One fateful night brings Maddy and Quinn together, a night full of promises and regrets. Will these two find out the true meaning of love? Or will their paths separate, never to see each other again.
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Maddy's Pov:
The sound of crinkling wakes me. I open my eyes slowly, blinking to adjust to the light. My gaze sweeps across the room before settling on a blonde figure.
"Brock Boeser, professional hockey player? Is that really you?" I ask sarcastically, catching his attention.
He turns quickly, eyes wide. "The one and only," he replies with a warm smile, recovering his composure. Setting down a bag of chips, he keeps an eye on me as he pours a glass of water.
"Hi, Boes."
"Hi, sunshine. How are you feeling?"
I take the cup from his hand as he helps me sit up.
"I'm okay— in one piece, at least," I shrug.
Brock studies me for a moment before stepping closer and pulling me into his arms. "I'm so glad you're safe," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.
"Me too," I reply softly. "Where's everyone?"
"Quinn hasn't left your side since you got here. He was starting to stink, so I sent him home," Brock admits, rubbing the back of his head. I shake my head, a smile tugging at my lips. "Eve left about an hour ago to finish some work. Some of the boys came by, but you've been in and out of sleep."
"And Tyler? Brook?" I ask hesitantly, my hand instinctively reaching for my necklace. My heart drops when I realize it's gone.
"Wait—where's my necklace? Brock, I need my necklace!" My voice rises in panic.
"Hey, hey," Brock grabs my hands, holding my gaze. "Take a breath. Quinn has it—he found it."
Relief washes over me as I exhale shakily. "And... them?"
"They've both been arrested. Tyler needed emergency care since Quinn nearly killed the bastard—not that he didn't deserve it. But don't worry, he's behind bars now," Brock assures me with a small smile.
He pulls out his phone. "I'm going to call Quinn and let the doctor know you're awake."
I watch him leave, his figure disappearing into the hallway. My head falls back against the pillow. God, I hate hospitals.
...
The doctor enters moments later, a warm smile on his face. He looks young—only a few years older than me.
"Miss Jackson, good to see you awake. I'm Dr. Wesley."
"Nice to meet you," I offer faintly. "So, what's the damage?"
"Nothing we can't fix," he says, glancing at his clipboard. "You sustained a minor concussion, bruising on your arms and thigh, and a cut on your forehead that required stitches. It'll leave a slight scar."
I nod, processing the information.
"How are you feeling? Any headaches or pain?" he asks.
