I see it developing before it happens.
Garrett has the puck behind our net, scanning for an outlet pass. Colorado's enforcer—a hulking winger named Marchuk who's been running guys all night—builds speed through the neutral zone. He's not going for the puck. He's going for Garrett.
The hit is textbook illegal. Targeting the numbers, leaving his feet, driving Garrett headfirst into the boards with the kind of violence that ends careers.
The sound reaches me a half-second after the impact—a sickening crack that echoes through the suddenly silent arena. Garrett crumples. His stick clatters away. His helmet bounces once against the ice.
He doesn't move.
I'm standing. When did I stand? My hand is pressed against the glass partition—when did I move?—and I can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything except stare at the motionless figure in blue and gold lying face-down on the ice.
Get up. Get up. Please get up.
The referee's whistle screams. Players converge. Marchuk is already being escorted to the penalty box while Phil and Lucas shove at Colorado jerseys, but I can't focus on any of it. All I can see is Garrett, still down, trainers rushing across the ice with that careful urgency that means something is wrong.
Seconds pass. Five. Ten. Fifteen.
The crowd holds its breath. Eighteen thousand people suspended in collective dread.
Then Garrett moves.
It's small—just a shift of his shoulders, a turn of his head—but the relief that floods through me is so violent I have to grab the seat in front of me to stay upright. The trainers help him sit, then stand. He's wobbly, one arm wrapped around his ribs, but he's conscious. He's skating.
The arena erupts in applause as he moves slowly toward the bench, waving off assistance with that stubborn pride I've come to know so well. He disappears down the tunnel, and I finally remember how to breathe.
I sink back into my seat, pressing my palms flat against my thighs to hide the tremors. The game continues around me—we score again, the crowd roars—but I'm underwater, watching the clock bleed down until the final horn.
Emily says something. I nod without hearing it. Smile without feeling it.
The professional mask holds. It has to.
But underneath, my hands won't stop shaking.
The electric-blue fur of Steve the sloth catches the morning light streaming through my apartment windows, and I can't help but smile. He's propped in my favorite armchair like he owns the place—this ridiculous trophy from our perfect night at the arcade.
The past few days have felt like a dream. A warm, safe, intoxicating dream—punctuated by one heart-stopping moment at the arena that I'm still trying not to think about.Garrett texted me after the game:Bruised ribs, bruised ego, nothing serious. Stop worrying.I'd laughed through the remnants of my panic, typed back something teasing about his dramatics, and told myself it was fine. Everything was fine.
I pad to the kitchen in my bare feet, humming under my breath as I pour coffee into my favorite mug—the one with the little cartoon kitten. The steam rises like incense, and I inhale deeply, savoring this perfect moment of contentment.
This is my new normal. Secret happiness tucked into quiet morning moments. The afterglow of falling for a man I never imagined I could have.
My phone erupts on the counter, the ringtone sharp and jarring in the peaceful quiet. Brynn's name flashes on the screen, but something's wrong. She's facetiming me, not texting. And it's barely seven in the morning.
I swipe to answer. "Brynn? What's—"
"Hey, sorry it's so early, but the most bizarre thing just dropped onThe Sin Bin Scoop, and you're the only person who will appreciate how dumb it is." Her voice bubbles with the energy of someone who's already had too much caffeine and found something deliciously ridiculous to dissect.
My shoulders relax. This is normal Brynn—the Sports National reporter whose cult-favorite podcast is where she really lives for the industry gossip and dismantling the team-approved PR spin she has to tolerate all day.
"What kind of dumb?" I ask, settling against the counter. "Scale of one to 'Torres tried to trademark his own celebration dance.'"
"Oh, this is peak Torres-level stupidity. Get this—they're running a blind item about 'a certain alternate captain' on the Mammoths getting cozy with an 'ambitious, petite redhead in the marketing department.'" Her laugh cracklesthrough the speaker. "I mean, how ridiculously specific and obviously fake is that? They're not even trying to hide that they're just making shit up to stir the pot. The word 'ambitious' alone—like, could they be more transparent about their misogyny?"
The coffee mug freezes halfway to my lips.
Alternate captain. Petite redhead. Marketing department. Ambitious.
The words slice through my contentment like razor blades through silk. Each detail lands with surgical precision, describing me so perfectly it's like they had a photograph.
