Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83542 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83542 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
I barely have time to exhale before it happens.
Rostel and Oskar both go for the puck, but with Aleks’s momentum, he can’t pull up in time. All I see is a three-way collision. A mess of jerseys and limbs, someone hitting the ice.
Aleks slams into the boards and is straight back up again, but Rostel is sluggish when he pushes onto his hands and knees. Oskar is facedown on the ice.
I wait, one second, then two …
The hell, Oskar? Get up.
Play stops.
He’s faking. He wants the penalty. Any second now …
Aleks starts toward Oskar, but the ref gets there first. Bends down. Signals for help.
Rostel staggers to his skates, and when he shifts, all I see is the smear of reddish pink over the ice.
Aleks is frozen, hands gripping the top of his helmet. The team gathers closer. The crowd is on their feet, craning necks, noise getting louder.
And I’m too goddamn far away. Helpless. Panicked. Gut in knots, hands clenched, every part of me willing the asshole to get to his fucking feet.
He doesn’t.
TWENTY-FOUR
OSKAR
“Did I get possession?” I croak and roll over.
The bright lights of the arena make me squint, and the ice underneath me is cold, even through my layers, and I’m hit with an overwhelming dose of pain that almost makes me pass out again.
Aleks appears above me, eyes wide. “Only you would be worried about that right now. You’ve got bigger problems than possession. Taking a skate to the face, for one.”
“Wha’?” I’m disoriented, and when I sit up, the team trainer, Zee, appears out of nowhere and gently pushes me back down.
“Stay still.”
There’s a flurry of action, and out comes the dreaded neck brace.
“No, I don’t need this.” I try to bat away the hands fixing the collar to my neck as someone else shoves something against my cheek. “It’s just a little cut.”
“You lost consciousness,” Zee says. “You know what that means.”
“Nooooo,” I complain. Not concussion watch. “It was from the skate. I didn’t hit my head. I’m fine.”
Coach joins in on the fun, appearing next.
“Put me back in, Coach. I’m good.”
Coach purses his lips and shares a glance with Zee. They almost look … worried?
Oh, fuck. Maybe I’m not good? That’s when I realize I still only have one eye open. I can’t open the other one.
I stop struggling against not getting up and resign myself to the knowledge that I’m out for at least the rest of the game.
There are murmurings of plastic surgeons as they take me off the ice, but none of that is as terrifying as the words that follow. “He might lose his eye.”
A pro hockey player with only one eye and no peripheral vision? There’s no such thing. I swear to the hockey gods that I will disown them if an injury takes me out. I’ve been working so hard on reining in my attitude, and to go out this way … No. Panic clogs my throat.
It won’t happen.
It can’t happen.
Oh shit, what if it happens?
What has been the point of behaving if it’s all for nothing?
I’m quiet and introspective as the team doctor bandages my face and management discuss what to do. My face and neck have the familiar sticky feeling of blood.
“If it was only a matter of stitches, I could do them right here and now,” Doc says. “But the cut is right near his eye, plus isn’t Voyjik known as one of the prettiest guys in the league? I don’t want to be responsible for mangling his face.”
“Mangle it,” I say. “I don’t care.”
“No, he’s right.” It’s a new voice. One I only hear when things are serious. I didn’t realize Mick Alcott was here in Chicago with the team. “You make more money from your face with endorsement deals than we pay you.”
That’s so not true, but I’m not going to point out he overpays me and my salary is ridiculous.
“You’ll go to a hospital here in Chicago, and we’ll find the best plastic surgeon in all of Illinois.”
“And my eye?” I ask because that’s the actual only thing I’m worried about.
“It’s too swollen to know anything for sure,” Doc says. “We need to get you to the hospital to find out more.”
Dread as heavy as an anvil hits me in the gut, and I know I’m going to be on edge until I get a definitive answer, but with four little words, not everything seems so bleak.
“I’ll go with him,” Lane says right before appearing in my vision.
“You should stay here and handle the press about the injury,” Mick says, and my panic deepens.
“No. I’ll keep Keerson up to date with Oskar’s progress, and he can relay it to the media. I want to be there for firsthand information.”
I can’t be entirely sure, and maybe I’m reading into it because I want it to be true, but the direct tone and concern on his face makes me think that Lane isn’t doing this for his job. He’s doing it because he cares.