when I wake up the next morning. I may have gotten drunk last night with the team, drowning our sorrows at losing the game that doesn’t matter in the standings, and the feeling of helplessness when it comes to Preston. Honestly, I feel better than I probably should.
Really, any reason for hockey players to drink, they will accept. Well, most of them.
Cracking my eyes open, I look over at Preston’s bed and see that he is not in it. That’s not completely abnormal, but glancing around, I don’t see any proof that he’s even been here. I force myself to get up and check for his suit in the closet since that’s the last thing I saw him wearing.
The hanger is empty.
Shit.
Unease starts to settle in my stomach, cold and anxious as I pick up my phone and find his number.
I click on a chat I didn’t know we had and find texts I apparently sent him last night that have gone unanswered.
Albrooke: Hey, you cumming tonight?
Albrooke: See what I did there?
Albrooke: Where are you?
Albrooke: Hello? Hola? Bonjour? Guten tag?
Jesus. Did I google how to say hello in other languages?
I scrub a hand over my face and tap into our team group chat.
Albrooke: Anyone seen or heard from Carmichael?
There’s a bunch of “no” but that doesn’t surprise me. I think I’m the only one who talks to him. Maybe one or two of our other D men.
Shit.
I tap back into my chat with Preston and try one more time.
Albrooke: Hey, you okay? You coming back to the dorm tonight?
I toss my phone on the bed and grab some ibuprofen for the headache, chasing it down with a full bottle of water, then slide my feet in my shoes so I can go get breakfast.
On my way to the dining hall, I check the gym and the ice rink just in case, but don’t see any sign of my missing roommate. I don’t know what to do.
I don’t know why Preston is so afraid of his dad but it has to be for a good reason. You don’t get that kind of fear over nothing. What am I missing?
I spend the rest of the afternoon attempting to deep dive into Carmichael’s life via Google and not coming up with much. His mom died during a home robbery gone wrong when he was ten, he has a sister that’s five years younger than him and in a boarding school in New England, and his father is basically the most well-known plastic surgeon in the world. Everyone expects him to be a first-round draft pick this next season because he’s terrifying on the ice. From the outside, he has almost a picture-perfect life.
But every one of these pictures I’ve seen of him, he’s hiding behind that perfect mask. The real him isn’t there. His eyes are empty and his smile is lacking warmth, if he’s smiling at all.
When dinner time rolls around and I still haven’t heard from him, I break down and text Coach.
Albrooke: Hey Coach, I haven’t seen Carmichael in almost 24 hours and he’s not responding to messages. Have you heard from him?
Coach: He’s with his dad, he should be home tonight. If he’s not home by lights out, let me know but I’m sure he’s fine.
How do I tell Coach that I’m worried about Preston because he’s with his father?
“Fuck!” I drop down on my bed, my phone dropping to my chest, and stare at the ceiling. I hate feeling helpless.
My phone rings with an incoming video call and I hurry to check it, sighing when I see it’s Stacy.
“Hey dumbass, what’s up?” she says when I answer.
“You called me, what do you want?”
It’s quiet as she stares at me.
“What?”
“No, you what. What’s wrong with you?” she demands. Damn it, now she thinks there’s something going on and won’t let it go until I tell her. She’s worse than our mom.
“I’m worried about my roommate. He didn’t come home last night and I can’t get ahold of him.” I shrug and sit up, running a hand through my hair.
“I thought you hated your roommate?” Ella babbles in the background and I smile a little at the sound. I love that kid and miss her terribly. She was my nap buddy when I still lived at home.
“I did, but I don’t know, he’s not so bad. Just intense.” I shrug again, trying not to think about the way he marked my skin the other night, the way he fucked me without mercy. How it was the best sex of my life.
“Anyway, how’s my girl?”
Stacy picks up Ella and turns the phone so she can see the screen. Her face lights up and she starts babbling a mile a minute like she’s telling me an intense story. I pretend to be intrigued by it, listening to every word and filling in any gaps with “no way” or “then what happened?”
Stacy glows as she watches her daughter animatedly telling me something. I love seeing it. I know Stacy has it hard, being a single mom, which is why I took the little rugrat every chance I could. Our twin brothers watch her when they can, and our parents help too, but it’s not the same as having a partner to share the burden with. Ella’s dad bounced out of town the day he found out Stacy was pregnant. She was devastated, but honestly, she’s better off. If he was able to drop her that fast, he wasn’t worth keeping around.
Before I know it, we’ve been on the phone for an hour and it’s time for Ella to go to bed.
“Night night, baby. I love you. Have a good sleep.” I tell her and blow her a kiss through the screen.
“Nigh nigh. Lo u,” she mimics and blows me a kiss back. Tears threaten to choke me when the screen goes black. I miss my family and I hate that I’m missing so much of Ella’s life. She’s changing so fast. By the time I get back home to visit, she’ll be an entirely different kid.
Checking the time on my phone, I’m more agitated that Preston isn’t back and we have two hours until lights out. I should go eat dinner but I’m too stressed out to eat. I’ve got anxious energy that I could put to use in the gym but my gut says to stay close to the dorm, that I should be here when he gets back.
I tap my phone against my palm, sitting on the edge of the bed, zoning out when the door opens. Spinning around and jumping to my feet, my knees damn near give out in relief when it’s Preston coming through the door. But my relief is short-lived.
In black gym shorts and a blue t-shirt with no shoes, he looks fucked up. Deep, dark circles under his eyes, his shoulders are sagging, and his eyes are bloodshot.
I hurry toward him but don’t know how to help him since he hates being touched.
“Hey, what happened to you?”
He’s leaning heavily against the door, his gym bag loosely grasped in his hand, like he’s too tired or weak to walk to his bed. I place my hand at his elbow to offer some support, his skin is cold, but clammy to the touch.
“Fuck off,” he snaps, turning those storming gray eyes to me and pulling his arm out of my hand.
Seriously? I’ve been worried sick all damn day and all he has to say is ‘fuck off?’
It’s probably stress from seeing his dad. Don’t take it personal.
“It’s dinner time, have you eaten?” His stomach growls loudly in the quiet of our room. I guess that answers that.
“Go lay down and I’ll grab you something from the dining hall.”
Preston looks at me like he wants to say something but doesn’t, just hefts himself off the door and to his bed. He drops the bag on the ground and curls up on his side with his back against the wall, not even removing his shoes first.
I sigh and pull them off, tossing a blanket over him, and force myself not to drop a kiss to his hair.
Getting dinner to-go is quick, especially this late since the rush of people has cleared out, so I can high tail it back to my room. I got him a few options, all of them healthy so I don’t have to listen to him bitch about it.
When I get back to the room, he’s passed out cold. I set the food on his desk in case he wants it later and settle onto my bed with my laptop. I should have been doing homework but couldn’t concentrate on it. Having him back, where I can see him, calms me. He’s not okay, that’s very clear, but I know he’s safe here.
I get about three pages into the reading when Preston starts to whimper and jerk aggressively under the blanket. Setting the laptop down, I get up and sit on the edge of his bed, unsure how to help him.
“Stop,” he mumbles, his head snapping to face the opposite direction. “No.”
There’s something very childlike in the tone of his voice and it breaks my heart. Is it a memory he’s trapped in? What kind of trauma did he live through that he had to keep hidden? Was there no one to help him?
“I’m sorry.” His voice is louder this time but no less innocent. “Please.”
I reach for his hand and rub circles over the back, quietly saying “Shhhh,” in an attempt to comfort him.
He jerks again, his arms coming up to protect his face, but in his sleep he misses.
“Preston,” I rub his arm since it’s the only safe space I know I can touch besides his hair.
“Ahhhh!” he yells, sitting up straight, wide wild eyes searching the room, and his hands grab onto my arm so tight I know there will be bruises in the morning.
“Hey, you’re okay,” I say softly, using my free hand to run my fingers through his hair and hold the back of his neck. “You’re safe.”
He’s breathing so hard I’m afraid he’s going to hyperventilate, but he blinks a few times like he’s just realizing where he is.
“Jeremy?” His voice is rough.
“Yeah?” I give his neck a gentle squeeze that I hope he takes as comforting.
“Down.” He lays down and pulls me with him, turning me until my back is against his front and his arms are around me. I lay my head on his pillow and relax in his hold. One of his hands finds mine and interlaces our fingers while he buries his face in my neck. He inhales deeply and relaxes, mumbling “safe” before drifting off to sleep.
The next morning, I’m awakened by a shove and almost falling off the bed.
Luckily, my reflexes are decent and I catch myself with a hand on the bedside table and a foot on the floor, but my heart is thundering in my chest and I’m breathing too hard.
“What the fuck?” It takes me a few seconds to remember that I’m in Preston’s bed. With my stomach on the mattress now, I turn my head to look into the pissed off face of my roommate.
“Get the fuck off me,” he growls in a sleep-roughened voice.
“What the hell is your problem?” I snap back, frustrated at myself for continuing to put myself in this same fucking situation where Preston ends up being ungrateful.
“You in my personal space is my problem.” He shoves me again and this time I fall onto the floor and glare up at him.
“If this is the thanks I get, I’m done helping you.” Forcing myself to move, I get up and head into the bathroom, slamming the door closed behind me.
What the fuck?
Why?
Why does it even bother me? He fucking hates me anyway so why do I keep trying when I end up with my damn feelings hurt afterward. I spend time worrying about him only to be pushed away and yelled at. I’m done with his shit.
