Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 84294 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84294 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
“Don’t know, man,” I tell him as I continue looking around the stadium. “She texted twenty minutes ago saying she was here. She should be in her seat. It’s not like her to miss a game without telling someone where she is.”
The thought hits me like a freight train.
The sinking feeling.
It’s Cass. Something’s happened to Cass.
I take off like a bat out of hell, Bobby hissing my name behind me. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Coach demands, catching me at the end of the line.
“It’s Cassie. Something’s wrong,” I tell him. “Please, I just need to check if she’s okay. I won’t be able to concentrate until I know.”
Anger flashes behind his eyes, but he gives in and lets me go. “You have thirty seconds,” he says under his breath, clearly very pissed off, “then your ass better be on that ice.”
I take off again with no time for a thank you.
I burst through to the locker room and the metal door crashes against the back wall before slamming closed once again. I tear off my helmet and gloves before I’ve even made it to my locker, and I pull my phone straight out.
I call Cass and wait the agonizing moments for her to answer, but she doesn’t. The call rings out and goes to her voicemail. I try a second time and a third before I find Brianna’s number.
She answers immediately. “Aren’t you supposed to be on the ice?”
“Is Cass with you?” I rush out.
“No, why? She left ages ago.”
“She texted twenty minutes ago saying she was here, but her seat is empty,” I tell her. “She didn’t go home?”
“No, she’s not here,” Brianna says, slightly alarmed. “She would never miss your game.”
“Fuck,” I curse as I hang up the phone. I try Cassie’s number again and get nothing.
Where the hell is she? I tear off my skates before I can even figure out a plan, and within seconds, I grab my keys and am halfway to the door when Coach barges in.
“What the fuck is going on, Payne?” he demands as he blocks my exit.
I’m frantic and hardly have a moment to spare for him, but it’s out of sheer respect that I don’t push him aside. “Something’s wrong. I have to go.”
“Like hell you do,” he bellows. “Start talking.”
With an agitated groan, I let it out. “Cass isn’t here, she would never miss a game. I feel it in my gut. Something’s happened. Something’s wrong.”
He hangs his head as he thinks it over. He and I both know that if she were in danger and he didn’t let me go, he would never forgive himself. “Fine,” he grunts. “But you get your ass back here as quickly as possible.”
I’m flying out the door before he has even finished his sentence.
I run through the doors of the arena and fly down the stairs, only to stop at the bottom, thankful that she has a bright yellow fucking Beetle that I could spot anywhere. My eyes scan the whole parking lot and come up with nothing, before I remember she thought she was late. I rush around the side of the building to the athletes’ parking and find her Beetle parked behind my truck.
Relief surges through me. Maybe she was here all along, and I’m just overreacting, but that feeling still remains in the pit of my stomach. I take off toward her car, tripping over a black pile of something on the sidewalk as I go.
I reach down and pick it up to find a handbag, and I peek in the top to recognize one of Cassie’s notebooks.
Shit.
I look around and see spots of blood on the ground, and I know without a doubt my gut feeling was right. Something has happened.
I follow the trail of blood, which leads me to an empty car space, and I immediately think the worst.
I pull out my phone and hit call on Logan’s number as I sprint off toward her car just to double-check that she isn’t there. “Yo, fucker, what do you want?” he says into the phone. “Wait, don’t you have a game?”
I ignore his questions. “Have you heard from Cass? I think she’s been taken from the stadium. I found her bag on the sidewalk and a trail of blood that leads to an empty parking spot.”
“Fuck,” he curses. “Taken? Who the fuck by?” My mind goes to one person, and if I’m right, the bastard is going to be sorry. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Logan roars before going quiet for a moment. “Umm . . . Okay. We put a GPS tracker on her phone when she moved,” he tells me. “Does she have her phone on her? Is it in her bag?”
I rush over to my truck and empty out the bag’s contents into the back. “No, I rush out. No phone.”