It’s rare I’m asked that, even if it shouldn’t be. Most of the time, we stick to hockey and banter only.
“I’m fine,” I finally say. Foster nods, satisfied with my answer. Lance gives me a knowing look that screamsyou’re full of shit.
The clock ticks down, the atmosphere in the locker room thickening with anticipation. Pulling the jersey over my head, the fabric covers my upper body like a second skin. It’s anhonor I’ve carried for years. When the nerves creep in, the Woodpeckers red uniform reminds me why I’m here.
“Alright, Seaborn,” Jensen, our captain, calls out. “You ready for this one?”
“Always. Let’s do this.”
My teammates head toward the ice, their heavy steps echoing in the hallway. Taking a deep breath, I follow them out of the locker room, tapping the stick three times at the door—center, left, right. The guys start their usual chirping as we hit the tunnel. It’s chaos and comfort all at once. Our version of calm before the storm.
“Hey, Seaborn.” Foster’s voice carries across the rink, breaking my focus between stretches. “The first one to score gets to choose where we go for dinner.”
I throw him a quick smile and a thumbs-up. Even if all I want is to head home, crash on the couch, and sleep for twelve hours straight.
The third period starts and we’re down by one. Every guy on the bench has the same fire burning in his eyes, a hunger to claw our way back. It’s in the intense way we move and play.
My pulse hammers in my ears as I skate up for the face-off, channeling every ounce of energy into pure concentration. Jensen leans over the dot across from Kroft. Taking the position on his right, I chew on my mouth guard as I meet Farrington’s gaze.
His self-satisfied smirk twists in my gut. He carries himself with the smug confidence of someone who thinks they’vealready won.Typical. The guy is a walking penalty. Three minors tonight, and he’s still out here playing. He’s big, fast, and mean—exactly the bruiser type some coaches salivate over. A decade of cheap hits and questionable calls, yet the League hasn’t done a damn thing to stop him. Sure, there have been suspensions and fines, but nothing seems to stick.
What a fucking joke, especially since they suspended Jasper once for five games after he fought Westerholm on ice. If they had treated him fairly, Farrington would’ve been banned years ago.
The ref drops the puck and we’re off. Jensen wins it clean and sends the biscuit my way next. It hits the blade of my stick. Spotting the clear path to the net in front of me, I don’t stop to think, letting instinct lead me.
Farrington is closing in behind me, making me his prey. Because tonight, for whatever fucked-up reason, I’m the unlucky bastard with a target on me. From the corner of my eye, I spot Zimmerman wide and call to him before passing the puck his way. Then everything goes to hell.
A brutal force slams into my back, a freight train straight to the spine. There’s no warning, only a bone-snapping impact that hurls me forward. The breath gets punched out of me, and my feet leave the ice. I slam headfirst into the boards. The glass doesn’t give, not even an inch. Instead, it stops me, a concrete wall in my path. The crack of impact thunders inside my skull.
It’s all pressure and pain until I sense the foreboding shift. My helmet is no longer secure; the chin strap must have torn or come unclipped. The entire thing slides off and clatters to the ice beside me.
No protection. Shit. This is going to hurt.
I’m suspended in weightlessness for a heartbeat. Then gravity takes hold, and I drop to the ice like a marionette with its strings cut. I move my hands to cover my unprotected head, but it hits the hard surface with a sickening second blow. A white-hot burst of agony detonates behind my eyes, blooming across my vision in a blinding flash.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, a panicked voice screams,please don’t let me die in front of thousands of people.This can’t be the last thing they see of me, broken and helpless, laid out on the ice.
Most sounds cut out after that morbid thought. There’s no roar of the crowd or shouting from the bench. I can’t hear the comforting scrape of skates or the blow of a whistle or the clatter of sticks. The arena dissolves into distant static around me, as if someone has turned the volume all the way down.
The cold seeps through my gear as I lay there. It sinks all the way into my bones, making me shiver uncontrollably. The growing pain behind my closed eyes is a constant drumbeat, deep and splitting. My breath falters as I focus on staying present.
A voice calls my name, though the sound is distant and warped. I want to answer, I really do, but my mouth won’t move. My body refuses to listen, muscles frozen in place. The more I push, the heavier everything becomes, until the fight drains from me completely. And I surrender to the stillness.
Then everything quiets.
4
TEDDY
DECEMBER 5
The first thing I notice is the unfamiliar sounds—constant beeping, distant footsteps, and muffled voices. Then the agonizing pain hits, making me want to scream. I open my eyes, but what greets me stops me in my tracks.
I blink once. Twice. Three times.Nothingchanges. My vision remains shadowed, reminding me of the time I left contact lenses in overnight. Only this time it’s worse. I wonder if I forgot to remove the lenses after the club.
Wait, did we even go to the club post-dinner?
A tightness I have never experienced before clings to my skull, while a dull, unrelenting pressure behind my eyes pulses in time with my heartbeat. Swallowing hard, my throat feels as dry as the Sahara. My clammy skin prickles with unease.
