Kiss and Don't Tell(73)

“Okay,” Eli says. “Should we send her with some food?”

Halsey shakes his head. “You know he doesn’t do well with food. He’ll let you know when he’s hungry.”

“Do you have any electrolyte tablets?” I ask. “I can try to get him to drink one.”

“Good idea,” Eli says while going to a drawer near the coffeemaker. He fills up a glass of water and then drops a tablet inside. The tablet fizzes in the water and he hands it to me. “Let us know if he needs anything else.”

“Okay, yeah,” I say, feeling as if I probably shouldn’t have volunteered, since the guys are the ones that have been with Pacey through previous migraines and probably know exactly what he needs. But it’s too late now, so with water in hand, I head toward Pacey’s room, wishing I did more background research on him. I was so caught up by his interviews that I didn’t bother looking at anything else. But if I put the comment from a fan together with this recurring migraine, I’m going to assume something happened to him while he was on the ice.

Was he skating without a helmet and fell, slamming his head on the ice?

Did he get in a fight, take a punch to the head?

Possible scenarios stampede through my head until I reach his door. I swallow my nerves and carefully knock on his door, not wanting to make too much noise. When he doesn’t answer, I test the knob and when it’s unlocked, I let myself in.

The blackout curtains and blinds are drawn, making the room fall to an almost complete darkness. His room smells like his cologne, fresh with a hint of leather, and the eerie silence sets my nerves on fire as I take in the still lump on his bed.

Quietly, I walk over to the bed and set the water on his nightstand. Unsure of what to do, I whisper, “Pacey, it’s Winnie. How are you doing?”

“Winnie?” he asks in a groggy voice, and then at a snail’s pace, he turns in his bed to face me. He doesn’t have a shirt on and his hair is all mussed up from sleep and probably the pain he’s going through. Eyes closed, he reaches out, and I take his hand in mine. He sighs, as if this was all the comfort he needed.

I press my other hand against his back and trace small circles against his skin. “How are you doing?”

“Not great,” he mutters.

“I can see that.” I speak softly because I know the kind of pain a migraine can cause someone. I helped my mom through quite a few. I wonder if Pacey would let me help him. “I brought a Nuun tablet—it has caffeine in it too. Do you think you can drink a little bit of it for me?”

“Maybe,” he whispers and then attempts to sit up. I help him and arrange his pillow so he’s propped up more.

“Just take it slow.” I hold out the drink to him and his shaky hand reaches for it. “Let me help you.” I assist him in bringing the glass to his mouth and he takes short sips, a few at a time. “How’s your stomach?”

“That’s . . . that’s it,” he says, letting me take the drink.

“Okay, that’s fine for now.” I stand from the bed and say, “Let me help you lie back down.” I help him move his large body down the bed and then I bring the comforter up to his shoulder. I gently rub my hand over his head and say, “I’m going to get you a cold compress to help. I’ll be right back.”

He doesn’t say anything, but instead curls into a ball and keeps his eyes shut.

I move out of the room, trying not to let the light in, and then shut his door quietly.

That was—wow, that was way worse than I expected. Strong, protective Pacey was so feeble, weak, barely able to speak a sentence. I don’t like it. Frankly, it scares me.

I hurry down the hall to the main room, where the boys are now sitting at the dining room table eating breakfast.

“How is he?” Eli asks.

“Not great. He looks incredibly weak. Is that normal?”

The boys nod and Eli says, “Yeah, these migraines take every last ounce of energy from him.”

That’s exactly how he seemed, as if he were drained. Twisting my hands together, I ask, “Do you have any ice packs? A dish towel?”

“Yup,” Stephan says moving around the kitchen to get me what I need.

“It’s only been, what, three to four hours, but this sounds like a bad one,” Silas says, concern in his voice. “I think we should call the doc, at least let him know. Didn’t he suggest Pacey get in contact with him if he had another one postseason?”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Halsey says. “He could barely walk when I helped him back to bed earlier after the vomiting. That was eerily similar to when he was first injured.”

“I’ll make the call,” Eli says, standing from the table with his phone and going outside, where I see him scrolling through his phone and then bringing it to his ear.

What on earth happened?

What kind of injury are we dealing with?

Concerned and curious, I ask, “Um . . . can I ask what happened?”

“He didn’t tell you?” Silas asks. “Figures. The man tries to act as though nothing bad ever happens to him, this injury especially.”

“Too proud,” Halsey says before taking a bite of his breakfast. “He doesn’t want to show weakness.”

“Yeah, well, pride isn’t helping him,” Silas says, and then he glances at me. “At the beginning of the season, Pacey was struck in the head by a ninety-four-mile-per-hour slap shot.”