“My—shoulder,” I gasp, unable to form more words as waves of nausea roll through me. “Something’s… wrong.”
I’m dimly aware of Rylan signaling the bench for help, and seconds later, Gabe and Joey, two of our trainers, race onto the ice.
It’s okay. I’m okay. It probably feels worse than it is. But when I try to move my arm even an inch, another bolt of pain stabs through my chest, and I fall back to the ice with a strangled groan.
“Don’t move,” Gabe says, kneeling beside me. “Where’s the pain?”
“Shoulder. Chest.” I gasp out as another alarming jolt of agony shoots through me when he carefully tries to assess the injury. “Feels like something… ripped.”
The guys gather around my net, forming a protective circle as Gabe shines that stupid, bright light into each of my eyes to make sure I don’t have a concussion. It’s not a fucking concussion, I want to snap at them, but I’m gritting my teeth sotightly I can’t speak. I’m worried the only sound I’ll be able to make if I unclench my teeth is another scream of agony.
“Think you can make it off the ice with help, or should we get the stretcher?” Gabe asks, and the fact that I have to think about it is one of the scariest things I’ve ever experienced.
“The stretcher? No. No fuckin’ way. I’ll skate off, or I’ll crawl off, but I’m not taking any goddamn cart.”
Gabe and Joey get help from Rylan, Austin, and Gino to hoist me to my feet. Gabe tries to give my fucked-up arm some support, but it doesn’t do anything for the tsunami of pain that’s swamping me. Every tiny movement sends fiery stabs of pain through me.
This isn’t good. I’ve never felt this type of pain before, so I have no idea what’s wrong, but it’s pretty fucking clear it’s bad.
Even though the pain is excruciating, there’s no way in hell I’ll allow myself to get carted off the ice like a corpse in front of a full house in Calgary. Not a goddamn chance.
“I’m okay, I got it,” I mutter when Joey goes to take my non-fucked arm to help guide me. He cocks an eyebrow at me, but I push off gingerly. As I make my way slowly across the ice to the bench, with Rylan on one side of me and Gabe and Austin on the other, Tanner skates past us, on his way out to take my place in net. Our eyes meet briefly, and his are filled with concern and determination. He’s ready for this.
“You got this, Rookie,” I manage to grind out as we pass. It’s what a good teammate would say, what a mentorshouldsay. But even as the words leave my mouth, my gut twists with the knowledge that this could be bad. Like, really bad.
“Hang in there, Lou,” Rylan says, his eyes dark with worry as he helps the trainers get me off the ice. “We’ll finish it for you.”
I can’t do more than give him a nod.
I get a round of applause from the crowd as I’m helped off the ice, and the last thing I see before disappearing into the bowelsof the Calgary Broncos’ arena is Tanner Sinclair sliding into the crease—mycrease—settling into position as the linesman gets ready to drop the puck for the face-off.
I’m in the worst pain I’ve ever felt, but the cold dread that’s snaking its way up my spine is almost worse. I feel like I may have lost a hell of a lot more than just this game.
Chapter 6
Tanner
Tap. Tap.
I hit both posts with my stick as I slide into the crease, a ritual I’ve performed thousands of times. The ice under my skates should feel the same as it always does, but it doesn’t. It feels charged.
This is it. This is my chance.
But it doesn’t feel the way it should. It hits different because of Lou’s injury.
The expression on Lou’s face as they helped him off the ice has me shook. Pain, we can handle—we all play through pain—but the look on Louis Tremblay’s face was more than pain; it was stone-cold fear. The goalie who once finished a period with two broken fingers and cracked jokes about it during the intermission looked like his world was ending.
Stop it.My job is to be ready. The starter went down; I’m the next man up. That’s thewhole reasonI’m here.
The ref drops the puck in the circle to my left. The Broncos forward wins it clean.
My heart hammers against my ribs as their top line cycles the puck. Their passing is fast and precise. I drop into my stance, trying to lock in on the black rubber disc, trying to purge the image of my starting goalie crumpling to the ice.
One of their wingers cuts toward the net. Our defensemen scramble, looking rattled. Gaudreau fakes a pass, then snaps a quick wrist shot. I react on instinct, getting a piece of it with my blocker and deflecting it wide.
Focus, dammit.
The puck cycles back to the point. I shuffle left to track it, but the geometry is off. My movement is jagged. I’m not seeing the puck; I’m seeing Lou’s eyes meeting mine as I skated past him.
