Page 13 of Actions and Reactions (All It Takes #5)

Ivan

It’s been thirty hours.

The fact I’m painfully aware of that is definitely a sign of trouble, I know, but how am I supposed to help it?

Am I supposed to not worry about Si when he was so obviously unwell yesterday?

Should I just stop texting him and hope he gets back to me when he can?

No.

Of course I’m going to worry about him, and of course I’m standing in front of his apartment door knocking incessantly. I’ve been here for a good amount of time too, and there’s been no answer at all. No sign that he’s anywhere near close to opening the door.

Or even conscious.

Could he have gone somewhere else ?

I checked the rink and the arena, and I talked to Gab and she said they haven’t spoken since Wednesday, which was the day before the wedding. I left everywhere in a hurry and shouted back pleas that whoever was there should call me if Si suddenly turned up.

I’ve gotten no calls, so I’m assuming no one knows where he is.

I didn’t think to ask the doorman downstairs if he’d seen Si, since again I was in a hurry when he waved me in without a care in the world. I’ve been here only a few times in the last month, but Arthur is a Pirates fan, so he knows me.

Does he even know I’m always here to see Si?

Has he seen him today? Has Si eaten? Can migraines be like, really dangerous?

My brain turns all the way off at that thought, and next thing I know, I’m kicking the handle and the door bursts open with a loud bang.

“Si!” I shout as I rush in.

I see no one in the main living room, or the kitchen, so I sprint toward his bedroom and again push the door open with enough force to leave a dent in the wall behind it.

“Si.” The catch in my breath at the sight in front of me comes from a cocktail of emotions that’s too complicated to even try to understand.

The room is completely dark, like it has been every time I’ve been in it before, but the difference this time is the look of absolute absence on Si’s face. His face that’s only illuminated by the screen of his phone, which is way too damn close to his face.

“What’s going on?” I demand, and he finally seems to realize I’m here.

How did he not hear me before? What is he watching that had him so focused? And aren’t people who suffer from migraines supposed to stay away from screens?

“Vin?” he asks, voice groggy and confused. “I didn’t hear you,” he mumbles.

I’m rooted to the spot for a long time, not knowing how to proceed, what the right words are, if they even exist, or if I should be more worried or less than when I was outside the apartment.

“I had to break down your door, Si.”

“Why?” His tone implies that I’m the irrational one in this situation somehow. He’s holding his fucking phone for god’s sake. He clearly has data or Wi-Fi, so why the hell didn’t he text me back?

“Because I was knocking on the door for more than half an hour and you weren’t answering.” I leave the duh unsaid, but my voice keeps rising with every word. “And you haven’t answered my texts. You left yesterday looking physically ill and haven’t told me anything today, so I was worried!”

“I’m all better.”

That’s one big fat lie if I’ve ever heard one.

This monotone voice is not like him at all. He always puts some kind of emotion into his words. I almost don’t recognize him .

I know it’s him of course, but how can he not be more freaked out by this?

I take a slow step forward and he keeps looking at me blankly, so I take three more steps until I’m at the foot of the bed.

After a moment where we only stare, I put one knee on the mattress.

He doesn’t react at all, so I climb all the way up and quickly toe off my sneakers, then crawl until I’m next to him.

“This is freaking me out a bit, Si,” I admit in a whisper.

Again, he only stares and blinks slowly at me.

“I don’t understand.”

“You’re acting like you’re not really here,” I protest, shuffling a bit closer. With the glare of the screen still on his face I can see the dark circles under his eyes, and I wonder if he’s even slept since yesterday. “You still have a migraine?” I ask when he doesn’t say anything back.

“No, I just don’t feel like moving.”

Like it’s that simple , I think with a mental eye roll.

But I really don’t know what to do here.

Suddenly he moves, though, and he... throws the duvet over my body as if he’s trapping me here next to him. I would never mind being trapped anywhere with him, so in a very sick way—at least I can admit that—I actually love that he does it.

“Come here and look at this.” He’s sounding more animated now, as he brings his phone closer so I can see too.

“I found this guy who combines different colors of kinetic sand, and he has like three thousand different videos. All I can think about is where is he getting all that sand from? And how does he have so many colors? And what does he do with it once they’re mixed? ”

I listen to him ramble about it for hours. Not only that but basically every other thing he’s seen on his phone in the last day.

I manage to wrap my arms around him at some point so he’s using my shoulder as a pillow, and I comb my fingers through his hair. I use slow motions, so hopefully it’s soothing, and eventually he falls asleep.

I’m not really tired, so I stare down at him. At his soft cheeks that have more than a little stubble on them. At his long dark lashes lying on his face like it’s a perfect piece of art.

I love him more in that moment than I ever have before, and I already loved him more than I thought possible yesterday.

When we were talking to my friends at a wedding, holding hands.

It was perfect, and we’ve been working our way through this, haven’t we?

The forgiveness part was dealt with and our relationship blossomed in the usual way, I think.

Now we’re here, where maybe things will get tough for a while, but we can get through anything, the two of us.

There’s something wrong, obviously, and even though I know I don’t have all the tools to deal with it, I still know that whatever it is, we’ll get past it.

Everything has to be fine, right?

And after that strange evening, everything is fine.

Our lives go back to normal. Si gets up every day and goes to work. He spends two days of the week at home, but that’s normal for people who don’t have strange schedules like hockey players.

Si gets all the praise he deserves for spearheading the remodel of our facilities, and once the whole project is complete, he’s the staff’s favorite person in the world.

Laney got an actual functioning office, all the other trainers also have an area for their snacks, the gyms are actually insane , and Jeff’s new equipment rooms made him shed a tear or two with how perfect they are—our PTs are over the moon too.

The tape-watching theatre has amazing new recliners as well, and yeah, our locker rooms are a dream come true.

And everything is so much more efficient, that we instantly get used to how things are now—where our new sweaters are, the damn towels, our skates, sticks... it all just makes sense.

Of course Si isn’t an actual designer, but he does know hockey even if he avoids the subject like the plague.

He knows what we need at the rink and at the arena.

Most importantly, though, he put the right people to work on it all, and I can see the glint in Gab’s eye when everything is unveiled that means she has big plans for Si.

I couldn’t be happier for him, truly.

By the time the second week of September arrives, and we’re having our last practice before our first pre-season game, well.

..I can’t say the team is as good as it was last season, since Santa and Charlie really were big losses, but morale is high as hell.

Which is why it catches me off guard when my phone starts going off in my cubbie just as I’m lacing up my skates.

I recognize the chime, so I reach for it right away.

I have a Google alert set up for everyone in the team and everyone in my family, and I’m not really surprised when I see it’s my cousin’s name splashed over countless articles.

It was his birthday yesterday, and I hate that my mind automatically goes to a scenario where he might have relapsed and caused all kinds of drunken havoc around LA.

The blood drains from my face when I see the picture of him kissing some dude in what looks like your typical hotel hallway. This can’t be good for him.

Fucking trashy tabloids, always wanting a piece of Wolf and Hawk. It’s a level of cruelty that I’ve never seen anywhere else in the world.

Worried more than I would be if this were a picture of Hawk, I’m about to hurry out of the locker room, but Laney’s coming in right then.

“Hurry up,” he screams, and I don’t slow my pace.

“Laney, I have a bit of a family emergency and need to make a call. Probably won’t take long”

He nods right away, but his frown tells me he wants to ask what’s happening.

I appreciate that he doesn’t, and scurry away to the new equipment room.

It’s empty, since Jeff is in the locker room making sure everything’s right with the guys, and that means I can make this call without having to worry about anyone else.

But of course Wolf doesn’t answer. The call goes straight to voicemail, and though I expected it—it’s such a typical Wolf thing to do—I still had to try, so I call Hawk. If anyone knows what’s going on it’ll be him.

“Vin, I can’t?—”

“I just saw the article,” I interrupt him. I know he’s probably scrambling and talking to their manager and PR guy all at the same time, but I just need to know he’s okay. “Is he okay?”

“I don’t know. He turned off his phone, I think. Why did he turn off his phone?” he snaps at me, but I know this is his way of dealing, so I really don’t take it personally.

“He’s Wolf,” I deadpan, and manage to sound somewhat soothing, but I start pacing. I don’t need to transfer any of my anxiety and fear to Hawk, he has enough of his own already.