PROLOGUE
Luke
Three Years Ago
Excruciating, blinding, unimaginable pain slices across the side of my face, rippling through my skull and leaving a scalding path in its wake. It’s hard to breathe. Hard to think. Hard to focus on anything except the throbbing in my head and the ice beneath my cheek.
My vision is distorted and the more I blink, the worse it gets. Is there something in my eye? A red film seems to be covering them. My hands are of no help clearing it away with the bulky gloves still firmly in place.
There’s motion surrounding me, screaming and fists flying, but it’s all suppressed. Like I’m underwater and watching it play out above the surface far beyond. The words are muffled, movements slowed. Something heavy hits my ribs, and although I think something cracks, pain doesn’t register there. Not compared to my head.
Someone appears above me, brow cinched in concern, mouth moving, but the words don’t reach me. The black-and-whitestriped shirt registers, and I frown. Why is the referee standing over me?
No, not just standing over me. He’s hunched over, hands gripping the sides of my face, grip strong even as they tremble.
Wait, how is he holding my face? Where’s my helmet?
“Don’t move. Luke, can you hear me?” The ref’s voice is muffled. “Stay still for me, alright? The doctors are coming right now.”
The doctors?
What the fuck happened? A moment ago, I was upright, in the crease, on my toes as a two-on-one breakaway came barreling down the ice. A reminder of patience repeated over and over as I tracked the puck, tracked the players, watching, waiting.
The shot came toward my left shoulder, shooting for the top corner of the net as they expected I would drop, but I waited them out. The puck ricocheted off my padding and…
And…
It’s black.
Was there a rebound attempt?
Did I cover it and stop the play?
How did I end up on my back, staring up at the ceiling of my team’s home arena?
Is that blood that’s blurring my vision?
Why is the ref trying so hard to keep my head still?
Where’s my helmet?
Everything fades to a dull roar. The fighting of my teammates and the other team, the questions from the doctors as they carefully move me onto a stretcher, even the pain.
Somehow, deep down inside the growing pit of my chest, I know that I’m going to appreciate it one day that I’m out of it right now. That I won’t remember this. Won’t remember the hit. The blood. The pain.
But most importantly, the moment I’m taken off the ice in an eerily silent arena, and the end of my career.
1
Luke
Inever went to college. Once my first NHL contract was signed at twenty years old for more money than I ever could’ve dreamed of, it wasn’t even a passing thought in my mind. Plus, classes were always boring and only took time away from what I wanted to be doing.
Playing hockey.
But somehow, all these years later, a college campus is exactly where I wound up anyways. The early-morning September air is muggy as it rustles through the trees lining the sidewalks between buildings. Haulton is an old university in my home state of Michigan and one place I never thought I’d visit, even though I grew up less than thirty minutes away.
The campus is full of red-bricked buildings and before winter sets in, beautiful, lush greenery everywhere you look. Intricate metal benches sit on the paths that students will soon be bustling around on, and at the center of it all is a large courtyard. It’s empty right now but not for long. Classes start next Tuesday, right after Labor Day.
