Page 213 of Risking the Pucking Defense

She was at work. Maybe something came up and she didn’t get to leave.

It’s probably nothing.

Trying to push my concerns aside, I pull up our message thread and let her know that I’m home and waiting for her.

Putting my cell on top of her dresser, I take off my shoes, strip my clothes off, and help myself to her shower.

I’m expecting to have a response from her when I get out, and my heart sinks when I don’t find anything, even more so when I discover that my message hasn’t even been read.

Pulling on a pair of sweats and a T-shirt, I pad back through her apartment, wondering what to do. If I sit down, I’m going to fall asleep.

Hailee and I messaged long into the night after our win last night, and once her messages stopped coming, I couldn’t settle. All my road trips without her are the same. It’s just not right to sleep alone. I hate it.

As I walk into the kitchen, I remember what we bought the last time we went to the store and search through the cupboards until I find it all.

With all my ingredients on the counter, I pull up the recipe that Freya sent me a few weeks ago, hit play on a playlist, and set about distracting myself by attempting to make cinnamon buns. It’s been years since I’ve baked anything. Rylee and I used to do it with our maternal grandmother as kids, but after she passed, we never really had a reason to. Mom is a great cook, but she’s not a baker. And when Rylee got diagnosed, there were always more important things to think about than making fresh cakes. Looking back now, I realize it probably would have been a good use of time and the perfect distraction from the pain we were battling through.

My heart is heavy with memories of times gone by with my sister as I work through the instructions that Freya told me I absolutely could not screw up. I’m yet to believe that could be possible, but I’ll keep an open mind.

I’m pretty happy with my dough when I drop it into an oiled bowl and cover it to let it rise. Maybe I can do this.

With my confidence high, I check my cell. But there’s still nothing from Hailee.

As much as I want to believe she’s got caught up in something, I can’t help my stomach from knotting with anxiety.

If she got called away, she’d have messaged me. She knew I was on my way. She’s read that message.

The temptation to abandon all this and head to the arena to find her is strong. I fight it as I wander to the balcony and step outside.

Every minute feels like an hour as I wait for her to respond, but it never comes, and as I roll my dough ready to cut into slices, there’s still nothing.

Once they’re on a baking tray ready for the oven, I can’t wait any longer and I shove them aside, leaving them to their own fate as I push my feet into my sneakers, pocket my keys and cell, and head out.

By the time I pull into my parking space beside the arena, I’m convinced that I’ve let my fears run away with themselves, and I’ll find her in the middle of an important meeting with Anthony, the team owner, or Grady, the GM.

But when I get to her office, I discover that it isn’t the case.

“I’m sorry, Hayden,” Maisie says softly when I ask about her boss. “Miss Caldwell left over an hour ago.”

My mouth opens and closes as panic races through my veins.

I mumble a thanks before spinning around and racing back the way I came. I call her again and again, but there’s nothing. And after checking a few of the places I think she might be, I end up back in the parking garage, none the wiser as to where she might be.

“Hayden Monroe, what can I do for you?” An amused voice flows down the line when Bea answers my call. “Everett, no.” She giggles, making my teeth grind.

I should be making my girl happy like that right now.

“Have you heard from Hailee?” I ask in a rush.

There’s movement down the line before Bea responds with what I don’t want to hear. “No. Is everything okay?” Her voice is suddenly more serious, and I hate that I’m now worrying her too.

“Y-yeah, I’m sure it’s fine. I was just expecting her to be at her place when I got back, and she wasn’t. She’s not at the arena either.”

“I assume you've tried calling her?”

“Yeah, she’s not answering, and my messages aren’t being read.”

“Shit.”