Total pages in book: 101
Estimated words: 98324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98324 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 492(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 328(@300wpm)
Now I’ve really fucked up. I drag my sorry ass back to the metal door and beat on it with my fist. Then I pick up the brick and throw it at the door.
It bounces, leaving a dent. I suck in a couple more ragged breaths, and nobody opens the fucking door. Nothing happens, except my chest tightens even further.
What is wrong with me? The world tilts a few degrees, and I stumble back against the wall, sliding down until I’m sitting on the hot pavement.
Not now. Not again. This isn’t supposed to happen. Not today. Not before game seven.
I try to remember the tricks I’ve been taught—counting breaths, focusing on a visual detail—like the color of the asphalt beneath me. But my mind fills with other thoughts. Shitty ones. Mom crying at the wedding. My team waiting inside, wondering where the fuck I am. Danny’s empty chair at the family dining table. The look on Maribel’s face when she opens that gift card.
The shoulder that’s maybe not as pain-free as I keep saying it is.
I drop my head between my knees, but it doesn’t help. The panic is a living thing now, clawing at my chest, making my fingers tingle. Pull it the fuck together, I order myself. You’re the motherfucking captain.
The door flies open beside me, clipping the edge of my sneaker.
“Omigod!” says a startled female voice. “Eric? What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” I try to say, but my head is in my hands, and it doesn’t come out very clearly.
“Eric.” She squats down beside me. “Whoa. What happened? Should I get Doc Namath?”
That’s a terrible enough idea that I pull my chin up and look straight into Darcy’s light blue-green eyes. “Fuck no.”
Her head jerks back, as if slapped. “Eric Thomas Tremaine, you start making sense, or I’m calling the doctor, the GM, and an entire cavalry. You’re as red as a tomato, and you’re late for the elimination soccer warm-up. What are you doing out here, anyway? These doors lock.”
I draw in another ragged breath and then dig deep, pushing up off the oven-hot concrete and staggering to my feet. Talking is hard, so I make a shooing motion toward the door.
Luckily, Darcy takes the hint. She ducks inside, and I grasp the door and follow her through into the bliss of air-conditioning. “Did you move that brick?” I demand.
She whirls around and gives me a look of pure confusion. “Brick? You’re still not making sense. I’m going to bring you water and ice, and you’re going to the medical alcove.”
“No way,” I snarl. “I’m fine.”
Then I prove it by sliding down the interior wall like a drunk and pressing a hand to my heaving chest.
“Oh my God,” Darcy whispers. “What does a heart attack look like?”
“Not like this,” I say between clenched teeth. Believe me, I’ve checked. I’ve done plenty of googling this year after I began having these sporadic… episodes.
“You’re scaring me,” she whispers, squatting down as if to speak to a child. “I’ll be right back with…”
“No,” I bark. “Just… mind your own business for once.” The sound of her sharp inhale lets me know exactly how bad I’ve behaved. Aw, shit. “I’ll pull it together. I just need a minute, okay? Alone. Please,” I add, as if that makes me less of an asshole.
I risk a glance up into Darcy’s pretty face, just in time to see the hurt slice through her expression. But then she blinks, and her expression hardens. “If you’re not back with the team in ten minutes, I’m telling Coach Fairweather where to find you.”
At that, she turns on her heel and speed walks away from me.
Chapter 6
Shortness of Breath
Darcy
Come on, come on!” Zoe shrieks from the seat beside me. “Oh God, I can’t take this pressure.” Her fingers are white-knuckled on the armrest, and I don’t blame her.
The score is tied 2–2. Zoe and I are stressed to the limit watching our guys try to get an edge on Florida. Nobody wants to push this game into overtime. Not the sweating players in front of us, and certainly not me.
The last six hours have been a waking stress dream. First, Eric snapped at me like a grumpy rattlesnake. That was a stunner. I didn’t even think he had it in him.
Mind your own business, he’d said, and I’d felt it like a slap. Until that moment, some part of me had believed that Eric Tremaine wasn’t like the other men on top of the pecking order. That he was built different.
Then came a gut-wrenching decision: Should I tell someone that I’d found our captain gasping for breath behind the building? Would he die during game seven because he’s too stubborn to tell the team doctor he’s experiencing a health crisis?
The massive, inappropriate crush I have on him only made things more confusing. I didn’t trust myself to know what to do.