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Winter’s last message to her mom is that she needs time to cool off.
It still reads as unread. She sends another one, but it too will remain unread. I just don’t know for how long.
“The ambulance had just arrived when I drove by. They were taking her to the hospital.”
Even as she shakes her head, she asks, “What happened?”
“I think she fell, but I don’t have a lot of information yet.”
A look of horror crosses her face. “No.” She shakes her head and steps back, bumping into my Jeep. “No, no, no.” Her hand goes to her mouth. “This is because of me. This is all my fault.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I made him angry, and now she’s in the hospital.” She grabs my arms, nails digging in. “I need to see her. I need to see if she’s okay.”
“I’ll take you to the hospital.” I guide her around the hood and open the passenger-side door. She climbs in, hand over her mouth, eyes wide with worry.
I zip up her backpack and toss it in the trunk since it’s full of liquor bottles. Once I clip her bike to the rack, I rush around to the driver’s side. I turn the engine over and adjust the volume on the stereo so Robert Smith isn’t belting out “Pictures of You,” and instead, it’s just soft background noise.
“I’m scared, BJ,” she whispers.
I set my hand palm-up on the center console. “I know. I wish I had more information. We’ll be there soon, and then we can find out what’s going on.”
She laces her fingers with mine. “I shouldn’t have left her alone with him.”
“I know you’re used to holding the blame, but you had every right to get out of there. Parents aren’t supposed to rip their kids apart for making mistakes.”
“I just need her to be okay. She has to be okay,” Winter murmurs.
I don’t tell her everything will be fine, because I don’t know if that’s true. When we get to the hospital, a nurse tells us Winter’s mom is in surgery.
“Surgery? What kind of surgery? What happened?”
“She took a nasty fall and broke her arm and her leg in multiple places. They’re putting in pins and plates.”
“Is she going to be okay?”
“The doctors will be able to update you in a couple of hours. I can show you to the waiting room, if you’d like. Your dad is already here.”
She turns to me, eyes wide.
“That’d be great,” I tell the nurse. “I got you, Snowflake. You don’t have to do this on your own.”
We follow the nurse down the hall.
“I don’t know how we’re going to afford this. I don’t know what my dad’s plan at the ice cream factory will cover,” she whispers.
My mom is Canadian and so is my uncle Alex, so healthcare has always been a huge part of the Hockey Academy, especially since so many players are subsidized. “The Hockey Academy has a family fund. It’s specifically for situations like these. My dad will be able to help.”
“I hope we don’t lose the cabin,” she murmurs.
“You won’t. They won’t let that happen.”
When we reach the waiting room, the nurse tells us she’ll be back with an update as soon as she can. Winter’s dad is stretched across three chairs. He’s wearing worn, grass-stained jeans and a holey T-shirt. The room smells like an ashtray and a brewery. One of his shoes is on the floor, and his big toe pokes out of a hole in his sock. A pack of smokes peeks out of his jeans pocket, and his mouth hangs open. He’s fast asleep.
Winter grinds her teeth as she unlaces our fingers and pokes him in the shoulder. “Dad. Wake up.”
He startles and sits up in a rush. “The fuck is wrong with you? You don’t wake me up when I’m sleeping.” His eyes dart around as he takes in his surroundings. For a moment he looks confused, but when he sees me, his eyes narrow. He scrubs a hand over his face. “’Bout time you finally got here. I left you a voicemail a long time ago.”
