Page 42 of Breaking Point (IceHawks #1)

Grayson

FRIDAY

BELLA

CONGRATULATIONS!!!

you played so well, you should be proud :)

GRAYSON

Thanks Blaze x

SATURDAY

GRAYSON

How are the gummy bears treating you?

Hey, just checking in, I haven’t heard from you. Is everything okay?

Bella?

SUNDAY

GRAYSON

I’m sorry if I’ve done something to offend you but could you please just let me know you’ re okay?

I’m starting to worry. Please call me when you can

Bella please

I’m coming home early

I run through the airport like a mad man and I don’t care. Couldn’t force myself even if I had to. The moment that final buzzer sounded I took off, not remotely concerned for the fine I’ll be sent for not turning up to post-game press.

Money feels like Monopoly in this moment. I don’t care how much I have to spend on an earlier flight home to Colorado, I don’t care how much the NHL will fine me, I don’t care about anything besides finding Bella.

Lucy texted after the game. I was already on my way to the airport when it came in that she hadn’t heard from Bella.

I’m grateful I didn’t have to twist Lucy’s arm for her address. I already had it from that first date I took her on and spat out the directions to the taxi driver. Yes, taxi driver—I didn’t want to wait even ten minutes for an Uber.

So that brings me to now, throwing down three hundred dollars, not caring that I just overtipped the guy that reeks like a chain smoker—it’s the least I could do for my frantic energy. The trunk is barely popped before I’m ripping my suitcase out and charging for her front door.

The lights are off, the house seemingly deserted, and yet her car is in the driveway. It’s dry beneath it despite the cold rain trickling down.

She hasn’t driven in it for at least several hours. I suppose that means nothing—she could have gotten an Uber—but something deep in my gut knows that isn’t the case.

I check the usual suspect spots for a spare key. I lift the welcome mat—nothing.

The ceramic frog that stares at me with a goofy grin—nothing.

The porch swing—nothing.

The pot plant—nothing.

The large suspicious rock by the side gate—nothing.

God help me, I’m about to break into my assistant’s house .

I suppose when I said I don’t care about anything, it also extends to breaking and entering charges. I highly doubt someone would ignore calling the police on a six-foot-four man lurking outside a woman’s house. If anything, it saves me time from calling them.

Though perhaps a small part of me doesn’t want to be charged with a felony, because before I know it, I’m sneaking into her backyard and trying all the doors and windows until my stomach plummets.

Not only is the back door unlocked, several windows are open, letting in the freezing rain that no doubt will turn to snow overnight. Slowly sliding the back door open, I check that my phone is in my back pocket in case God forbid something horrendous has occurred.

Maybe someone broke in and kidnapped her. If I was a kidnapper, I would want to take her. Who wouldn’t? She’s beautiful and smart and funny. Or worse, maybe a serial killer has been stalking her for months and took their time with her because I was away.

Perhaps it was a puck bunny?

Shaking my head, I feel like slapping myself at my thoughts.

Every light is off in the house. I flick a switch, relieved to see the power hasn’t been cut as light floods the kitchen. I’m not sure why I don’t call out her name as I snoop around her house. Perhaps some part of me is worried someone else is in here besides her.

Checking the living room, kitchen, and what I’m guessing is the master bedroom, I come up short, my eyes glazing over the furniture and knickknacks. I open another bedroom, only finding boxes piled high in a corner.

Maybe she fell and hit her head in the garage?

I turn, making my way to the garage, when my entire body freezes at a small whimpered moan. A split second is all it takes before I’m sprinting in the direction of the sound.

“Bella?” I call out frantically. “Bella?”

My breathing has turned labored, the thud of my boots matching the frantic beat of my heart .

“Bel—”

I’m cut off by a garbled string of words directly behind me.

I open the first door, revealing a closet, another linen shelf. Moving down the hall, I continue to check them all until suddenly one opens up to a bathroom and there lies Bella, ashen, shaky, and bleary-eyed, curled up in the fetal position on the bathroom tiles.

I’m kneeling beside her in an instant, running my hands over the length of her body as I’m trying and failing to see what’s wrong.

She lifts her head, the movement wobbly as she squints at me through pain-filled eyes. “Grayson? What are you doing here?” Her eyes widen. “Is it Monday already? Did I miss the flight?”

“Shh,” I soothe. “Tell me what’s wrong, Bella.” A daunting thought hits me. “Have you been here for two days?” I ask, my voice betraying how much fear is wracking my body.

She clutches her chest in horror. “ Two days? ”

She opens her mouth but immediately slaps a hand over it, the other clutching her stomach as she withers in pain. Suddenly, she dry heaves into the toilet, and I suspect there’s nothing left to come up.

Rushing from the room, I move through the kitchen, opening up drawers and cabinets until I find a glass and fill it with cold water, along with grabbing a rag from the linen cabinet I spotted earlier and wetting it.

I’m beside her in no time, getting her to take small sips as I lay the cloth against the back of her neck. She sighs with such relief my mind is whirling to try and find something to give her more of that feeling.

“Is it a stomach bug? The flu? Food poisoning?”

She shakes her head, taking another small sip of water. She tries to sit up but her hands and legs are shaking and it isn’t long before her face is twisting in agony as she curls into a fetal position again.

“Pain meds,” she whispers.

“Tylenol?”

She shakes her head. “Stronger. There’s a bottle—” She’s cut off by a gasp of pain, but clenches her teeth and grits, “White bottle with blue lid. Bedside table.”

I don’t need to be told twice. I’m rushing to the master bedroom I saw earlier, except now that I know where Bella is, my mind is able to process what I’m seeing.

This isn’t Bella’s room. I’m not sure why or how I know that for certain—perhaps the styling?

But there is no pill bottle with a blue lid.

However, there is practically a pharmacy sitting on the dresser across from the bed.

And not over-the-counter medicine, this is heavy stuff.

Someone in this house is extremely sick, and I don’t know why I feel so hurt that Bella never told me that she not only lived with someone else but that they’re ill.

Walking toward the other bedroom I clocked earlier, I put all my feelings and thoughts about what I just found out of my mind. Trying to help Bella is my main priority right now.

I enter the room with all the boxes and smell Bella. Her perfume is everywhere, lingering and sticking to the corners of the room. This is just more her .

It feels odd to be in her safe space without her here, so not lingering more than I absolutely have to, I find the bottle she described and rush back to the bathroom. Bella is still clutching her stomach and groaning in agony.

Dropping the pills beside her, I rub soothing circles up and down her back. “What’s happening, Bella? Should I call an ambulance?”

She shakes her head, talking through clenched teeth out of pain. “No, just bad month.” She inhales sharply. “Will be fine once I take these.”

My frown furrows so deep into my skin I’ll be shocked if it doesn’t stay like that permanently. “Bad month?”

“I have endometriosis,” she says through a gasp. “The medicine was far away and I couldn’t”—she gasps in pain—“move.”

I snatch up the pill bottle I dropped. Following the instructions, I tap out two pills, placing them in her palm before filling up the glass of water with the tap. I’m worried she won’t be able to swallow them with all the grimacing and gasping but she surprisingly gets them down quickly .

I’ve never felt so helpless before.

“Have you been here for two days, Bella?” I ask softly, horrified for the answer.

“I got stuck on the floor after I watched the game and—” She yelps as her body physically flinches, and then she’s lunging for the toilet.

The water she’s been sipping comes up, and it isn’t long before she’s dry heaving once again.

Because she hasn’t moved from this spot for two days , she has nothing else in her system.

She has nothing in her system. Pulling out my phone, I declare, “I’m calling an ambulance.”

“No! I’ll be okay, really. All they will do is send me home and tell me to take?—”

She tries to talk through another round of pain but it’s useless, I can see her body physically trying to expel the pain in her body. She’s shaking, breaking out in a cold sweat as another round of heaving ensues.

Shaking my head, I dial 911. “You could be dehydrated, most likely are. I’m not risking it, Bella.”

Lifting the phone to my ear, I quickly relay what’s occurred and how I found Bella, also conveying she has endometriosis, which is the first thing I google once I get off the phone with the dispatcher.

I’m shocked I’ve never heard of it before and become even more horrified the further I scroll.

By the looks of Bella, they don’t accurately describe just how much pain a woman goes through with this chronic condition.

Pocketing my phone, I decide I can go down a rabbit hole later when it doesn’t feel like she’s dying by my side.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” she whines. “Now I’ll have to pay for an emergency room bill.”

My head snaps up at that. “Your health is more important than money, and you won’t be paying a dime.” At her side glance, I say, “Let me take care of you, Bella. You need someone to take care of you.”