She hesitates, and I hear her take a deep, steadying breath. “Can you, um, can you come get me?”
“Now?”
She hesitates again. “Yeah, if you could. But it’s okay if you can’t. I can figure something out.”
“Where are you?”
“At the apartment. Second floor, 201.”
“I’m on my way.”
I end the call and stick my head back into the conference room to announce that I need to take off a few minutes early. Coach gives me a quick wave and says it’s no problem. And then I’m on my way to the apartment where I dropped Ana off last night.
Honestly, I never expected her to be back here. Sure, I gave her my number just in case, but I never expected her to use it. Especially not so quickly.
In fifteen minutes, I’m back to the same corner I dropped Ana off at last night. But instead of stopping at the curb and keeping the engine running, this time I’m looking for parking. I locate a spot and leave my Tesla on the street.
I make it up to the second floor and find the door to apartment 201 is open, just a crack. I take it as an invitation to enter, knocking twice as I push the door the rest of the way open.
“Kress? Ana?” I say, entering the space. It’s empty, just a quiet foyer.
I have no idea if Jason is here, and if he is, I doubt my presence here would be welcome. I have the strong suspicion that his girlfriend calling me for help would be a huge problem, and the last thing I need is to come to blows with my left winger in his own home.
We’re cordial enough on the ice, but we’re definitely not friendly away from hockey. First, I’d have to respect the guy, which I don’t. And any idea of getting to know him outside of the team was destroyed by the asshole display he put on last night.
At first glance, you might think we have something in common. We’re probably the two surliest bastards on the team, but the difference is—I know how to control my temper. I’ve never been the type to let my fists fly without pausing to think through the consequences. He gets into a lot of scuffles on the ice, whereas I only fight when absolutely necessary.
I hear a sniffle and then a distant voice.
“I’m in here.”
As I follow Ana’s voice and find her in the kitchen, I notice several things at once. The smell of something burning. Broken glass littering the tile floor as it crunches beneath my shoes. And Ana, crouched on the floor next to a cabinet with a smear of blood on the white tile at her feet.
“You’re bleeding,” I say, meeting her eyes briefly. They aren’t wet with tears like I expect. Instead, she looks embarrassed.
“I’m okay. I just stepped on some broken glass.”
My expression hardens. “He do this?”
Ana nods. “He came home angry. We fought, and he threw a glass against the wall.”
My gaze tracks up the wall where the force of the impact left shards of glass stuck into the drywall. It would have been about where Ana was standing before she sank to her spot on the floor.
Son of a bitch. He didn’t throw a glass at the wall . . . he threw it at her head.
My fists clench at my sides. Kress has at least a hundred pounds on her. On what fucking planet does he think it’s okay to treat his girl this way? To treat anyone this way? Let alone someone he should lay down his life to protect, care for, and . . .
A bark comes from somewhere deeper inside the apartment, interrupting my thoughts. But it’s not the bark of a guard dog, which is too bad. A guard dog might have done something to protect her. No, it’s the high-pitched yip of a lap dog. Maybe she locked it someplace for safekeeping while Kress went on his rampage.
Since I don’t do feelings, I go into captain mode, lifting Ana from the floor and setting her on the counter. Her bare feet dangle, one cut and bleeding.
“Where is your first aid kit?”
“I’m fine. It doesn’t even hurt.”
That’s the adrenaline talking. She’ll retract that statement as soon as she tries to put weight on it.
I meet her eyes. “I need to make sure there’s no glass inside the wound. Where is your first aid kit?”
She nods and then points down the hall. “In the bathroom cabinet.”
I have no idea where Kress is, or when he might be returning, but I focus on one thing at a time. Behind a box of feminine pads, I locate a first aid kit and carry it back to the kitchen.
Working methodically, I clean the wound and dress it in a light bandage. Ana stays quiet, watching me as I work.
“As far as I can tell there’s no glass in it, and it’s not deep enough to need stitches. But it’ll be tender for a few days, and you should avoid putting too much weight on it.”
She nods, her eyes watering as she stares back at me. “Thanks, Grant. I’m sorry, I didn’t know who else to call. My friend Georgia didn’t answer her phone, and I don’t know many other people I trust enough to come here, and who know what Jason is like.”
She doesn’t need to apologize. When I gave her my number, I was serious about her using it if she needed something, but didn’t expect it to be so soon—or to be for something like this. I’m just glad I didn’t walk in to find her . . . Fuck, I couldn’t even think of that.
“Has he done this before?” My voice comes out stern, and her gaze drops to the floor. “Ana, talk to me.”
She doesn’t reply, just keeps her eyes down and tries not to cry.
Fuck.
I take a deep breath, trying desperately to control my need to unleash hell on something or someone.
Fuck Jason. Fuck any man or woman who hurts the person they’re meant to protect. Fuck!
I shove the unused items back inside the first aid kit, snapping the plastic lid closed while anger continues to boil inside me.
“Pack a bag.”
“What?” She looks up at me again, confusion lacing her delicate features. Her eyes are wide with worry.
“You can’t stay here.”
“I know,” she says softly. “I need to book a hotel room. Or maybe I can ask Georgia if I can stay with her . . .”
“Pack a bag,” I repeat slowly. “We’ll figure it out once I get you out of here.” I offer Ana a hand and she accepts, lowering herself carefully from the counter. “Put some shoes on, okay?”
She nods. Limping, she disappears down the hall, and I’m finally able to take a deep breath to get my need to hunt down Kress under control.
I consider sweeping the kitchen floor, then decide against it. It’s his mess—let him clean it up, see his girlfriend’s blood on the floor.
Part of me almost hopes Kress comes home, because I would love to exchange some words with him right now. But I know it’s better for Ana’s sake if he doesn’t. She doesn’t need to experience any more trauma today, and she certainly doesn’t need to watch me beat the shit out of him.
Ana returns, still wearing a pair of fitted jeans that show off how slender she is, and the T-shirt she had on before. But now she’s in sneakers and an oversized green cardigan with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. She’s carrying a small white fluffy dog, and has a duffel bag slung over one slim shoulder.
Crossing the room toward her, I take the duffel bag and glance at the dog. “Who’s this?”