Falling for the Assist (The Amber Falls Hockey #1)

CHAPTER ONE

Easton

The reporter's voice grated like nails on a chalkboard.

"Easton! Is it true you're washed up? Time to hang up the skates?"

Keep walking, Henley.

He stepped into my path, blocking the hallway outside the Shadow Wolves' practice facility.

"Come on, give us something. The fans want to know if you are going to retire before you embarrass yourself further?"

My jaw clenched. Heat crawled up my neck.

"Move," I growled.

"What about your father? Think he'd be proud of how his legacy turned out?"

The world went red.

My hand shot out before I could stop it, fingers wrapping around his throat as I slammed him against the wall. His eyes bulged, and the camera clattered to the floor.

"Don't you ever…" The words came out as a dangerous whisper.

"Henley!" Coach Martin's voice cracked through the air like a whip. "My office. Now."

I released the reporter, who slumped against the wall, gasping. The other journalists had their phones out, already recording, already spreading the story across every sports site and social media platform.

Trending before I even reached the coach's office.

"Sit down."

I remained standing, hands clenched at my sides. Adrenaline still pumped through my veins, making my fingers tingle.

"I said sit."

Something in Coach Martin's tone made me drop into the chair. Pain throbbed behind my eyes. It was the same spot that always flared after a fight.

"This is the third incident this season, Henley. The third." Coach Martin barely spoke above a whisper. "I've defended you to management. I've kept the worst of your outbursts out of the press. But this?" He gestured toward the door. "This I can't fix."

"So what happens now?" The words tasted like ash.

"Now? You're suspended until we say otherwise."

"You can't do that! We're only at the beginning of the season!"

"Watch me." Coach Martin leaned forward. "Get your anger under control, or you're done. I don't care how many goals you've scored. I don't care about your history with this franchise. You're a liability, Henley."

The chair hit the floor with a crack as I shot to my feet. "This is bullshit."

"Prove me wrong," Coach called after me as I stormed out. "Get help before you destroy everything you've worked for."

I shouldered past a rookie player and the assistant coaches. Their stares burned my back as I headed for the parking garage.

My key scraped metal three times before I got it in the lock of my BMW. My hands wouldn't stop trembling.

Finally, I got in, and the engine roared to life. I peeled out of the garage, tires squealing against concrete. When I got on to the highway, I went eighty-five in a sixty-five mile zone.

My phone buzzed.

Again.

Again.

My agent's number flashed on the screen each time. Sneering, I pressed harder on the accelerator as if I could outrun the consequences.

The Lake Chambeau exit appeared on my right. It was a rural road winding through farmland and forest, away from the city lights. Away from everything.

I yanked the wheel. The car swerved onto the exit ramp without signaling, without slowing. Behind me, a horn blared, but I was already gone, eating up the dark country road with reckless speed.

Out here, no streetlights. No other cars. Just me and the darkness and the rage that wouldn't stop burning in my chest.

Get your anger under control, or you're done.

Coach Martin's words echoed in my head, mixing with my father's voice, with the reporter's taunting questions, with years of pressure and expectations, and the constant fear that I was never quite good enough.

My hands gripped the steering wheel so hard my knuckles went white. The road narrowed ahead, trees pressing close on either side. A sane person would have slowed down. Would have recognized the danger.

I sped up.

When the phone buzzed again, I grabbed it, ready to hurl it in the back seat.

And that's when it appeared.

Something massive on the road ahead, barely visible in the reach of my headlights. Metal. Horses. A trailer pulled by a truck that had stopped right in the middle of the narrow road.

My brain registered the details in slow motion: the driver outside the truck, hands up in warning. The shoulder was too narrow to swerve around.

My foot slammed on the brake too late and too fast.

The world exploded.

Metal shrieked as my BMW's front end crumpled against the trailer. My seatbelt locked across my chest with bruising force. The airbag deployed with explosive power, slamming into my face like a punch from a heavyweight champion.

The impact spun my car sideways, and for a terrible moment, I was airborne, gravity losing its grip. Then physics reasserted itself. My car skidded off the road, the passenger side scraping against the trailer with a sound like the world ending, before coming to rest in the roadside ditch.

The silence afterward was deafening.

Stunned. Blood on my tongue. My face throbbed where the airbag had hit. My ribs screamed from the seatbelt's grip. Through the starred windshield, the trailer loomed. One whole side caved in; the door hanging at an impossible angle.

And from inside, the sound that would haunt me forever: horses screaming.

My door wouldn't open. The frame had bent on impact. I fumbled with my seatbelt, hands shaking so badly I could barely work the latch. Finally, it released. I crawled out through the passenger side, every movement sending fresh waves of pain through my battered body.

The driver was already at the trailer, yanking the damaged door open. "No, no, no," he kept saying, his voice breaking. "Please, God, no."

I stumbled toward him, my legs barely holding me. "I'm sorry."

"Stay back!" He whirled on me. Weathered face, late fifties, streaked with tears. "You've done enough!"

But I couldn't stay back. Had to see. Had to know what my rage had cost.

My phone. Right. Call for help.

My phone was still in my shaking hands. Surprisingly, it hadn’t been damaged in the crash. It took three tries to unlock it; and even more to dial.

"Nine-one-one, what's your emergency?"

"Accident." The word came out thick, my tongue not working right. Blood pooled in my mouth where I'd bitten the inside of my cheek. "Lake Chambeau Road, about two miles past the exit. Horse trailer. The horses…" My voice cracked. "The horses are injured. Please send help. Send everyone."

"Sir, I need you to stay calm. Are you injured?"

"I'm fine. The horses, you need to send a vet. Multiple horses. They're…"My stomach lurched. "Please, they need help now."

"Help is on the way, sir. Can you tell me your name?"

My name. Right. Because this would be on record. By tomorrow morning, everyone would know that Easton Henley, Shadow Wolves’ captain, had destroyed a man's livelihood in a fit of rage.

"Easton Henley."

A pause. Brief, but telling. "Mr. Henley, I need you to stay on the line. Are there any other injuries? Is the driver of the other vehicle hurt?"

The driver had disappeared inside the trailer, his voice low and soothing as he tried to calm the thrashing horses. The sounds coming from inside would echo in my nightmares for years.

"He's physically okay. But his horses—" I couldn't finish the sentence. What could I say?

"Emergency services are three minutes out, Mr. Henley. I need you to move to a safe location away from the vehicles."

But I couldn't move. I couldn't look away from the carnage I'd caused. My legs had locked, feet rooted to the dark asphalt.

"Mr. Henley? Can you hear me?"

"Yeah. I'm here."

"I need you to move away from the accident site. Can you do that for me?"

Move. Right. I forced my legs to work, stumbling back toward the shoulder of the road.

My BMW sat crumpled in the ditch, one headlight still burning, casting grotesque shadows across the scene.

Steam hissed from the crushed hood. The airbag hung deflated from the steering wheel like a funeral shroud.

Coach Martin's words from earlier echoed in my head. You're a liability, Henley.

He'd been right. He'd been so fucking right.

Red and blue lights appeared in the distance, growing brighter as they approached. The first siren split the night. Then an ambulance, its lights painting the trees in alternating crimson and white. Then, a large truck with veterinary equipment stenciled on the side.

"They're here," I told the operator, my voice hollow.

"Good. Stay where you are and cooperate with the officers. And Mr. Henley? Try to stay calm."

I ended the call and shoved the phone in my pocket with still-shaking hands.

The police cruiser pulled up first, lights still flashing.

Officer Benji Branson stepped out of the vehicle, his hand resting on his holster.

I recognized him from the recreational hockey team in town.

His hand, still close to his weapon, slowly relaxed as he inspected me; bloodied and swaying on my feet.

"Sir, are you injured?" When his flashlight beam hit my face, I flinched. "That's a lot of blood."

"It's nothing. The horses—"

"The vet's taking care of them now. I need you to sit down before you fall down." He guided me to the back of his cruiser, his grip firm but not rough. Professional. "Paramedics are going to check you out."

Two paramedics jumped out of the ambulance. The vet's truck was right behind them, and a woman in her fifties emerged, already moving toward the trailer with purpose. She had a medical bag in one hand and a sense of urgency that made my chest tighten.

"I don't need medical attention."

"It's not optional." He pulled out a notebook. "Can you tell me what happened here?"

What happened?

Such a simple question for such a catastrophic answer.

"I was driving too fast. He'd pulled over, checking his trailer lights, I think. I came around the curve and didn't have time to stop." The words came out mechanically, rehearsed-sounding even though I'd never said them before. "I hit the trailer."

"How fast were you going?"

I closed my eyes. "Ninety. Maybe more."