Low Blow (Shots On Goal Standalone Series Book 4)

by Kristen Hope Mazzola

  She giggled, shrugging. “What can I say? I just do.”

  “As you wish,” I teased, sticking my tongue out at her as I skated backward to get enough room to pull off her request.

  I set myself up, taking a few slow, deep breaths, counting to myself. Within seconds I was flying again, smiling at my mother as she collapsed where she stood up in the stands. I crashed down onto the ice as a blaring horn drowned out my music.

  My eyes burst open. Lights were all I could see—bright lights barreling toward us. I was strapped into the passenger’s seat. The windshield wipers were frantically trying to keep up with the pouring, freezing rain.

  I screamed as I realized what was actually happening. “Oh my God, Mom! A truck!”

  Crash.

  Darkness.

  Stillness.

  Nothing.

  Chapter 1

  Brayden

  “So, doc…” My eyes traveled down to the blue-gray speckled white floor of my sister’s hospital room as I gripped her hand tighter. “How bad is it, really?” I knew from how mangled the car was that I was lucky she was breathing—even if it was with the help of a machine—but I needed to find a shred of hope that she’d see morning.

  Watching Myla’s tiny frame clinging to life in that hospital bed damn near broke me. Most of the time, I prided myself on being the tough one in the family, but right then and there I was crumbling into a pile of useless emotions, praying for this to all be one sick, twisted nightmare that I needed to wake from.

  The young doctor with a thick red beard put his hand on my shoulder, frowning. “We’re going to do everything we can to save her, Mr. Cox. Go home and get some sleep. We will know more in the morning.”

  I nodded, willing my eyes to travel up my sister’s bedside. The site of a breathing tube coming out of her mouth and the beeping of the machine that was acting as her lungs made my stomach lurch. The cuts and scratches that dappled her fair skin didn’t do the severity of the crash justice. Both of her eyes were black and blue, her cheeks were swollen, and too many bones in her body were shattered. It was purely a miracle that the first responders were able to get her out of the car, let alone stabilize her enough to get her to the hospital and into surgery in time, but they managed it somehow.

  I squeezed her hand one last time, bending down and whispering into her ear, “Myla, if you can hear me, please fight. Please be strong. You’re all I got left. I love you, sis.” I cursed the tear that rolled down my cheek onto hers as I kissed my little sister’s temple.

  Squeaking sneakers sounded behind me. Turning slowly, I locked eyes with a short nurse in purple scrubs sheepishly walking into the room. Her petite figure reminded me of Myla’s, and she had a tiny bounce in her step that made her short, stick-straight hair sway side to side with every step. “Sorry, I just need to check on her.” She bit her bottom lip, looking down at Myla’s chart near the foot of her bed.

  Taking a few steps back to let the nurse do her job, I cleared my throat. “Is it okay if I stay the night here with her?”

  The nurse frowned with her entire tiny frame while shaking her head. “I’m afraid that’s not allowed in critical care, sir. Visiting hours start at seven and end at nine.”

  I glanced down at my watch to see that I was already overstaying my welcome by an hour. Failing at forming a smile, I shoved my hands into my pockets. “All right. I’ll be on my way.”

  Her kind eyes searched mine as more damned tears welled up and a lump the size of Long Island formed in my throat. “I’m Karla. I’m working all night.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a business card and a pen. “Write your cell number here. I’ll call you personally if anything happens.”

  With shaking hands, I did as she asked with more gratitude than I had thought possible. “I don’t really know how to thank you for this.” My voice was weak and fading.

  As I handed her back the business card, I realized how wobbly my hands were. The nerves and worry were starting to get the better of me.

  “Just try to get some rest. Here.” She handed me another business card. “Just in case you get worried during the night, my cell number is on there.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  In what seemed like the blink of an eye, I was making my way to the parking garage on autopilot. Everything was turning into a blur. Unlocking my car, putting my seatbelt on, putting the car in drive—it all felt like I was watching a movie, not actually experiencing it myself. Pulling into the garage at my parents’ house shocked my senses awake; I didn’t even remember pulling onto Elm Street or rounding the corner onto Addison.

  Throwing my keys onto my dresser, I fell back onto my king-sized bed. I didn’t know how I was still moving, breathing, thinking—I just knew I had to keep it up. Myla had to be all right and I had to be strong for her. In just one phone call, my entire life had flipped over on top of me, crushing every bit of my soul. All at once, it hit me—my anger, my rage, my temper. Within minutes, my meticulously manicured room rumbled into a mirror of the torment of my situation.

  After I released all the tension, a wave of realization flooded me. As I stood in the middle of my oversized room with the glass from my mirror scattered around the floor, blood coming from my busted knuckles, and a few new holes that needed to be patched peppering my walls, I couldn’t escape the reality of the day’s occurrences any longer.

  My mother was dead and my sister was in a medically induced coma because of her extensive injuries. The guilt was overwhelming. There was nothing I could have done to prevent the truck from running that stoplight or make my mother buckle her seatbelt, but I was the man of the house and the responsibility of protecting my family was mine to bear.

  The hours ticked by until exhaustion took over. I was startled awake by my alarm clock chiming loudly in my ear, and I realized I was still wearing my sweats and long-sleeved shirt from the practice I had been ripped away from when the hospital called.

  Checking my phone, I saw a few texts from teammates checking up on me, a few voicemails from my assistant coach, and a text from an unsaved number.

  Swiping open my phone, I read words that brought tears of relief to my eyes:

  Just letting you know, your sister did great overnight. I gave your number to the day nurse and will check in later to see how you two are doing. Take care – Karla.

  I quickly rattled off a reply:

  Thank you for letting me know. I am heading that way now. Hope you get some rest after a long night shift.

  After a quick shower, a few bites of cold pizza from a few nights back, and a call to my coach, I made the drive back to the hospital.

  Just be strong.

  Breathe.

  Deep…slow…breaths.

  Everything is going to be fine.

  She’s going to be fine.

  Myla

  Pain and confusion completely consumed every cell in my body.

  “Myla?” Brayden’s voice sounded miles away. “Myla? Can you hear me?”

  I tried to respond but nothing would come out. My throat was a desert begging to rain out words that formed questions and cries for help.

  My hair was being stroked, but my eyes refused to open to see who was caring for me. I pictured my mother’s dainty hand gliding over my thin blonde locks as my brother tried to speak to me.

  Where am I?

  Why does everything hurt?

  Why can’t I speak?

  Why aren’t my eyes opening?

  A foreign voice that was barely audible started to explain something to my brother. “…and that’s why she’s still really out of it. She will be in and out like this for a little bit longer. Why don’t we let her sleep some more and try back in a few hours?”

  Sleep sounded all too blissful. I felt like Scarlett O’Hara in the scene where she is at Tara and life is just all too much for her to deal with in that moment. “I can't think about that right now. If I do, I'll go crazy. I'll think about that tomorrow.”

  Soft beep
ing broke into my dream-filled daze as my eyelids struggled to open. Shuffling and footsteps were the next sounds I could understand.

  “Mom?” My voice was raspy and strained as tears started to fill my stinging eyes.

  My brother’s deep voice was kind. “No, My. It’s just me.” I could feel his fingertips brushing my long bangs away from my forehead and cheeks. “It’s nice to see you awake.”

  “What?” I started choking, gasping, and coughing uncontrollably. Everything hurt—my throat, chest, legs, stomach, back, face, eyes, lips. I was shivering and sweating. My body felt like it weighed a million pounds. If my hair could have hurt, I was sure it would have been screaming in pain at that point.

  “You were in an accident. Do you remember anything?” Brayden’s calm tone was freaking me out the most.

  The memories of the crash started to flood my mind and I started hyperventilating. “Mom? Where’s Mom?”

  Brayden’s fingers laced with mine as he started to tell me about the accident. “I’m so sorry, Myla. I don’t know how to tell you this.”

  My eyes would barely open and the tears filling them made it damn near impossible to see, but the pain on my brother’s face was something I would never be able to forget. That moment was seared into my brain—the split second when life turned into a complete horror.

  Grab your copy of Hat Trick now!

  All books by Kristen Hope Mazzola

  The Crashing Series:

  Crashing: The Wedding: Cali’s Story (Crashing #0.5)

  Crashing Back Down (Crashing #1)

  Falling Back Together (Crashing #2)

  The Unacceptables MC Standalone Series:

  Unacceptable

  Unspeakable

  The Hysterics Standalone Series:

  The Hysterics

  Colt & Serena: A Hysterics Short Story

  Shots On Goal Standalone Series:

  Hat Trick

  Cross Checked

  Cherry Picked

  Low Blow

  Standalones:

  Stupid Hearts

  Rough & Tumble

  Boxsets:

  The Crashing Series

  Lust & Love

  The Huntress Series (co-written with Dawn Robertson):

  The Huntress (Book 1)

  The Hopeless (Book 2)

  The Nameless (Book 3)

  The 69 Series:

  (multi-author collaborations for charity)

  Hook & Ladder 69

  Bleed Blue 69

  Acknowledgments

  Sometimes I do not even know where to start with these things. It takes a village to write a book. Yes, I sat down and typed every word about Griffin, Olive, and all the rest of the characters in this story, but without the help of so many people this story would have never been told.

  From my ex-fiancé who I was with for 14 years - he was a hockey player when we were younger and he helped me first come up with a hockey themed series one night at a Florida Pantherns game - to my author friends that let me bounce ideas off of them… that is where it all began three years ago. I really can’t believe that it has been three years since I first had the spark of inspiration to write about Gavin Hayes and the rest of the NY Otters.

  Then there are three incredible women who I would not be able to publish without: my alpha reader, Jordan, my editor, Caitlin, and my proofreader, Patti - they take the jumbled mess of my manuscript and polish that coal into a shining diamond.

  There’s also my publicist, Heather, who holds my hand through the entire process and is my cheerleader as I breakdown during deadlines. And we cannot forget Heather’s husband, Mikey Lee. He is hilarious, amazing, and has the biggest heart. From the first moment that I met that giant, I knew we would be friends for life!

  And ride or die, Dayna, that without her unwavering support, I would have never hit publish on any of my books.

  Not to mention Josh McCann and Lance Jones for making the gorgeous cover for Low Blow possible. Josh makes the perfect Griffin and Lance captured the image perfectly from behind his camera.

  And I cannot forget my parents who support me through the highs and lows of this industry, the readers who make it possible for me to continue to follow my dreams, the bloggers that pimp their hearts out just because they believe in my words.

  I am sitting at my computer crying happy, thankful tears to everyone that is in my corner, supporting and loving me through this roller coaster of a life path I chose to take. Thank you just does not seem like a big enough phrase to explain the gratitude I feel in my heart.

  About the Author

  Bestselling author, Kristen Hope Mazzola, lives in the suburbs of Tampa soaking up the sunshine while watching hockey or football at beach bars. She writes contemporary romance ranging from steamy romantic comedy, angsty new adult, all the way to sports romance – with dirty bikers, hot military men, and swoon-worthy rockstars in between. A portion of her royalties goes to the Marcie Mazzola Foundation.

  Stay Connected

  @khmazz

  AuthorKristenHope

  www.KristenHopeMazzola.com

  AuthorKristenMazzola@gmail.com