Chapter 1

Avery

Deep breathing is my go-to coping mechanism when I’m having a panic attack.

It usually works.

Then again, when it works, I’m not crouched in a corner, hovering over the disgusting bathroom floor at one of Detroit’s hottest dance clubs. Every time I breathe in, the stench makes my stomach roll, and I feel like I’m going to vomit. Which only exacerbates the panic I’m trying to quell.

But at least I’m trying.

I press my forehead against the wall, hoping the cold concrete on my skin will give me relief from the heat searing through my body.

My mind races with my heartbeat trying to figure out what triggered the attack. One minute I’m enjoying the night, celebrating my new job with the Detroit Aviators hockey team by partying with my friends. The next, I’m hyperventilating and rushing to the restroom, trying not to slip on whatever it is that makes the floor slick.

Was it the heat? The crowd?

I haven’t been to a place this packed since my nineteenth birthday. The thought of that night doesn’t bring calming memories. Maybe the memory of puking into a pizza delivery bag on the way home gives other people the warm fuzzies, but not me.

It’s a hilarious story to tell, but I can’t focus on funny right now with the way my pulse pounds against my wrists. Being able to calm my heart rate at this point doesn’t even seem possible.

Hence, the panic attack.

I breathe in deeply through my nose and out through my mouth hoping to regulate my system. But the loud, bass-driven music pumping on the other side of the door doesn’t help.

How am I supposed to stop panicking when my body wants to keep up with the thumping beat?

I don’t know how long I’ve been in here. Time isn’t a concept when one monotonous melody merges into the next.

The burst of loud music alerts me to someone coming through the door. I turn my head slightly, watching as a group of women walk in. If any of them notice me at all, not one shows it. I’d be mortified if someone recognized me like this.

Not that it’s likely. I’m not that famous.

While I’m glad I don’t have to interact with them, part of me wishes it was one of my friends who came in instead of strangers.

Evidently, seeing someone tweaking out in the corner of the bathroom is common at a busy, trendy club. They probably think I’m on a bad trip from one of the various drugs available in this place.

Case in point, one of the chicks who just walked in stands at the sink snorting a line of coke off a compact mirror. The gagging and splashing sounds alert me to someone puking while the others fix their makeup and hair. Glazed gazes peer out under heavy mascara-coated lashes, completely oblivious to anything happening around them.

Once they leave, I take a deep breath before boosting myself up on the exhale. My legs feel like gummy worms, and once I’m fully standing, I lean my shoulder against the wall for support. Extending one hand out in front of me, I breathe in and slowly slide my fingertip up the outside of my pinky finger on the opposite hand. On the exhale, I trace down repeating the action on all five fingers—twice—before trying to move again.

The motion helps calm my brain and I feel strong enough to walk. I shuffle haggardly toward the sink and flip the handle up on the faucet as I lift my eyes to the mirror. The sound of water running into the drain helps drive out the rampant internal thoughts.

After letting it run for a few seconds, I run my wrists under it. The icy temperature shocks my nervous system back to reality.

My therapist would be proud of me for using so many of the techniques she taught me.

It takes a moment for the effects to kick in, but when they do, my breathing slowly returns to normal. Still, the heightened sensation in my body remains.

Time for a drink—or multiple. I know it’s a bad idea, but I need something to distract me from how I’m feeling.

Panic attacks are part of my life. If I stopped everything every time I had one, I’d never leave my bed.

Now that I’ve calmed down, I notice just how disgusting the bathroom is. Used paper towel and wet toilet paper litter the floor, sudsy water pools across the countertop, and a funky smell permeates the air.

Most of the other clubs in Detroit have an attendant handing out mints and tampons while keeping floor and counters clean. Then again, many places are running lean right now and it makes much more sense to have people serving drinks than having someone handing out paper towel and mints in the bathroom.

I glance at myself in the mirror one more time, brushing my fingers through my thick, brown, dishevelled hair. I was sure my entire appearance would be shot to shit after my stint in here, but thanks to long-wearing formulas and near-professional application, my makeup is still on point. Though my forehead could use a touch-up after contact with the grimy wall, I still look bomb.

Screw the haters who say social media influencers don’t have any real talent.

How many people have the skills to flip out on a nasty bathroom floor, pick themselves back up looking almost flawless, and get back out there like nothing ever happened?

Everyone’s trying to keep up with the Kardashians—whether they admit it or not.

Though my legs still feel like noodles, I’ve regained my composure enough to join the crowd. My heels click along the floor, echoing through the empty bathroom. As soon as I open the door, a mash-up of Andres Martinez’s latest Latin hit and a popular rap song I can’t name assaults my ears.

The beat drops and the intense reverberation shakes my chest. While I squeeze through the swarm, the DJ shouts muffled commands to make some noise. The crowd obliges, jumping around wildly while letting out a series of “woos” and screams. I press on, sliding through sweaty bodies, thankful for my height. Being petite allows me to slip through tight spaces easily.

When I emerge from the crowd, I beeline straight to the tall, dark, and handsome man who has exactly what I need. When I get to the bar, I roll my shoulders back, push my chest forward, and raise one hand. The bartender nods, sliding a beer across the counter as he heads toward me.

“Two shots of vodka and a Long Island Iced Tea, please,” I say, trying to ignore the anxiety slowly creeping back up.

“You got it, gorgeous.” He winks, setting two shot glasses front of me as he grabs the well vodka. Before he starts pouring, I place a hand on his. “Tito’s, please.”

He nods again and switches out the bottles.

I down one shot before he even fills the second one, then shoot that as he makes my Long Island.

After paying with my card, I slide a twenty onto the bar, winking at him as I grab my drink. Sipping slowly, I shimmy through the crowd to find my friends or a place to sit. All I really need is a few minutes to give the alcohol time to seep into my system.

As I scan the room, my gaze locks on an empty chair at a high-top table on the outskirts of the dance floor. I make my way toward it and hop on as gracefully as I can, ignoring the group of guys taking up all the other chairs. Though they’re loud, I can’t make out any of their boisterous conversation over the music.

It’s amazing how easy it was for my body to transition from overly anxious to complete chill.

Forget all the coping mechanisms I learned in therapy.

Tito’s is my new go-to.

I’m surprisingly relaxed as I take a sip of my drink, until one of the guys in the group scoots his chair closer to me. That part isn’t a problem, it’s his stare burning into the side of my face.

I ignore him, focusing my gaze straight ahead and zoning out with the straw between my lips. The cold liquid permeates my body, and I smile as that magical haziness kicks in.

I take one more sip before finally looking at the guy beside me. Though he’s got smooth, tan skin and a baby-face, he’s probably older than me.

Then again, I’m not the best judge of age considering I’ve had people mistake me for a twelve-year-old when I’m not wearing makeup.

The only indicator I’m above the age of twenty-one is the neon orange band around my wrist. I’m twenty-three, in fact, which infuriates me when I still get confused for a middle schooler.

“Long Island Iced Tea?” he asks, nodding toward the drink clasped firmly in my hands.

I look down at it, as if I need to confirm before I answer. “Yep,” I tell him plainly, looking back up—way up—to his face. The man is a tall drink of water as my grandma would say.

He’s totally hot, I must admit. The boyish features I noticed are early Justin Bieber—but his beautiful, black hair stands out. It’s a little shaggy for my taste, but falls nicely, like it’s been trained to do so. His blue eyes twinkle from either the lights flashing with the music or amusement at my blank stare.

“The name’s Owen. Owen Rayburn.” He shoves his hand out for me to shake.

Shaking hands in a club…okaaaaaay Dad.

I take the bait, removing one hand from my drink and offering it to him. His palm is rough and calloused. I try not to pay attention to how large it is, but I can’t ignore how it completely envelops mine.

“Avery,” I say.

He looks at me expectantly, as if waiting for me to continue. When I don’t, he shifts in his seat.

I look away, taking another sip of my drink. My body feels warm and jelly-like, and I fight to hold in a giggle fighting to escape.

He scoots his chair closer again, further away from his friends. They don’t seem to mind since most of them are scoping out the club.

I try to ignore him, but it doesn’t do me any good. If anything, it increases his interest in me.

“Avery. That’s a pretty name,” he says. “Avery…” His lips turn upwards in a smug smirk, which is slightly annoying. But not as annoying as him trying to get my last name. As soon as I tell him that, all hell will break loose.

“It’s a no from me,” I deadpan.

He snorts and bites his bottom lip. “Okay, Simon Cowell. I can take a hint.” He glances over his shoulder at his friends, and I almost think he’s given up. Until he continues, “But you’re too damn beautiful for me not to take a chance.”

When he tilts his head and gazes at me with dreamy eyes, I’m instantly ready to engage.

Damn—the man is fine!

“What’s it going to take for you to leave me alone, Cowboy?” I drawl, glancing at the Austin, TX written in scrolling script across the front of his shirt.

His face contorts into confusion. “Did you just call me Cowboy?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Rayburn. The music is a little loud and I thought I detected a hint of an accent.”

“If we’re talking aboot accents, I’m pretty sure I detect one, too, Princess.”

I laugh out loud, bending over slightly as I snort and choke on my drink simultaneously. He places a large, warm hand on my back. The touch makes my entire body tingle.

“Some people find it charming,” I say when I regain my composure.

“Oh, I am one of those people. Never could resist a beautiful Canadian girl.” He bites his bottom lip and squints. “Now what was that question again?”

I laugh and toss my hair over my shoulder. “I’ve changed the question.”

He raises an eyebrow and leans forward. I place my hand on his thigh and move closer. When my lips are at his ear, I ask, “What’s it gonna take to get you to dance with me?”

He slides a hand across my neck, gently holding my face near his. He holds my gaze. “How about your last name and your phone number?”

I know the first thing he’ll do is Google me, so my last name is off limits until I get to know him better.

Without sounding cocky—I’m a pretty big deal. Or, at least guys who have seen the Ralph Klein underwear ad I did think so. If they haven’t seen it, they get intimidated when they see I have almost three million followers on socials, and I’m not ready to extinguish this flirty conversation just yet.

I know I can’t give him exactly what he wants, but I can give him something.

“It’s either one or the other, but not both. Pick your poison.”

He opens his mouth in protest, but when I raise a singular brow at him, he makes no move to argue. Instead, he pulls his phone out and hands it to me, admitting defeat. I take it, making sure to slide my hand over his as I do. Then I input my info and hand it back.

He observes the screen for a moment. “Avery with two pink hearts,” he says aloud, mulling over how I entered my name.

“It’s kind of my trademark signature,” I say, looking past him at his friends. Though they didn’t seem to notice us talking at first, they’ve been staring us down. They keep glancing at us, then speaking in hushed voices, arrogant smirks adorning their faces.

One face sticks out because I recognize it. And he’s not smirking; he’s indifferent. Probably drowning in grief on the inside, just like me.

Heat rises to my cheeks and my shoulders and neck ache with tension.

Ding! Ding! Ding! Panic Attack Round Two.

I need to get out of here fast.

When I jump up, Owen watches me closely, his brows pull together. “Are you alright?” he asks, standing up slowly. “You look pale.”

His voice fades out as the familiar feeling of panic rises and a wave of discomfort spreads from my head all the way to my toes.

Without saying another word, I place my unfinished drink on the floor and high tail it out of there, squeezing through the crowd in a whirlwind to get away.

Fresh air will help.

I reach the doors fast, shoving them open with such velocity the bouncer has to step out of the way to avoid being hit.

Damn it.

I can’t even make it through one night?

I place my hand on the cold bricks to keep myself standing but lean forward and place my other hand on my chest, hoping that the sensation of physical contact will help ground me.

My vision zones in on my bare, tanned legs—the part not covered by my dress. At least I look hot while having my second mental breakdown of the evening. It’s freezing, but my body can only concentrate on one trauma.

“Yo!” I hear Owen’s voice behind me, snapping me out of my thoughts. When I glance over my shoulder, I realize he isn’t speaking to me, rather, the bouncer.

At the same moment, I realize I’ve buried myself behind a group of people who are standing in a cloud of their own cigarette smoke. The scent causes my lungs to restrict, making it even harder to catch my breath.

I take a few steps forward, using the wall to guide me, and duck into the alley between the club and the building next door.

The smell is weaker here, thankfully, but that’s when I spot a homeless man flopped out on the ground beside the dumpster. He mumbles to himself but doesn’t acknowledge my presence.

A shadow moves into the yellow light of the streetlamp cascading over the ground in front of my feet, and I look up to see Owen standing there, eyebrows still knit in concern and confusion.

“There you are,” he says when he spots me.

I huff in exasperation. “Leave me alone,” I grind out through clenched teeth, trying to keep myself from spiralling into total chaos again. It’s already difficult as it is, I don’t need some stranger watching me freak out.

He clicks his tongue on the roof of his mouth and bobs his head, looking down the street. “I don’t think I can do that.” He presses his lips into a thin line, looking back down at me with caution.

I try to contain the rage burning inside me and resist the uncontrollable urge to snap at him. I pause to collect myself, trying to hold back the nervous tears brimming my eyes. “Why is that, hmm?”

He leans on the wall, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “You’ve got some admirers around the corner. I overheard them saying you’d be an easy target,” he says with no sign of playfulness in his tone.

“Fucking bastards,” I curse, pinching the bridge of my nose.

He smirks at my foul language. “You’re lucky I came out to rescue you.”

My eyes narrow. “I’ve got eight years of Krav Maga under my belt. I think I can handle myself, thanks,” I bite back, fueled with anger by his flippant comment.

He looks taken aback but doesn’t say anything.

“I guess it doesn’t hurt to have some help,” I add reluctantly.

His perfect smile hits me with such force, it takes my breath away. Suddenly, I realize I’ve been staring at him for way too long and avert my gaze.

If he minds my ogling, he doesn’t mention it.

“Are you here alone?” he asks.

I shake my head, then clear my throat before speaking. “I came with friends,” I tell him, leaning my head against the rough bricks. Out of the corner of my eye, I see his mouth morph into a frown.

“Do you want to go inside and find them? I’m sure they’re worried,” he says, shifting slowly as if there are eggshells under his feet.

“Not yet.” I reach out and touch his arm. “I need a minute.”

My friends are in there having fun like I’m supposed to be doing. Had they known I was having trouble, any one of them would have been by my side. I’m not ready to go in and ruin anyone’s good time.

There’s a pause in the conversation, but it isn’t uncomfortable. Quite the opposite, actually. A strange sense of comfort takes over, and I realize how much better I feel. Speaking with Owen took my mind off the anxiety spike after seeing someone I hadn’t in years.

Chapter 2

Owen

“What happened in there?” I ask after giving Avery a few minutes to regroup. It’s none of my business, and it’s probably not appropriate to ask about, but maybe there’s something I can do to help.

Her mouth opens and closes as if she’s trying to find the right words to say. Or maybe she doesn’t know if she should say whatever’s on her mind at all.

“No pressure,” I add quickly. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

Her petite body slumps against the rough brick, as if defeated. She seems exhausted, and her whole demeanor is different compared to her playful banter inside the club minutes ago.

“I don’t want to keep you from the fun,” she says, avoiding my gaze by shaking her head and waving toward the club. She swallows hard as if trying to hold back emotion.

When I put my hands on her shoulders, she looks up at me. “You’re not keeping me from anything. I’m right where I want to be.”

Avery’s eyelids flutter shut, like she can’t be bothered to keep them open any longer. After a long pause she says, “It was an anxiety attack.”

The blunt, honest answer catches me off guard. I lean away from her to give her space, but when her shoulder slumps and she bites her bottom lip, I realize the effect my reaction had.

Her brows veer together and her plump, pouty lips slide into a thin line, and I can tell she regrets trusting me in the first place. Her gaze darts from side to side looking for an escape route.

“My mom used to have anxiety attacks,” I tell her quickly, as if finding common ground will help erase my idiotic reaction. Though throwing my mom under the bus makes my palms sweaty, it seems like the right thing to do to help Avery feel more comfortable. Talking about mental health isn’t taboo anymore.

Unless you’re a professional athlete.

Her head whips up, and she observes me with wide eyes.

“Her therapist said it was from the stress and grief of my dad’s death.” I shrug and rub my hands against my jeans. “I kind of had to be her rock for a couple of months.”

Her bottom lip quivers and she nods, as if she understands.

She started the blunt honesty game with a fierce competitor. People who have nothing to lose are as honest as they come.

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” she replies, her voice softer now. Something in the tone tells me she understands on a deeper level, but I don’t want to push.

“Thanks,” I offer a half smile, hoping she’s not a member of the Dead Parent Club because it’s not a fun one to be in. They don’t have meetings or rules or steps. They don’t even have a handbook for how to handle the awkward silence after you tell someone.

Then again, that silence allows me to hear footsteps coming toward us. My shoulders tighten and my neck tenses up. Instinctively, I move closer to Avery, shielding her as someone rounds the corner into the alley.

“You alright?” Millsy—AKA: my roommate Zach Miller—asks.

“Yeah,” Avery and I say in unison.

I glance down at her, surprised she answered. She’s rubbing her arms with her hands. She must be freezing from the wind whistling through the alley. I shrug off my coat and drape it over her shoulders.

“Thank you,” she whispers. As she snuggles in, I fight the urge to laugh at how big it is on her.

“Do you know her?” Millsy glances at Avery, but she looks away.

“Nope. We just met. But she jumped up and ran outta there so suddenly, I wanted to make sure she was okay.”

“Oh yeah. Makes sense.” Millsy rubs the back of his neck. “We’re, uh, we’re heading over to The Beaver soon. V’s being a fucking monster tonight.”

Yeah, well, that’s what happens to a person in crisis who won’t deal with root of the issue. Viktor’s girl left him less than a year after they had a baby together because she didn’t understand why he lets his psycho father have so much control of him.

No one understands it.

But there’s not much we can say. Viktor is a stubborn bastard, and his father is a scary-ass Russian who may or may not be involved in the mafia. I’m not stupid enough to ask.

“Yeah, I just—” I take a second to think because I’m sure as hell not leaving Avery alone out here. “Let me help her find her friends,” I whisper.

“Yeah, man. Of course.” His stare lingers on Avery as he takes a few steps back, then he finally turns around and jogs toward the club.

Avery is shivering so much her chattering teeth might chip a tooth. I need to get her inside.

“That was my roommate, Zach,” I tell her, looking at the top of her head. Even with the sky-high heels she’s got on, she barely comes up to my chin. “I’m sure you heard all that.”

She doesn’t say anything.

I clear my throat. “I’m going to walk you inside now, and we can find your friends. I’m not leaving you out here alone,” I tell her firmly.

One side of her mouth turns up, and I can tell she is holding back a smirk.

“Thanks,” she says, walking past me toward the doors. She seems to have regained her composure by the way she struts with attitude past the stares of the men smoking outside.

The music is deafening when we walk in, a head-pounding reminder of how much I’d rather be at The Beaver, our favorite dive bar, than here any night of the week.

When I turn back to look at Avery, she’s staring at the dance floor with a glint in her eye. I’m pretty sure she’s about to be swept away by the ebb of the crowd and the flow of the music when she grabs my wrist and pulls me into the sea of bodies.

“Rayzer!” Millsy shouts lifting his hands in exasperation. The boys are already crowded around the bar closing their tabs.

I shrug and let Avery steer me to the floor.

COMING SOON

Check out the rest of the Detroit Aviators Hockey series

All books can be read as Standalones 

About the Author

USA Today Bestselling Author Sophia Henry fell in love with reading, writing, and hockey all before she became a teenager. When she’s not writing, she’s hanging out with her two high-energy sons, an equally high-energy Plott Hound, and two cats who love to cuddle—sometimes.

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Sophia donates royalties from each book to charity!

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