POV: Mark
The hockey stick hit the wall and snapped clean in half.
Mark stood in the middle of his hotel room, chest heaving, staring at the two pieces on the floor. His favorite stick. The one he had used in the playoff run two seasons ago. The one with the tape job he had spent forty minutes getting exactly right before every game.
He didn't care.
He kicked the pieces under the bed and grabbed his phone again.
Briggs still wasn't answering.
That was the third time in twenty minutes. Mark had called, let it ring out, hung up, called again. Nothing. He fired off a text instead. Four words: Pick up your phone. Then he threw himself onto the bed and stared at the ceiling because standing still was the only thing he had left to try.
He had been awake for thirty-one hours.
