CHAPTER 30
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Georgia
I opened the front door of my apartment at 6 AM, and Maggie rushed in. “Did you see the news this morning?”
She had on pajama pants with big red hearts and a T-shirt that said V is for Valentine, but the word Valentine was crossed out and underneath it was the word Vodka. Her hair was piled on top of her head, and what looked like yesterday’s mascara was smeared beneath her eyes.
“No, why?” I asked. “And did you ride the subway like that? You look a little nutty.”
She took out her phone. “Max was injured last night.”
My heart stopped. “What? What are you talking about?”
She typed something into her cell and handed it to me. A news segment showed a hockey rink with a bunch of players down on one knee while paramedics worked on a player splayed out on the ice.
“During tonight’s Hockey for Alzheimer’s charity event,” the reporter said, “Max Yearwood, the newest member of the LA Blades, took a spill. He went down during the second period while attempting a slap shot. No contact was made, and as far as we can see, the incident was not due to an injury. He was transported to Cedars Sinai where he is reportedly in stable, but serious condition. No word yet on what caused the All Star to lose consciousness.”
“Oh my God. Stable but serious? What does that mean?”
“I Googled it on the way over. It said it means he’s probably in the ICU for a condition, but his vitals are stable.”
I felt frantic. “ICU? What could have happened?”
“I have no idea. But you have that meeting downtown with the bank this morning, and I was afraid you’d hear about it on your way and get upset. So I came over to tell you.”
I sat, holding Maggie’s phone out to her. “What do I do? His family all lives out of state. What if he’s alone? Should I go there?”
“I’m not sure. I mean, you’re not together anymore. So technically, he’s not your responsibility. And the news could be blowing it out of proportion. He could’ve just passed out from being dehydrated or who knows—hurt his ankle, and that caused him to fall and hit his head.”
“Yeah, I guess…” My chest felt tight, like it was hard to breathe. “Maybe I should at least call him.”
“It’s 3AM in California.”
“Shoot.” I sighed. “That’s right. Well, my meeting is at eight, so maybe I’ll just go to that, and then by the time I’m done, it will probably be ten, which is seven there, and I’ll call and see what’s going on.”
“Okay.”
“Can I see your phone again? I want to watch the video once more.”
This time, I zoomed in on Max lying on the ice and ignored the reporter talking. He wasn’t moving. He just laid there, completely still, while people worked on him. It left me with an even worse feeling than before. We might not be a couple anymore, but I’d never forgive myself if something happened. It was my fault he was even out in California this early.
? ? ?
“Damn it.” I grumbled to myself as I climbed the stairs from the subway.
Max wasn’t answering his phone. I’d called him the minute I walked out of my meeting, which was twenty minutes ago. Both times it rang and rang, only to eventually go to voicemail. I hadn’t left a message the first time, but now I thought I should.
“Hi, Max. It’s Georgia. I saw on the news this morning that you passed out on the ice or something. They said you were in serious but stable condition. I just want to check in on you. Would you please give me a call back or shoot me a text when you can?” I paused. “I hope you’re okay.”
It was a two-block walk to my office. I’d had a knot in my stomach since early this morning, and Max not answering only made it worse. I navigated the busy sidewalk in a daze, not remembering the walk from the subway when I arrived. The thirty-second elevator ride clenched my stomach with anxiety. There was no service in here, and I didn’t want to miss Max if he called back. As soon as the doors opened, I rushed out and frantically checked my phone—which was exactly where my nose was still buried when I passed through reception without looking up.
“Georgia?”
The voice was familiar, but I couldn’t place it until I turned around. “Tate?”
At first, I was relieved to see Max’s brother. He’d be able to give me information about what happened and how Max was. But that relief faded when I realized what Tate looked like. His usual neatly groomed hair stuck up all over the place, the sides puffing out in a way that made me think he’d spent hours pulling it, yanking on the strands. Dark circles lined his eyes, and his tanned skin was now a gray, sallow color. I felt sick.