Ramona shrugged, but said nothing. She’d meant what she said, and wouldn’t be lecturing me about him again. Still, the look on her face spoke volumes.
The next shift began and the puck slid down toward the Surge end again.
My eyes drifted toward the bench while Aiden took his seat with the rest of his line, and Ramona’s words sat there between us, heavy in a way the arena noise couldn’t drown out.
Because if she were right, I was about to make the biggest mistake of my life.
The game continued, but only half my attention was on it. My limited knowledge of hockey made it hard, but facing the reality of what I was doing with Aiden made it harder. Then, in the dying minutes of the game with Surge leading by two goals, the arena shifted in a heartbeat.
One second the Surge were pressing in the offensive zone, the next the puck had flipped the other way and two jerseys crashed into our center near the blue line. Bodies hit ice hard enough that the sound carried up into the seats.
The crowd’s rhythm broke.
I was halfway out of my seat before I knew I’d moved.
Our center lay on the ice with one skate twisted under him, stick sliding away across the surface. A red jersey stood over him while another skated past, and the referee’s arm shot up immediately. The shrill whistle cut through my bones.
I didn’t have to know much to understand this was bad.
Ramona grabbed the railing in front of us. “What happened? Why isn’t he getting up?”
“He took a really bad hit. I don’t think hecanget up.” I stared down at the ice, the tension of the crowd seeping into me.
The screen above the rink showed the collision from a different angle, two players closing in at once, shoulder meeting shoulder, momentum folding into impact. The Surge bench was still, but the fans groaned and booed loudly.
Medical staff rushed out with the cart. The center tried to sit up and couldn’t. One hand pressed to his side while he rolled back down, reaching for his twisted ankle.
A restless murmur lit up around us, the collective concern of every Surge fan in the house.
“He has that underwear billboard uptown,” Ramona said. “Can’t remember his name, but he sure isn’t packing light.”
I elbowed her hard. “Can you quit it? The guy just got the shit knocked out of him.”
A trainer knelt beside him. After a few seconds, they helped him onto the stretcher and guided it toward the tunnel. The crowd clapped again, some standing, some shaking their heads.
The red jersey responsible skated toward his bench. Good. Hopefully he’d be cited and made to pay a fine, or whatever. The referees conferred near center ice while the injured player disappeared down the corridor.
I watched until the tunnel swallowed him, then noticed movement on the Surge bench.
Aiden stood up.
He adjusted his gloves and tapped the boards once before stepping over them. The coach gave him a brief nod, and he took the faceoff position in the center circle while the lines rotated around him.
Ramona noticed my focus and followed it. “That’s him.”
“Yes.”
The game resumed with a drop in the neutral zone. Aiden won the puck clean and sent it back to a defenseman before cutting toward the boards. He looked steadier than he had earlier, more grounded in the flow of it. The absence of the injured center shifted the line’s shape, and Aiden moved to fill the space without hesitation.
The crowd behind us kept talking about the hit, though.
“Calder’s not coming back after that,” a man said from the row behind.
I kept my eyes on the ice, pretending I hadn’t heard it. But the words had already threaded through me.
Aiden carried the puck into the offensive end, checked by a Calgary defender. He fought for position along the boards and managed to slip it to a winger before circling back toward the slot. The play tightened, sticks clashing, skates carving short arcs into the ice.
Another whistle sounded when the puck went out of play.
