Ignatius pushed open the VIP door and led me into the service corridor that ran behind the stands. The walls shook with the noise of the crowd—half screaming in anger at the hit, half roaring because the Grizzlies were celebrating again. Another goal.
I barely heard it. My head was full of ice cracking and helmets slamming and the terrifying image of Cole not moving. Ignatius didn’t slow as he cut through a staff hallway. “They’ll get him off the ice. You know that, right?”
“He wasn’t moving,” I choked out.
“I saw.”
“He wasn’t—Ignatius, he wasn’t—”
“I know,” he said again, and for once he sounded worried.
We reached the restricted door. Ignatius flashed the same credentials I’d been given earlier—the ones that said I belonged here, that I was someone Cole trusted. The security guard nodded us through.
The hallway leading to the dressing rooms was chaos—staff rushing, radio chatter echoing, trainers jogging past with medical bags. I stumbled a little, but Ignatius kept me upright, practically dragging me the final few feet. He pushed open the Dragons’ dressing room door.
Empty.
Like a bomb had gone off and everyone had evacuated. My stomach plunged. Where were they? Where was Cole?
A trainer burst past us, almost knocking into me. Ignatius caught him by the sleeve.
“Armstrong?” he demanded.
The trainer didn’t even look up, just kept moving. “Already gone.”
It felt like the air dropped out of the room. “Gone where?” I managed.
“Ambulance,” the trainer said. “Left two minutes ago. Head injury. Possible loss of consciousness.”
Possible?Possible?He hadn’t moved. I grabbed the doorframe because my knees gave out. Ignatius caught me again, swearing under his breath.
“Hospital,” the trainer added, already halfway down the hall. “He’s on the way to Mercy General.”
Mercy General.
Cole wasn’t here. He wasn’t lying in the next room getting checked. He wasn’t on the bench with a towel pressed to his head. He’d been taken. Alone. Unconscious. A cold wave rolled up through my chest, sharp and suffocating.
Ignatius steadied me. “We’re going,” he said, no arguments allowed. “Now.”
“But I wasn’t with him—he left without me—Ignatius, he left—”
“Phoenix.” His voice cut through my spiraling panic. “He was unconscious. He didn’t leave you.”
But the words barely reached me. All I could see was Cole lying on the ice. Not moving. Not waking. Not opening those warm, steady eyes.
And all I could think was—
Please. Please be okay.
Mercy General was a blur of white lights, frantic footsteps, and the sharp bite of antiseptic hanging in the air. Ignatius kept a tight grip on my arm as he steered me through the sliding doors, both of us breathless from the run across the parking lot.
“We need the Armstrong intake,” he told the receptionist, voice clipped.
I hovered beside him, numb and shaking, trying—and failing—to breathe normally. Everything inside me still echoed with the sound of Cole hitting the ice.
Before the receptionist could answer, movement caught my eye. A tall, rigid figure stood near the doors to the trauma area, radiating cold authority like a winter storm.
Wells.
