs, reluctant to leave Bristol’s side, but allowed me to take her place.
“Everyone else, clear the area! Find new seats at the front of the plane.” My tone left no room for argument, and the press pack scattered, leaving me alone with the panic-stricken woman to my left.
The first thing I did was try to pry her hands away from where she was hurting herself, but she was so far gone that I couldn’t overpower her. Her chest was concave, like she was holding her breath, which, technically, she was. Those once-perfectly pink lips took on a bluish tint, and my hearttwisted inside my chest, making it hard for me to breathe—if she wasn’t breathing, I couldn’t either.
“Miss Cooper.” Speaking to her was a futile attempt; she needed something more. Trying again, I cupped her cheeks, bringing my face closer to hers. “Bristol, I need you to take a deep breath.”
She shook her head, and a tiny squeak sounded.
“I know it’s hard, love, but you have to. Please,” I begged because that’s all I had left in the arsenal. It was killing me to see her like this.
Caressing one cheek softly with my thumb, I placed my other hand over her racing heart. I decided to attempt a new tactic. “Come on, Bristol, I know you hate me; push my hand away. You can do it.”
Almost as if she’d been shocked, her chest expanded beneath my palm, and her sharp inhale was music to my ears.
“That’s it,” I coached. “Just like that. Now, slow it down. In for three, then out for three.”
