"See?" Leila says. "Made of steel."
"That was terrifying."
"You'll get used to it."
Ace gets to his feet with help from Wall and Petrov, and he skates off the ice slowly, carefully. He looks okay—steady on his skates, moving under his own power—but something's not right. I can tell even from here.
He goes to the bench and sits down, and I watch him like a hawk, trying to determine if he's hurt, if he's in pain, if he should be in a hospital instead of sitting on a bench.
The game continues without him, and I can't focus anymore. My eyes keep drifting to the bench where Ace is sitting, talking to Coach, drinking water. He looks fine. He looksfine. But I won't believe it until I can see him up close and check for myself.
Then, with five minutes left in the third period, Ace stands up.
He's going back in.
"Oh, thank God," I mutter.
He hops over the boards and onto the ice like nothing happened, and within thirty seconds he's got the puck and he's flying.
He scores.
Then he scores again.
And then, with ten seconds left on the clock, he gets the puck one more time, winds up, and fires it into the net just as the buzzer sounds.
The arena loses its collective mind.
I'm simultaneously screaming, jumping, hugging Leila, hugging strangers, and my heart is bursting with pride.
The team piles onto Ace, celebrating, and I'm grinning so hard my face hurts.
But then, the pile disperses, everyone skating toward the bench, and Ace is still on the ice.
Then on his knees.
Then he collapses completely, face-down.
The arena goes silent.
My heart stops for the second time tonight.
"ACE!" I'm screaming, and I don't care who hears. "ACE!"
The team is rushing back, surrounding him, and the medical staff is running onto the ice, and everything is happening too fast and too slow at the same time.
I'm trying to get past Leila, trying to get to the stairs, to get down there, to get to him, but she's holding me back.
"Devon, you can't—"
"Let me go!"
"They won't let you on the ice!"
"I don't care!"
On the ice, they're rolling Ace onto his back, and he's not moving, and I can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but stare in horror as they signal for a stretcher.
CHAPTER 26
