Chapter 89 TYLER
Peter’s mom’s car was not in the driveway when I pulled up, which meant she had already left for work and sent him on whatever last minute errand she had remembered on her way out the door. The house sat quiet behind its half-lit windows, wreath still hanging crooked on the front door from Christmas. I cut the engine and leaned back in my seat, adjusting the sling that still crossed my chest.
My shoulder felt better today. Not healed. Not cleared. But better in the way that made me feel almost hopeful instead of miserable. I flexed my fingers slowly, testing nothing more than circulation, and let my gaze drift toward the house.
Harper might show up to training later.
The thought settled somewhere low in my chest and stayed there. I hadn’t seen her since yesterday at the rink, since watching her cheer from the bleachers with Mark’s name on her lips. I told myself it was enough to know she was happy. I told myself that was the right way to feel.
Still, the idea of catching even a few minutes with her today made the morning feel lighter.
I checked the time on my phone, then glanced at the side mirror, fixing the strap of the sling again even though it didn’t need it. Peter was late. Which wasn't unusual. He’d told me to come pick him up because he wouldn't make it to my house in time after his mom sent him out for milk and he somehow came back with snacks, coffee, and a story, only for her to send him out again.
The front door finally opened, spilling warm light onto the porch. Peter jogged down the steps, jacket half zipped, phone pressed to his ear.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said into it, waving one hand like someone could see him. “I got everything this time. Yes, I already did everything on the list. Relax. Talk to you later, ma. Bye.”
He hung up and yanked the passenger door open, tossing his hockey bag onto the floor. “Sorry. Mom added to my list for getting the wrong stuff earlier and decided to punish me by making me clean.”
I smiled faintly. “You ready?”
“Yeah,” he said, buckling in and rubbing his palms together. “Training day. Then Kane’s place planning. Then food. Productive.”
I pulled away from the curb. “You still good for the cabin thing?”
“More than good,” Peter said. “They extended it.”
I glanced at him. “Extended how?”
“A full week now,” he replied. “Kane’s cousin cleared it. No schedules. No early practices. Just us, the cabin, and way too much free time.”
“That sounds like a disaster.”
“That sounds like recovery,” he corrected. “You’re not cleared to play yet. You need distractions.”
I laughed under my breath. “Coach would disagree.”
Peter snorted. “Coach approves. You’re the one with the problem.”
His phone buzzed before I could respond. He checked the screen, then frowned. “It’s Kane.”
He tapped the answer button and set it to speaker.
“Where are you two?” Kane’s voice came through, loud and rushed. “Have you heard?”
“Heard what?” Peter asked.
There was a pause on the line. “Mark got jumped last night. He’s in the hospital.”
The words landed wrong, like my brain had not processed them fast enough.
“What?” I said at the same time Peter muttered, “You’re kidding.”
“I’m not,” Kane replied. “We’re heading there now. Coach knows already. Says everyone needs to keep their heads on straight.”
I tightened my grip on the wheel. “How bad is it?”
“Concussion,” Kane said. “Some bruising. He's awake now.”
Peter swore under his breath. “Who did it?”
Kane exhaled hard. “Mark says it’s some Westbrook guys. He wasn't clear enough. You know how he gets when he's angry.”
My chest felt wrong, tight in a way I didn’t like. “We’re on our way.”
“Good,” Kane said. “Meet us there.”
Peter ended the call and turned to me. “Hospital. Now.”
I nodded and took the next turn without thinking, tires humming against the road as the quiet morning shifted into something tense and buzzing. Harper’s face flashed through my mind, then vanished just as fast.
The hospital parking lot was already crowded when we arrived. Kane’s car was there, along with Jax’s and two others from the team. I shut the engine off and sat for a second, breathing through the strange pressure building in my chest.
“Come on,” Peter said, already out of the car.
We found Mark in a shared room, propped up against white pillows, a bandage at his temple and bruising darkening one side of his face. He looked tired but alert, eyes lighting slightly when he saw us.
“About time,” he said hoarsely.
“Dude,” Peter said, stepping closer. “What happened?”
Mark shrugged carefully. “Wrong place. Wrong people.”
Jax crossed his arms. “You sure it was Westbrook?”
“They were wearing their colors,” Mark replied. “And I think I remember some faces.”
Coach Turner appeared near the doorway, arms folded. “That’s enough. I don’t want revenge plans. You settle things where you are allowed to. On the ice.”
Mark nodded. “I know.”
His eyes drifted to me. “Tyler, did you happen to see Harper last night? Or did she come by?”
My eyes narrowed into slits, worry squaring my features. “No, why?”
“I just thought,” he began, then stopped, shaking his head slowly. “Never mind. Forget it. I’m probably asking stupid things. They said my head took a major hit.”
Something in his tone made my stomach turn. Peter caught my eye, a silent question passing between us.
A nurse came in a few minutes later and told us visiting time was over. Coach ushered the guys toward the door, promising to check in later, and we stepped into the quiet hall. Billy frowned, breaking the silence. “Harper didn’t come?”
“Maybe she came earlier,” Kane suggested, his voice low.
Jax shook his head. “I live ten minutes from here. I’ve been here since last night. She still hasn’t shown up.”
Peter’s eyes flicked to me, concern written across his face. I thought about saying something in her defense, but before I could, Megan appeared down the hall, her mother close behind. Megan’s expression hardened the instant she saw us.
Peter nudged my arm gently. “Maybe she’ll have more information,” he murmured.
I stepped forward, giving Mrs. Lockwood a careful hug. Her eyes were red, puffy from crying, and a part of me felt guilty for worrying more about Harper than about her own son.
“Thanks for coming, Tyler,” she said, patting my cheek. She turned toward Megan, who was standing stiffly with her arms folded. “I’ll stay with Mark. You can hang out with your friends if you want.”
Once her mother was a good distance away, I shifted my attention to her. “Hey,” I said carefully, trying to keep my tone even. “I’m sorry about what happened.”
She shrugged, trying for casual. “Yeah, well, he’s fine now. That’s what matters.”
“Yeah,” I said, drawing in a breath as the rest of the team trickled past, murmuring greetings to her. “So, um, I wanted to ask… does Harper know what happened?”
Megan’s expression darkened. “That’s what we’d like to know.”
I frowned. “What’d you mean?”
She folded her arms tighter. “After Mark dropped her off yesterday, she texted him. Said she couldn’t sleep yet and asked if he wanted to come to a party.”
“A party?” I repeated, uneasy.
“Yes,” Megan snapped. “He went. Ten minutes in, he got jumped.”
The noise of the hallway faded around us. “Are you sure?”
“She texted me afterwards,” Megan said, her voice sharpening with anger. “A half-hearted apology. Said she couldn't come to the hospital last night. That when she’s back from her parents’ court thing today, she’d visit as soon as possible.”
“That’s it?” I asked, barely able to believe it.
“Exactly,” Megan spat. “No visit. No call to Mark. No proper apology from her side.”
I shook my head, the unease growing in my chest. “That doesn’t sound like her.”
Megan scoffed. “That’s what I thought too. But here we are.”
I searched her face, desperate for some clue, some explanation. “Maybe there’s more to it.”
“I hope so,” she said flatly, her eyes hard. “Because after everything, after inviting him out, she never even showed up to the party at all.”