Cinder and his Dragon (Colorado Dragons #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter one

Faceoff - The puck drop that starts play or restarts after a stoppage.

Taranis

The puck didn’t care how old I was.

It didn’t care that I was four months away from thirty-seven, that I’d been playing this game long enough to know exactly how fast everything could disappear. It didn’t care about standings or playoff math or the way I’d been waiting for the wrong hit all season.

Or the way management was clearly waiting for the same thing, because despite “talks”, there was no sign of any contract extension.

And I could hardly tell them I was going to outlive management, management's kids, or their children's children.

Seattle came at us hard from the opening drop, black-and-teal jerseys cutting through the ice like blades. The crowd was loud—so loud it rattled the glass—but once I set my skates and settled into my stance, the noise softened into something distant.

There was only the net behind me.

Only the puck in front of me.

Only breath, balance, and instinct.

The first shot came quick and low. I dropped and blocked it cleanly, the impact solid and familiar, the puck bouncing harmlessly away. I pushed back to my feet and reset, tapping each post out of habit.

Right.

Left.

Breathe.

Seattle didn’t slow down. They pressed again, faster this time, moving the puck side to side, forcing me to follow.

I slid across the crease, weight shifting smoothly, body doing exactly what it had been trained to do.

A pass flashed across the front of the net, and I reacted without thought, throwing myself sideways.

My glove snapped shut. The puck smacked into the pocket with a hit that echoed through my arm, but I held on. I held it tight and lifted my glove, showing the save to the crowd.

The arena exploded.

My teammates swarmed in close, sticks tapping my pads, voices loud with adrenaline. I laughed and nodded and gave them the grin they expected—the easy one, the reassuring one, but inside, something shifted. Not pain.

Cold.

It crept in quietly, subtly at first, like I’d stepped into a shadow.

My breath fogged the air in front of me as I breathed out more than it should have.

I shook my head and focused on the faceoff.

Adrenaline did strange things to an ice dragon.

I didn’t question it. I couldn't afford to question it.

The game settled into a brutal rhythm. Seattle fired shots from everywhere, crashing the net, jabbing for rebounds. Bodies collided in front of me, sticks flashing, skates carving too close for comfort.

I blocked a shot with my chest that knocked the breath from me.

Another with my gloves that sent a sharp sting through my fingers.

I sprawled once, stretching across the ice to keep the puck from sliding over the line, and the crowd roared when I got there in time. Each save felt earned and demanded focus.

By the second period, my legs burned—but the pain felt strangely muted, dulled around the edges. The cold had deepened, settling into my joints, wrapping tight around me like an invisible brace.

That my dragon needed to protect me should have scared me more than it did.

Seattle let loose a hard shot into my pads.

The rebound spun out to open ice, and as I lunged to smother it, a player crashed into me—shoulder into my arm, knee into my leg—my skate caught, halting me mid-movement.

My knee twisted; pain flared white-hot for a heartbeat, then vanished.

Not gone, contained. The cold surged, locking my joint with ruthless precision, and I collapsed forward, instinctively slapping my glove over the puck.

The whistle blew. I stayed down. Sound receded into a muffled murmur, as if I listened through thick ice. My breathing slowed without effort while the cold crept into my core, heavy and deliberate. My dragon coiled tight inside me: preserve.

I tried to rise, but my knee didn’t scream—it simply wouldn’t respond.

That terrified me. Skates scraped closer; someone called my name.

“Rees? You with us?” “I’m fine,” I lied, the words thick on my tongue.

“Don’t move. Where does it hurt?” “My right knee.” Even through the pads, I felt the magic binding my flesh and bone.

At the moment of injury, my dragon had intervened, sealing the damage and buying time.

With help, I shuffled upright. My leg felt distant, no longer mine, and I couldn't skate on it. The crowd applauded my lifted glove; I smiled for them, though unease curled inside me like frostbite. Led off the ice, the arena’s roar fell away, replaced by harsh hallway lights and the sting of disinfectant.

The cold pressed harder now, slowing thought, making my fingers tremble.

I knew what my dragon was doing, and I knew how it would look to anyone else.

By the dressing-room door, medical staff rushed forward, eyes dropping to my pale skin, my shaking fingers—alarm in their gazes.

Cinder

By the time they got him through the tunnel, I was already moving.

I didn’t think about names or jerseys or the fact that I’d watched in awe from the edge of the ice as this man played more times than I could count.

I didn’t think about the crowd still roaring somewhere behind us or the scoreboard ticking onward without him.

I just thought about an injured player and doing my job. “Clear a path,” I said, voice steady, hands already snapping gloves on. “Bench area—now.”

They listened.

That wasn’t ego. That was training. People heard calm and assumed competence, and right now, competence mattered more than anything else.

He was heavier than he looked when they settled him onto the bench, all muscle and gear and contained tension. He moved stiffly, favoring his right leg, but he didn’t complain. Not once. That alone put him on my radar. “Helmet off,” I said, already reaching.

He tilted his head forward without argument, letting me lift it free. His hair was damp with sweat, curling slightly at the temples, and when I brushed my fingers against his skin, I paused. Cold. Not rink-cold. Not sweat-cooling-on-skin cold.

Cold wrong.

“Can you hear me?” I asked.

“Yes,” he answered immediately. His voice was calm. Too calm.

“Any dizziness? Blurred vision?”

“No.”

“Pain?”

He hesitated. Just a fraction. “I'm fine. Just banged my knee.” Why did I think he was lying? But hockey players always said they were fine when they weren't, so maybe his "fine" meant he was in agony.

I nodded and moved closer, crouching so I was level with him. His breath fogged faintly in the air between us, even here, even surrounded by warm bodies and movement. I took his wrist automatically. His pulse was slower than I liked but strong and steady.

My stomach tightened, but my face didn’t change. “Stay with me,” I said, not because he was fading, but because I wanted his attention anchored on me. “I’m going to check your vitals.”

“I'm fine, Doc,” he murmured.

I glanced up sharply. He was watching me.

Not unfocused. Not glassy. Watching. And—this was absurd, given the circumstances—smiling.

Not broad. Not cocky. Just… ruefully. Like my hands on him were something he accepted.

I ignored that. I ignored the doc comment as well because I'd spent my first month telling everyone I wasn't a doctor, but they still called me one.

Or tried to. I slipped the thermometer from my pocket and pressed it gently against his temple.

“Hold still.”

The seconds ticked by. Around us, the game moved on—shouts, skates, the thud of bodies—but inside my head, everything narrowed to the small device in my hand. It beeped. I looked. Then I looked again.

No.

I pulled it back and rechecked, slower this time, making sure I hadn’t misread. The number didn’t change. My chest went tight. “That can’t be right,” I said quietly.

“What?” he asked, his voice sounding nervous.

I didn’t answer. I checked his other wrist, then his neck. His skin was cold everywhere now, not just the extremities. Pale, too—color leeched away in a way adrenaline shouldn’t allow.

“How long have you felt cold?” I asked.

He blinked at me, lashes dark against his skin. “I spread out on the ice.”

I straightened slightly and signaled to the equipment staff. “Get warming blankets,” I said. “Now.” I turned back to him, forcing my voice to stay even. “Taranis, I need you to tell me if you’re feeling sleepy.”

“Taz, Doc, and I’m fine,” he said again—and then added, almost jokingly, “You’re very serious.”

I stared at him. “You’re hypothermic,” I said, because once I had the data, there was no point softening it. “Your temperature is well below normal. That shouldn’t be possible this soon, not in this environment.”

He exhaled slowly, breath fogging again. “Ah.”

That single sound did more to unnerve me than panic would have. The blankets arrived, and I wrapped them around his shoulders and torso, firm but careful. His skin felt like winter under my hands. Deep winter. The kind that sank into bone.

“You need to warm up,” I said. “We’re going to—”

“Not too fast,” he interrupted. I knew that, but I wanted to know his reason. “Because it’ll hurt,” he said mildly.

He wasn’t even afraid. He was… managing something. I adjusted my approach without quite knowing why. Lowered my voice. Slowed my movements. “You want to tell me what’s happening?”

He studied my face for a long moment. Then, quietly, “My body does weird shit when I’m hurt.”

I should have pushed. Should have demanded answers. Should have escalated immediately. Instead, I found myself adjusting the blankets, monitoring his breathing, recalculating rewarming protocols on the fly—because whatever this was, shocking him into warmth was dangerous.

And beneath it all, another, deeply inconvenient awareness surfaced:

He was watching my hands. Watching my face. Every second of my attention.

“Focus,” I muttered, more to myself than him.

“I am,” he said softly.

I shot him a look. I adjusted the blankets unnecessarily, watching his chest rise and fall, counting breaths without meaning to. His temperature was still too low, but heating pads could interfere with his heart. "I should call an ambulance."

He shook his head. "I wouldn't go."

His pulse was still slower than it should’ve been. Nothing about this lined up the way it was supposed to. I ran through possibilities again—environmental exposure, shock, adrenaline crash—and discarded them just as quickly. The numbers didn’t support it. The timeline didn’t fit.

He shifted slightly beneath the blankets and winced slightly, just enough to remind me there was an injury under all of this. “Stay still,” I said.

“Yes, sir,” he replied, solemnly.

I focused back on my work, grounding myself in routine. Monitor. Recheck. Breathe. Whatever was happening to him, I didn’t understand it yet—but I understood enough to know I couldn’t treat it like anything else.

And until I did, I wasn’t taking my hands off him.

And somehow that thought didn’t make me run.