Chapter 42
Chapter forty-two
BECKETT
The ice feels good tonight.
Cold air cuts through the vents in my helmet as I skate the blue line and watch the play develop below me.
The arena is loud enough that the sound presses against my chest with every shift, thousands of people roaring whenever the puck crosses the neutral zone.
I should be locked in on the rhythm of it, the way the game narrows down until it is nothing but motion and instinct, but my focus keeps slipping.
Ash is here. In Alexei’s box.
I do not look at it. Not directly. But I know exactly where Alexei’s box is. It’s kind of like ignoring the tape on Pierce’s nose. It draws all your attention if you let it. But she’s here, watching me with Liam and Pierce.
“Back, Beckett!” someone shouts from the bench.
The puck slides toward our zone, and instinct snaps me back into place. I pivot, skate backward, and track the puck down the line. My skates carve a sharp arc into the ice, as I close the gap and force the winger wide. The boards rattle when he dumps the puck deep, trying to push past me.
I turn and chase it down behind the net, already hearing my Deacon shouting the next play. This is the part of the game that usually settles me. The ice stretches open, the chaos narrows into angles and timing, and everything becomes simple. Stop the puck. That’s all I need to know.
Except tonight my brain will not shut up.
Ash sitting up there with Pierce and Liam.
Ash watching the game.
Ash watching me.
It’s worse than my rookie season when I got nerves and butterflies knowing my new pack was watching me.
I grab the puck behind the net and swing my shoulders toward the boards, already sending it up the wall to Steele. The pass connects cleanly and the puck leaves my stick exactly where it should.
Then the hit comes.
The forward chasing the play does not pull up. He drives straight through me and pins me into the glass hard enough that the boards shudder. My shoulder slams first, then the back of my helmet cracks against the plexi with a sharp pop that rattles through my skull.
For half a second, everything flashes white.
When the color comes back, the crowd is already roaring and I am not entirely sure how long I was standing there. Someone on my team launches himself at the guy who hit me. Gloves hit the ice. Sticks clatter. The officials’ whistles start screaming through the noise.
By the time I push off the boards and turn around, the fight is already exploding.
Two players are tangled near the corner throwing wild punches, while another pair crashes into the glass near the blue line.
Both benches are leaning over the boards shouting.
The sound rolls through the arena like thunder, and for a moment, it feels slightly too loud, pressing in from the wrong direction.
I steady myself and take a breath, letting the cold air burn into my lungs.
I am fine.
The hit was hard, sure, but I have taken worse. I skate toward the play just as the linesmen start separating bodies and dragging players apart.
“Beckett!”
Coach’s voice cuts through the noise from the bench.
I glance over and see him pointing at me with the expression that means he has already decided something I am not going to like.
I glide toward the boards while the fight continues behind me. My legs feel steady enough. My head throbs a little where it hit the glass, but that is normal after a collision like that. Adrenaline hums through my chest, and I am already looking toward the next shift.
Coach is not looking at the ice anymore. He is watching me.
“You good?” he asks the second I reach the bench.
“I’m fine,” I tell him, grabbing the top of the boards and leaning in close so he can hear me over the arena. “Clean hit. I’m good to go.”
He studies my face for a long moment, eyes sharp.
“You just took a board hit to the head.”
“My shoulder hit first.”
“Your helmet still smacked the glass.”
“I’m fine,” I repeat.
Behind us, the officials finally drag the last two players apart and the crowd erupts again as penalties start getting handed out. My pulse is still racing and my hands itch to get back on the ice.
Coach folds his arms.
“You were just cleared to play.”
“Exactly. Good to go. We need this win.”
“We need you for the playoffs.”
The words land like a brick.
“We need this win. I can still play.”
“No.” He jerks his thumb toward the tunnel. “You’re done for the night. Go get checked out.”
The anger spikes so fast I have to clamp my jaw to keep from snapping back. The arena is roaring, the team is pushing for a win, and he is telling me to walk away from it.
“I said I’m fine.”
“And I said you’re done.”
He doesn’t raise his voice. That’s how I know the decision is final.
For a moment, I consider arguing harder. The energy of the game still surges through my veins, and every instinct in my body says to jump the boards and get back out there.
Then the throbbing at the base of my skull pulses again.
Coach notices the flicker in my expression.
“Tunnel,” he repeats.
I exhale slowly and push away from the boards.
The rubber flooring replaces the ice beneath my skates with a dull thud as I step through the opening. The sound of the arena follows me for a few seconds, and then the concrete walls swallow it.
My shoulders are still buzzing from the hit. My hands flex restlessly at my sides as the adrenaline drains into frustration.
I shove the thought away and push open the locker room door.
The fluorescent lights buzz overhead as I step inside. The team doctor looks up from the bench and gestures for me to sit. I drop down and lean forward, still wired, still angry, already running the math on whether I can talk my way back onto the ice before the third.
The game is still raging out there.
I wonder, briefly, if the lights in here have always been this bright.