Not a clean hit. Not a legal hit. A full-force cross-check directly between my shoulder blades that sent me flying forward, out of control, face-first toward the boards.
I didn't have time to brace. Didn't have time to turn. Didn't have time to do anything but slam into the glass at full speed.
The impact was catastrophic.
I heard it before I felt it. The crack of my helmet against the glass. The sound of something in my body breaking. Then the pain hit—white-hot and all-consuming, radiating from my shoulder down through my arm and up into my skull.
I went down hard, face-first on the ice, and the world tilted sideways.
There were whistles. Shouting. The sound of skates rushing toward me. But it all sounded muffled, like I was underwater.
I tried to push myself up, but my left arm wouldn't work. Wouldn't respond. Just hung there useless and screaming.
“Don't move.” Someone's voice. Tess, maybe. The trainer. “Stay down. Don't try to get up.”
I could taste blood in my mouth. My vision was blurry at the edges, swimming in and out of focus.
“Hartley.” Another voice. Closer. Desperate. “Jace, can you hear me?”
Grant. That was Grant.
I tried to answer, tried to say I was fine, but my tongue felt too thick.
There were hands on me now. Checking my neck, my head, my shoulder. Every touch sent fresh waves of pain through me,and I heard myself make a sound—something between a gasp and a scream.
“We need a stretcher,” Tess was saying. “Now.”
“Jace.” Grant's voice again, and I managed to focus on him. He was kneeling beside me on the ice, one hand on my good shoulder, and his face was pale. Terrified. “Stay with me. You're going to be okay.”
I wanted to tell him I was fine. Wanted to get up and keep playing. But my body wasn't cooperating. The pain was too much. The world was getting darker at the edges, narrowing down to a tunnel.
“I got you,” Grant was saying, and his hand moved to the back of my neck, steadying me. “Just stay with me. Help is coming.”
Rook's face was grim, Mace was looking ready to murder someone, and Finn's eyes were wide with shock.
The stretcher arrived. Hands lifted me carefully, and every movement sent fresh agony through my shoulder, my head, my entire body. I bit down on a scream, tasted more blood.
“Easy,” Tess was saying. “We've got you. Just breathe.”
But breathing hurt. Everything hurt.
They were moving me off the ice now, and I caught a glimpse of the Boston player who'd hit me. He was in the penalty box, but he didn't look sorry. He looked satisfied.
Rage tried to surge up through the pain, but I didn't have the energy for it.
The tunnel was bright. Too bright. The lights stabbed into my eyes, making my head pound worse. Faces swam in and out of focus—medical staff, concerned looks, someone asking me questions I couldn't quite parse.
“Jace.” Grant's voice cut through the fog. He was there, right beside the stretcher, walking with them. “Look at me.”
I tried. God, I tried. But my vision was tunneling again, getting darker.
“Stay awake,” he said, and there was command in his voice. The same voice he used on the bench. “That's an order. Eyes on me.”
I managed to focus on his face for a second. Saw the fear there, the barely controlled panic.
“Grant,” I tried to say, but it came out slurred. Wrong.
“I'm here.” His hand found mine—my good hand—and squeezed. “I'm not going anywhere.”
