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He just manages to snatch the puck from between the forward’s legs, poking it toward Holden in the corner.

Head on a swivel, I keep my body pressed to my left post, leg extended to the right just in case I’ll need to slide.

Holden misses his pass across, swept up by another towering Mt. Hart player coming in quick off a change. Too fast—he takes a shot I try to block, sliding into butterfly, before bowling over backward as the player knocks fully into me.

A muffled shout leaves my lips at the tearing sensation zinging up my inner thigh. Fuck fuck fuck.

The net has been tossed backward into the boards and my body is collapsed. Turning on my side, I put my hands up to protect my head where my helmet has snapped loose.

At first, I only hear yelling—Rhys, I’m sure—before my best friend appears over me, ripping off his cage. He looks terrified.

“Fuck, Ben—are you okay?”

I nod, but groan. “Fuck, I think I pulled something. Or a groin tear, I don’t know.” At least my words sound normal. He nods, turning and signaling for someone.

I move my head up, looking over to where Holden and Toren are locked in an all-out brawl. Kane is laying into the guy who hit me, gloves dropped, black hair sweat damp and half in his face, snarl still present. It’s strange for a moment—I’ve seen the violence of Toren Kane close up and personal, relived the hit on Rhys in my brain like a nightmare more times than I can count, but not like this. Not in defense of me.

Holden is chirping as much as he is fighting another Mt. Hart player, both with their cages off, hands gripping each other’s jerseys. It’s a mess as the refs try to stop them all—I know heavy penalties and fines are coming, but maybe it’ll be equal all around.

“Hey, Ben?” Rhys grabs my attention. “They’ve got the trainers for you. Can I help you skate off?”

I nod, letting them help me up so that I can take pressure off my groin even while balancing. Rhys slips a hand around my back, hooking my chest pad in his grip just in case I slip, before we all start slowly skating off together. The arena breaks into applause for me, as usual with an injured player.

Head ducked, breathing harsh, I wade through the pain.

“Let’s get you the fuck out of here,” Harris says when I arrive at the bench, before slapping Connor Mercer on the back and sending him to the net to warm up. “Get checked out. And then go back to the hotel and fucking rest, Reiner. Okay?”

I smile at his unusual doting. “All right, Coach.”

Chapter 30

NOW

Paloma

I’m wearing a hole in the ugly patterned carpet, pacing back and forth in front of the hotel room door.

I took notes for Harris during the game, seated in the stands near the glass with Lily. I was already annoyed by the sieve chants at this particular arena, and then terrified when the player took out Bennett, knocking the net backward alongside the heap of their bodies.

My hand has risen and almost knocked several times, but I haven’t quite managed it yet.

I really shouldn’t be here right now. But the image of Bennett splayed on the ice, Rhys shouting his name in panic, and the sight of his head ducked as Rhys and an athletic trainer helped him skate off are stuck in my head like a nightmare I can’t wake up from.

What if he—

I cut off the train of thought before it can even leave the station, shaking my head.

“You’re being ridiculous,” I mutter to myself, turning to face the door straight on and knock—

—only before I can, it opens, and Bennett Reiner fills the doorway.

My throat catches at the sight of him shirtless and damp, curls dark against his forehead. He leans against the entryway with one hand braced nearly on the ceiling, the other heavy against the wall, holding himself up.

God, he’s so beautiful.

“Paloma?” he asks, attempting to straighten at the sight of me but wincing and relaxing back into his bracing hold. “Are you okay?”

“Am I okay?” I huff, crossing my arms tightly over the block letters of our university emblazoned across my half-zip. “You got hurt—I was so fucking worried about you. I just needed—”