Powerless (Chestnut Springs, #3)(21)

His eyes are sad now, and he shakes his head at me. “Jasper, you need to take some time. It’s normal to take some time.”

My nose wrinkles at his implication. “It’s normal to take some time when there’s been a death in the family. Beau isn’t dead.”

Pity. It’s written clear as day on my coach’s face. And I hate being pitied.

“He’s not, Roman. And I’m not going to start acting like he is until I know something.” Panic leaches into my voice. I sound frantic even to myself. I can only imagine how I sound to him.

“Jasper—”

“No. I’ll be here tomorrow for practice, and I’ll be ready to play the next game. I’ll be right as rain. Head in the game.” The way he shakes his head at me says he doesn’t believe me.

“Stop looking at me like I’m a dead deer on the side of the road that you’re sad about.”

“You’re going to take some time off, Jasper. I know you. I know the way your head works. And I know how near and dear your family is to you. Damon was right, family first. Hockey second.”

“I don’t need—”

“You’re suspended,” he bites out.

My entire body goes rigid. “Come again?”

“A two-week suspension for not disclosing this to management. We’ll call it a leave of absence in the press release.”

“You have to be fucking kidding me. The team needs me! The press is going to have a fucking heyday with this!”

The older man just pulls me into a rough hug, ignoring my arguments. “Your family needs you more,” is what he grumbles while giving me a tight squeeze. And then he’s pulling away, giving me another of those tragic looks. “The press is already having a heyday with you. Hockey will still be here in two weeks. Your head isn’t on the ice, and it shouldn’t be. Stay in touch.”

And then he walks away, dress shoes clacking against the concrete floors like it’s just another normal day. Like the world isn’t total, utter shit.

Like one of the best people I’ve ever known hasn’t vanished in some secret corner of the world, on some classified mission, where god-knows-what has happened to him.

The reality of the entire situation hits me like a wrecking ball to the chest.

What if he’s dead?

What if he needs help?

And the worst possibility of all, what if we just never find him?

Ready to get the fuck away from everything, I march out the doors into the lobby. It’s where fans wait for autographs and puck bunnies wait for a shot at a player.

But there’s only one person waiting who I want to see.

The beautiful girl wearing my jersey who feels like home. The one who has barely left my side for over a week. We both know she’s hiding from the realities of her life, but so am I. We’re kindred that way, and we don’t pick at each other about it.

Everyone gets ignored as I make my way to her. I don’t know who’s there or what people are saying. I have tunnel vision and all I see is Sloane.

I’m grumpy and miserable. The world is dark, but she’s like the moon when we sat on the roof. Bright and pure, shedding a silvery light over everything so that I can still see where I’m going.

Her arms clamp around my waist, the look she gives me is pure love and support, and then her head drops to my chest. Comforting me without saying a word. I take a deep pull of her scent and close my eyes to push away the intrusive thoughts threatening to tug me under.

Everything in the world feels wrong.

But standing here with Sloane in my arms feels right.





8

Sloane


Sloane: Just dropping you a line to say hi. Hope you got home safe. And to remind you that I love you dearly.

Violet: I love you too.

Sloane: I’m sending you the biggest hugs, Vi.

Violet: He’ll be okay. He has to be, right?

Sloane: Definitely.

Violet: That game was . . . oof. Is Jasper okay?

Sloane: No.

Violet: He needs you more than he realizes. Don’t leave him. You’re his person.

Sloane: I won’t.




The way Jasper clutches my hand as we walk out of the arena feels different.

It feels desperate.

We don’t talk. He just grips me like I’m a flotation device and he’s stranded in a rough sea. The frigid air bites at us as we walk across the parking lot, and I feel ridiculous next to him. I’m in ripped jeans with an oversize jersey, and he looks like sex in a suit, complemented by a stubbled chin and hair a bit longer in the back so it curls along the nape of his neck.

He’s a good distraction from the phone that’s burning a hole in my purse from the amount of missed calls and texts it’s housing. I’ve opened it occasionally and then promptly put it away.

The mass text I sent letting everyone know I’m safe but decided to get out of town prompted many reactions. Everything from you go girl to grow up and face the music to an utterly charming get your ass back home and stop embarrassing yourself from Sterling.

I responded with an overly sweet go fuck yourself and haven’t said another word to him since.

Catch me living in that penthouse again never.

Am I being childish? Hiding from my responsibilities? I mean, yeah. But the more time I have to think about everything that’s led me here . . . about how a real family unit behaves when something bad happens . . . the more I wonder how the fuck I got to where I am.