Love on Ice

Prologue Easton

Prologue

Easton

I can’t see.

Can’t hear, either—nothing but the thoughts in my brain and the thunk thunk of my head knocking around.

Still, I run.

Frantically, hoping and praying I don’t smash into a tree or twist my ankle falling into a hole, or worse, breaking something because my pace is fast and frantic.

This is literally the dumbest thing I’ve ever done.

Seriously stupid.

It’s dark—of course it is, I’m in the woods near the back of the high school, at the edge of a golf course subdivision but not so close I’m going to get busted for trespassing.

At least, that was the plan when I shoved this monstrosity on my head.

I figured wearing it would be easier than carrying it, but I’m having second thoughts about that, too.

Fuck, it’s hot in this thing, and excuse my language but it’s so damn hot.

So hot.

And could someone tell me why I chose to eat Mexican food for dinner? I feel it rolling in my stomach along with the nerves I’ve felt all damn day. All week.

All month.

I’m so screwed.

I continue running, the light of the nearby high school glowing in the distance, their athletic fields lit up like the Fourth of July as their girls soccer team plays under the bright lights.

Breathe, Easton.

Breathe.

I do, heavily.

It’s not easy with this thing on my head.

Seriously, damn.

In through my nose, out through my mouth, the spicy salsa I ate hours earlier lingering on my breath and dang near suffocating me inside this prison I’m trapped in, rammed on top of my head.

I dodge and weave best I can through the woods, branches slapping the plastic protecting my face, occasionally stabbing me in the chest. That’s protected, too, but only because of the massive pile of brown fur I’m carrying in my arms.

Thank god for that or I would be in rough shape.

My toe gets caught on a root and I stumble, catching myself just in time to keep from face-planting.

I stop; adjust the monstrosity on my head so I can see where I’m going, the lights in the distance appearing more…distant? Which makes no sense, I’m running in the right direction.

I think.

I was.

Crap, this thing is making it almost impossible to get a visual on my surroundings.

My heart pounds wildly inside my chest, beating erratically as if I were on the ice in an intense game.

“You got this, Easton. You’re almost home free.”

And now I’m muttering to myself.

Great.

Somewhere to my right—or maybe it’s my left—I hear a dog barking.

Smell the telltale signs of a charcoal grill. Burgers?

It’s hard to tell.

My stomach rolls again in one last act of betrayal.

Do not puke. Do not puke.

Do.

Not.

PUKE.

I suck in an inhale to keep my breathing in check.

In through the nose, out through the mouth, in through the nose, out through the mouth, in through the nose, out through the—

Stumble again, hitting something hard at hip height.

Fumble in front of me to gauge what that thing might be.

Wood?

A bush?

“Hey. You!”

Oh shit.

Oh no.

“YOU! STOP!”

I pick up my pace, choking down the vomit in my throat, adrenaline shooting through my entire body and—

Hit the ground harder than any time I’ve been hit by any defenseman or thrown to the ice during a game.

Whoosh.

The air leaves my body, the monstrosity partially leaves my head, the gust of air a welcome invader.

Yes. Thank god, I can finally breathe.

Still can’t see, though.

My hands move first, up to remove it, gripping the sides, pulling.

“FREEZE, MOTHER EFFER,” the voice commands.

I freeze.

But, like—mother effer?

Who says that instead of using the actual swear word?

I snort, despite the fact that I’m fucking scared.

Terrified, actually.

The sound of crunching leaves. Breaking sticks.

I’m incapable of moving another inch, but I can remove this helmet, if only to get more air.

“I said freeze, mother effer! Do what you’re told and you won’t get hurt.”

Do what you’re told and you won’t get hurt.

Definitely a female voice.

Sounds young, too.

A foot lands on my gut, causing me to gasp.

“You’re not the boss of me,” I force out.

A tsk. “You’re in my yard, a-hole.”

I don’t move.

Can’t.

“Take that stupid thing off your head so I can see your face.”

Pause.

“Do it or I’m calling the cops.”

Once again, I comply.

Lift the thing off my head, darkness making it impossible to see, especially when—

“Jesus!”

I’m blinded by flashes—a cell phone camera—one after the other.

Then the clicking of a tongue as my eyes adjust to what little natural sunlight remains. A porch.

A yard.

A girl from my senior class staring down at me.

“Well, well, well—if it isn’t the one and only Easton Westermann committing a crime in my very own backyard.”