Page 34 of Gabbi's Goalie

Atlaskeepsmeuphalf the night, making love to me over and over. I'm not complaining. Every time is better than the last, which shouldn't be possible because they're all perfect. He makes love to me torturously slow, and then fucks me with his hand around my throat and his filthy words ringing in my ears.

By the time he collapses beside me, too exhausted to move, I'm permanently settled on a cloud of euphoria, unable to come down. I expect him to sleep hard. I know he has to be exhausted after trying to get the car unstuck, walking here, and then making love half the night.

But he tosses and turns all night as if he can't get comfortable. Every time I look at him, his eyes are still closed though. His brow is furrowed too, as if he feels pain even in his sleep.

I finally fall asleep, only to wake up a little after dawn when he starts moving around. He looks worse than he did yesterday morning. But there's a contentment in his eyes that wasn't there yesterday, as if he's perfectly at peace.

I can tell he's hurting though. I have to call his name three times to get his attention as we gorge ourselves on protein bars.

"Are you okay?" I ask, the first inklings of serious worry setting in. We pushed too hard last night. He should have been resting instead of making love to me.

"Fine," he says. "My goddamn neck is killing me, though. I think I slept wrong."

I don't think that's the problem at all. Neck pain is a common concussion symptom. It's also a worrisome one. He should be getting better and experiencing fewer symptoms. The fact that new ones are presenting instead means he may not be returning to the ice anytime soon, certainly not a week and a half from now.

"How's your head this morning?"

"Pounding like a jackhammer." He grimaces in distaste. "Next time I decide to get in front of Reid and a puck, please remind me that I'm an idiot."

"Miles."

"Huh?"

"Miles hit you with the puck."

"That's what I said."

"No, you said Reid."

"Miles, Reid. Same asshole, different package." He waves me off as if it doesn't matter and then holds out his hand to me. "We should probably get out of here and head back to the car. If we have to do much walking today, we should start sooner rather than later."

"Yeah," I agree, vowing to keep a close eye on him today. As soon as we're back to civilization, he's going to the doctor. I'll knock him out and drag him myself if I have to do it.

We dress quickly and then repack everything into our bags. I try to convince him to let me carry them, but he refuses, just like he did last night.

Within twenty minutes, we're ready to head out. I exit the cabin ahead of him, taking my first good look around. The woods march right up to the edge of the cabin, leaving very little cleared space around it. In the light of day, it looks less murdery than it did last night…but not nearly enough to convince me that it isn't haunted by the ghost of some crazed woodsman. Unfortunately, it looks far worse for wear too. I don't think it's been used regularly in a long time.

The porch is rotted, the wood giving way in places. One big section is soft under my feet. I hurry my steps in search of more solid ground.

"Be careful," I call back to Atlas. "The porch isn't holding up well."

"At least the cabin didn't fall down around us," he mutters as if that were a real possibility.

I step onto solid ground, breathing a sigh of relief. I didn't even consider the possibility that the structure could collapse. I'm kind of glad I didn't consider it. That would have kept me up all night.

An ominous groaning sound comes from behind me as I stretch my arms over my head. I whip around just in time to see Atlas crossing through the weakest area of the porch.

"You should hurr…"

One minute, he's walking across the porch. The next, the rotted wood gives way beneath his feet.

"Shit!" he curses, wobbling as an entire section of wood splinters apart beneath his feet. He jolts forward, trying to get out of there, but the porch isn't done collapsing. The plank where he intended to land cracks in half, the floor of the porch becoming little more than a gaping maw of splintered wood and rusty nails.

He plummets through the broken floorboards as others come loose around him. I cry out, stumbling forward, only to immediately jump back as the entire right side of the porch shudders and then collapses. It pulls away from the cabin with a loud roar of sound that sends chills racing up my spine.

I watch in horror as the wood topples, landing directly on top of Atlas.

It's over as quickly as it began. The loud echoes fade, leaving an eerie, terrifying silence in its wake. I hold my breath for a moment, terrified the cabin is going to come down too. But it stands firm, whatever wood rot took the porch not having worked deeply enough through the cabin to topple it.