Chapter Forty-Two
TOMMY
“Holy HELL!” Emmett announces as we take to the ice for the first period following the warm-up.
Archer slides alongside us. “I have never, in the history of playing for this team, seen an arena this full or heard it this noisy.”
“It’s like the goddamn colosseum or something,” I muse, gazing around.
Archer’s right; I’ve never seen the arena like this. Not during fights, not at any game I’ve played in or spectated.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, and adrenaline races through my body. This game is huge—a chance for old rivals to make a statement against each other in a fixture that promises to be significant in the race for the playoffs.
Archer nods his head across the ice, the corner of his lip tipping up. If he thinks I haven’t seen her yet, then he’s wrong. In a crowd of over twenty thousand, I could spin until I’m dizzy and still point her out.
The game’s about to start, and I absolutely don’t have time, but fuck it. Heading straight toward the plexiglass she’s sitting behind, flanked by my mom and Holt, I reach the edge and come to a stop, throwing up ice onto the board.
Our dates to the outdoor ice rink and the beach never made it onto the internet but given that she’s wearing a jersey with Williams stamped across her back, there’s a chance that some of the crowd will connect the dots and remember my former last name.
I don’t plan on making a big deal or a formal statement about reverting back to Williams. My silence will speak all the words that need to be said—I’m done with Alex and with the Schneider last name.
My “dad’s” legacy can die quietly while I build the life I’ve always wanted.
The life I deserve.
With no one sitting in front of them, I flip a gloved hand toward me, smiling at my mom as Jenna stands from her seat and takes the couple of steps down.
I can’t be sure if the arena has genuinely fallen quieter or if I’m zoning out the background noise, but all I can focus on is the dark-haired beauty wearing the jersey I got her specifically for tonight.
With a physical barrier between us, it would be impossible to hold a conversation. Not that I need to open my mouth to say everything I need.
In her sneakers and me in my skates, I tower over Jenna as she looks up at me, eyes sparkling with curiosity.
Tucking my stick under my arm, I twist my gloved finger around, and she does as I asked.
I form a heart with my hands and press it against the plexiglass, right over the name on Jenna’s back.
When the crowd bursts into cheers and whoops, I know their reduced noise wasn’t coincidental or because I was filtering them out. They had eyes on us both, and now they know how I feel about the goalie and new captain of the New York Storm.
But just to clarify for anyone still unclear, I push off the boards and skate back a few feet, waiting for Jenna to turn around and face me. When she does, I blow her a kiss, followed by a wink.
Yeah. She’s my Hellion. And I’m going to love her every goddamn day of my life.
Jessie Callaghan, prolific forward for the Scorpions, is having a wild ride tonight.
In my back fucking pocket.
He’s barely seen the puck, let alone touched it. Emmett, Sawyer, and the rest of our defensemen have matched my performance.
Archer could probably head home for the third period if he wanted to, he’s had next to nothing to do for the first thirty-eight minutes of the game.
Meanwhile, Jack has been kept busy, netting two in the first period and narrowly missing a third when his shot bounced off the inside pipe.
It’s been all about the Blades tonight, and I couldn’t be fucking happier.
Another failed Scorpions attack hands us an opportunity to counter, and as the puck spills from the boards and across the ice to me, I let Archer know I have it covered and collect it onto my stick.
It’s amazing what happens when you’re looking for the next sequence in play and not for an excuse to fight.
Everything is just so much clearer, including the opening I can take toward goal.
I had strict instructions tonight from Coach to stay in my lane and not leave any part of our defensive line exposed, but this opportunity to push forward and get a third goal before the buzzer is too tempting to pass up.
The chance to be the hero and not the villain for once is right there, taunting me in the form of three red posts and a bunch of Scorpions players, who are parting like the ocean for me to skate through.
I know I have the speed and the skill set, and I want to prove to my team, the league, Jenna, and every other person watching that regardless of whatever name I wear on my back, I’m nothing like the person I worked so hard to emulate.
I’m fucking me.
Skipping past the Scorpions center is easy enough, throwing him a simple deke that leaves him stranded.
And then I’m across center ice, heading into territory I rarely travel—without the use of my fists, that is—my eyes fixed on the task at hand.
I can see Jack in my peripheral vision, and I get a flash of Coach as he watches on from the bench.
He’s got his hands in the pockets of his black dress pants.
Good. He isn’t waving them around, asking me to stop.
I can’t remember the last time I lit the lamp outside of practice, and it feels almost poetic to do it in front of my girl, her family, and my mom, who traveled to be here today.
The Scorpions goalie is probably their weakest link since Jensen Jones retired a couple of seasons back, and it’s right at that moment, when I catch the whites of their goalie’s eyes, that I’m certain he fears an incoming shot from me.
I might be quick across the ice, but my shot is arguably more impressive.
Back in high school, I was called The Hammer, and it had nothing to do with fighting.
Confidence swells inside me as I barrel toward the goal, moving the puck from one side of my stick to the other.
Jack knows I’m planning to go it alone and does me a favor, moving into a position that draws their defenseman away from me as he makes the impossible choice between following Jack to intercept a pass or heading straight for me.
I’m clear and in space, through on goal and sizing up when to take the shot.
The home crowd is sensing Scorpion blood, and I’m feeding off of their energy, winding back to find the top shelf when a last-minute call echoes across the rink.
“Cobra.” It’s high-pitched, and I swear to God, it sounds like Jenna’s voice.
When I hear it for a second time, I’m convinced it can only be in my head, and I take another stride, resetting myself before winding back to take the shot.
It never comes.
The shot.
The puck doesn’t travel toward the top-right shelf, and the lamp doesn’t light.
In fact, I don’t see anything, as everything goes so fucking black. I’d be sure this was all a dream if it wasn’t for the searing hot pain traveling down the back of my neck.
Seconds ago, the crowd could sense blood, but all I can do is taste it.
All I can hear is the incessant ringing in my ears before it gives way to Jenna’s frantic screams.
This isn’t right.
Since we’ve been together, I’ve only ever dreamed about Jenna smiling. I’ve seen and heard enough of her tears to last me a lifetime.
“Tommy!”
The wail penetrates my subconscious once more. I can feel myself reaching out for her. At least, I’m trying to, but it doesn’t feel like I’m inside my own body. The pain reminds me that I am, but the rest of reality feels so fucking far away.
So fucking dark.
“Callaghan, I need you to move away. Now!” Another voice, more official, hauls me back into the room.
“I’ll step back when I know that a fellow player is going to be okay! What the fuck have you done, Curtis? What the fuck have you done?!”
“Tommy.” A male voice I fully recognize speaks softly to me. “Tommy, it’s Sawyer. I don’t know if you can hear me, but I want you to know that you’re going to be okay. You took a hit, and we can’t move you, so we’re waiting on the medics right now.”
A warm, rough palm presses against my own, tempering some of the pain.
I try to nod my head, desperate to let him know that I can hear him, even if I can’t form the words. But the second I try to move my neck, pain like I’ve never felt before in my life ricochets throughout my entire body.
“No. Don’t try and move, Tommy. Just …” Sawyer trails off, and I feel the hand as it squeezes mine tighter. “JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, CAN WE GET THE MOTHERFUCKING MEDICS HERE ALREADY?!” I hear Sawyer bellow. Panic lancing through his shaking voice.
Sawyer is the king of cool, the guy everyone wants around them in a bind. He doesn’t break; he doesn’t waver. He’s the dad we all hope to have in our lives, in any way possible. So, when I hear the pure terror in his words, I know that whatever just happened isn’t good.
I know that it’s entirely possible that my career—maybe even my life—will never be the same again.