“So we’re going to play our game: fast, physical, and relentless. We’re going to make them regret dropping the puck.” He looks directly at me. “And Davies? You’re going to be a fucking wall out there. Nothing gets past you. Nothing.”
My smile is all teeth and vitriol. “Yes, sir.”
“The Titans think their pretty passing plays and celebrity fans make them untouchable.” Henderson paces like a caged animal, a vein in his forehead pulsing. I’ve played under him for years, so it doesn’t faze me, but I get why Kennedy thinks he’s scary. “Let’s remind them of what happens when you poke a fucking Bobcat.”
The room erupts, and as we file back out through the tunnel, the crowd’s noise hits like a physical force. I take my position in the crease and start my familiar ritual. Tap the right post, tap the left post, drag my stick across the crease, and skate back a few times, cutting up the ice. Same routine every game for ten years.
While the national anthem plays, I scan the arena, searching for one face out of nineteen thousand. I don’t find her, but I know from a photo she texted me that the jersey she’s wearing has my name and my number.
Because she’s mine.
The thought is possessive and probably caveman-level primitive, but I can’t find it in me to care. For however long this lasts, sheismine.
The first period is a battle, and as we near the end of the second period, we’re tied. The Titans are fast and they make me work for every save. As a two-on-one develops, I stay patient,trusting Erickson to take the pass. He makes a diving attempt, but the puck skips over his stick.
Shit.
The shooter lines up and releases the shot, a rocket aimed low, and I drop into my butterfly, pads sealing the ice, ready and in position. But the puck hits a skate or maybe one of the guys’ sticks, I don’t know, and suddenly, the trajectory changes.
There’s a split second where I know I’m out of position, where my brain’s screaming at me to adjust, but my body hasn’t caught up yet. Intense pain explodes down my thigh and radiates outward, sharp and hot. I clutch my leg reflexively, toppling onto my side.
The whistle blows—puck covered, thank God—but I barely hear it over the ringing in my ears. While my pads protect against major injury, they don’t eliminate all impact, and that fucking shot got me in the small gap between my pad and pants that lacks protection.
A group of teammates are in front of me instantly, asking if I’m okay.
I nod, even though I’m very much not okay, and search for the spot through my pants. When I find it, I hiss. It’s already tender and swelling.
“Is your dick injured?” Logan calls out from nearby. “Does it still work?”
I briefly consider yelling at him to fuck off, but my jaw is clenched too tightly to get a word out.
Fallon, one of our athletic trainers, is on the ice moments later, crouching beside me. “Where’d it get you?”
“Apparently not his dick,” Logan answers unhelpfully.
“Inner thigh,” I grit out. “Left side. Caught me right above the pad.”
She’s already moving, gloved hands checking the area with practiced efficiency. Behind her, Coach Henderson skates up tothe crease, close enough to hear Fallon but giving her room to work.
She sits back on her heels a moment later, meeting my eyes. “Let’s get you up and see if you can put weight on it.”
I nod, and she helps me to one knee, then up to my skates. Pain radiates up to my hip and down my knee, but nothing feels torn or unstable. While it hurts like hell, it’s functional.
“Cameron.” Her voice drops lower, serious now.
The guys have skated off to give us space, but they’re watching, assessing, and it makes me antsy. “I trust you to know your body, but be honest with me. Can you finish the period?”
I zero in on her. Fallon’s been with the team for a couple of years, and in that time, she has seen me play through worse. She knows I won’t come off unless I absolutely have to.
“I can finish the game,” I correct her, knowing Henderson is listening.
She studies me for another long moment, then nods slowly. “All right. But if it gets worse and you feel?—”
“I’ll tap out. Promise.”
“Okay. We’ll ice it before the third.” She slaps my shoulder pad, then skates off, giving the ref a thumbs-up, signaling that I’m good to continue.
I settle back into my crease, testing the leg one more time. The pain is there, constant and sharp but manageable. Forcing thoughts of it out of my mind, I ready for the puck.
