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Fuck, yeah.
Perfect landing. Once he came to a stop, he checked on his friends.
Two jogged toward him. The other one dangled from his parachute, coming in at just the right speed.
Elation soared through him.
The three on the ground laughed their heads off. What better way to spend this final night together than clear skies, perfect weather, and a BASE jump?
I love these guys.
And you know what? Just because they were going off in different directions tomorrow morning, leaving him behind, didn’t mean he’d never see them again. Maybe he could go to Canada and play after all. Maybe he could help his family while he was playing.
Anything’s possible. He just had to figure it out. His parents’ news tonight didn’t have to mean the end of hockey. He’d totally overreacted.
Their parachutes fluttered to the ground, glowing in the bright moonlight. As one, they glanced up to watch Booker’s landing. He was coming in beautifully. It couldn’t have gone better—
Until a harsh gust of wind jerked the nylon, and a terrible sensation shot up Jaime’s spine. The hairs at the back of his neck spiked.
Turbulence twisted Booker like a rag doll.
The look of terror on his friend’s face made Jaime cry out, “No.”
His skin went hot at the same time his blood turned ice cold.
And then—
Jaime jolted awake. Skin slick with perspiration, heart racing, he jackknifed up. He had to go. Get out. He yanked the sheets off his body, but he was tangled. Trapped. He pumped his legs, fighting for release. “Fuck.”
A glimpse of the glossy black entertainment center and minifridge reminded him he was in a hotel.
Right. He was in New York City for the meeting.
It’s okay. Everything’s okay.
He covered his face with his hands. His skin cooled, and his pulse pounded wildly in his throat.
When would these nightmares stop? Jesus, no matter how many years had passed, he couldn’t get it out of his head. He wanted to go back. Stop himself from sending that text message and just handle the bad news on his own.
So what if he couldn’t play hockey? So fucking what?
But he couldn’t go back. Couldn’t change a damn thing about it.
And he couldn’t live with the guilt. It was tearing him apart.
What the hell was he supposed to do about it? How could he make it right?
You can’t.
You can never make it right.
Booker hadn’t wanted to BASE jump that night. He was packed, ready to report to the Los Angeles Cavalcade the next morning. He hadn’t wanted to go out at all.
If Jaime hadn’t sent that text, Booker would undoubtedly be a top player in the NHL.
But his selfishness had stolen that dream right out from under his closest friend.
And there was no way to give it back.
