CHAPTER ONE
LEVI
Ilook around the arena, listening to the muted sounds of the crowds’ roars – a low, electric buzz humming underneath my skin. Every seat is filled, Seattle’s white jerseys and Toronto’s blue blurring together. I love this shit. It’s what I was made for.
I breathe in and feel the slight bite of the cold air in my lungs. Shrugging my shoulders to loosen the tension, I bend at the hips and rest my stick across my thighs. I immediately lock eyes with Toronto’s winger – and my biggest rival – Christian Lawson, shooting him a wicked grin. My heartbeat is thumping loudly in my chest, the vibrations from the crowd pushing me to get the job done.
The stakes are high. It’s game seven in the third round of the play offs, and we’re deep into the final period. We’re now setting up for a face-off, as Toronto has just evened the score at two all.
The ref drops the puck, and Toronto gains possession. The adrenaline floods me, blood pounding in my ears as I immediately move into position, skating harder than I ever have before. My quads are burning, screaming in protest every time I push off the ice, but I force myself to ignore it. The season is on the line now – we need this, we’ve worked so hard to get here. We can’t lose now.
Every muscle is coiled and ready as my eyes narrow, locking onto the play unfolding in front of me. The noise fades, my mind quiet as my body tunes into the rhythm of the game. Come on boys, just one more goal. My eyes flick to the screen. With five minutes left on the clock, we don’t have time to spare, and I refuse to let us go into overtime.
Cole Taylor – my defensive partner, and one of my best friends – executes a puck steal with laser precision and starts threading through Toronto’s defence with ease. I skate up to meet him, calling for a pass while I’m open.
Every muscle is screaming, but that doesn’t matter – I just keep skating.
Collecting the pass from Taylor, I start to skate up the ice towards Toronto’s net – it’s a one-on-one. I’ve got this in the bag. I’m Levi fucking Carter, and it’s time I show them what the Seattle Rainiers are all about.
I wind up to take a shot and the next thing I know; my skates leave the ice. The hit comes out of nowhere. My shoulder slams against the boards first, pain shooting down my arm instantly.
The stadium has become a blur, the sound of the crowd dimming. I momentarily question where the fuck I am before it all comes back to me. I can only just make out figures of my teammates standing over me as I’m sprawled on my back across the cold surface.
I hear yelling in the distance, my heart stopping as I come to the realization that something must be wrong. Really wrong.
My head is throbbing and I'm slightly disoriented as I bring my hand to my shoulder, clutching it and instantly feeling that it’s out of place. Shit. My cheek is cool and wet, burning against the cold of the ice. I try to sit up just as the trainer’s rush in.
Overhead, I hear someone bark, “Carter, stay down and let us assess the damage.”
“I’m fine, it’s just a tweak. I can finish the game.” It can’t end like this. It can’t.
I hear my dad’s voice in the back of my mind, “Shake it off and get back in the game.” I’m not a quitter. I need to get back out there.
“You’re not fine, just stay still, alright?” The voice is softer this time.
I practically beg, “There’s only five minutes le–”
“You’re done, Carter. Let us help you off the ice now.”
The arena, which seats twenty-two thousand people, is silent as the trainers help me to my feet. I hold my right arm with my left, supporting my shoulder as I skate off the ice – my mind spinning with all the possibilities of what this could mean for my career. As I make it off the ice and walk past the bench, the pitying looks I receive from my teammates and the fans fills me with dread, reinforcing what I can’t seem to admit to myself – I’m done. At least for a while.
Walking down the tunnel, I hear the game continue and turn to white noise behind me as I enter the locker room.
…
The locker room is filled with a deafening silence, so much so that you could hear a pin drop except for the rustling sound of a couple guys putting their equipment back into their lockers. I strip off my gear until I’m in my base shorts, still feeling my shoulder throbbing as I move. This pain is nothing incomparison to the ache in my chest from this loss. We were so close. Months of work, and before I knew it, it was gone.
I met with the physio immediately after leaving the ice, for him to pop my shoulder back in. We lost the game, and now our season is over. My heart is heavy in my chest. This is all my fault. We should’ve had that game, but instead I got pulled and Toronto capitalised immediately.
As I wait for the team doctor, Sloane, to come in and tell me what the deal is, or rather, what my recovery is going to be like, Hudson Moore – our centre and another one of my best friends – slaps my good shoulder as he walks by me to his locker.
“Just wanted out of the preseason training, did ya?” He jokes.
I don’t answer. I can’t. I’m scared – I don’t know where this leaves me now.
I catch sight of Sloane walking in and turn to face her. Glancing down to her hand, I notice the sling she’s holding. Looking back up to her eyes, which won’t meet mine, I can tell this is going to be bad news.
“Carter,” she swallows nervously, clearing her throat before she continues, “as you know, your shoulder was dislocated, but we’re also concerned this has caused a labrum tear. We’ll need to get you into imaging to assess the possible damage, then we’ll talk rehab and recovery. Two weeks minimum in the sling before we start your recovery. We’ll call you in then to discuss the next steps.”
