It’s a penalty shot, and there’s still a minute left. If they score and then get the puck back?—
I cut off the train of thought. I need to stay in the game. No need to get ahead of myself.
“It’s fine. I got it,” Wolfe says before I move back.
I force a smile. “You fucking better.”
He winks and gets into place.
Their best shooter lines up.
He skates in a zig zag, trying to fuck with Wolfe. The player pulls back, and Wolfe tilts his head up just a hair, and I know he’s got it. The player shoots left, and Wolfe is already moving, having read him perfectly.
I hold my breath as the puck flies.
But I don’t see where it went. My gaze flicks to the goal light, but it doesn’t go off. Both benches are standing assuming we’regoing to face off, but Wolfe drops to one knee, pulling off his mask.
I’m off the bench before I can even consider if it’s going to cause a problem. He’s coughing, yanking off his gloves, hands going to his throat.
“We need the medic,” the ref calls.
Two of the guys are grabbing me before I get far, and I’m fighting them because I do not give a fuck. I need to see if Wolfe is okay.
Wolfe drops forward, hand on the ice. The trainers get to him, and I can’t see shit.
“Let me go.”
“Only if you’re going to keep your ass on the bench,” Savage says.
“Fuck you.”
“He’s going to be okay,” Seaborn says gently, keeping a hand on my arm.
“He got hit in the fucking throat. He might not be.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Nothing takes him out. If he’s like that, what do you think happened?”
Seaborn is silent because he knows I’m right. He’s seen Wolfe’s scars. The whole team has. He once told me he doesn’t believe in pain anymore. Nothing fazes him.
Seconds feel like hours, and I can’t see a fucking thing.
A medic team goes out on the ice but waits because Wolfe gets to his feet. I’m thankful for his height because it lets me see him. He skates toward the bench, and I can breathe.
Fuck. Injuries happen but not to him.
He gets almost to the bench and then stumbles, grabbing his neck.
The medics surround him.
“What the fuck? Is he okay?”
“I don’t know,” Hawke says quietly.
I need to get to him.
THIRTY-EIGHT
