CHAPTER 25
DEVON
"I STILL DON'T understand the rules!" I yell over the roar of the crowd, clutching the banner so hard my knuckles are white.
Leila doesn't even look at me, eyes glued to the ice. "Nobody understands the rules! Just cheer when everyone else cheers!"
The arena is packed, thousands of people screaming their heads off, and I'm pretty sure I've gone deaf in one ear. The noise is incredible—constant, overwhelming, like being inside a jet engine that runs on enthusiasm and beer.
We're sitting maybe fifteen rows up from the ice, close enough to see everything, far enough that we won't get hit by a stray puck. Leila insisted on these seats. She said they were perfect, and she was right. I can see the players clearly, read the numbers on their jerseys.
Number 19. My number 19.
Not that I'm being weird about it or anything.
The banner we made is draped over the railing in front of us: PUCKS FOR PAWS - CHARITY GAME DEC 23RD - BE THERE OR BE SQUARE with badly drawn dogs and cats scattered around the text. We spent three hours on this masterpiece, and I'm unreasonably proud of it.
The team is not allowed to advertise the charity event during games. Not an official league event and all that bullshit.
But guess what?
No one's stopping us.
Suck it, NHL.
On the ice, the Wolves are warming up, skating in circles, taking practice shots. I park my eyes on Ace. He's impossible to miss, even among all the other massive humans in hockey gear. There's something about the way he moves, fluid and powerful, that makes him stand out.
Or maybe I'm just biased.
Yup. I'm definitely biased.
"So," Leila says, and there's something in her voice that makes me nervous. "You and Ace seem close."
I keep my eyes on the ice, trying to look casual. "We're friends. We work together at the bar."
"Uh-huh."
"And we both like Candy."
"The dog."
"Yes, the dog. What other Candy would I be talking about?"
"Just checking." She's smirking now, and I don't like it. "It's just interesting how you always know where he is on the ice."
"I don't—"
"You've looked at him seventeen times in the last three minutes."
"I'm watching the game!"
"The game hasn't started yet."
I open my mouth to argue, but the ref blows the whistle, saving me from having to lie to Leila's face.
The puck drops, and suddenly everyone's moving, skating at speeds that seem physically impossible, sticks clacking, bodies colliding. It's violent and graceful at the same time, and I have no idea what's happening, but I can't look away.
"That's icing!" Leila yells.
"What's icing?"
"I'll explain later! Just boo!"
I boo.
I have no idea why I'm booing, but everyone else is booing, so I join in.
Ace gets the puck. At least I think that's what happened. It's hard to tell because everything moves so fast. He's skating down the ice, weaving between opposing players like they're traffic cones.
"Go, go, go!" I'm on my feet, screaming, and I don't remember standing up.
He takes a shot. The goalie blocks it. The crowd groans.
"So close!" Leila yells.
The game continues, and I'm completely absorbed. This is nothing like watching it on TV. The energy in the arena is infectious, and I'm screaming myself hoarse even though I still don't fully understand what's happening.
Ace gets checked—that's what Leila calls it when someone deliberately crashes into you—and my heart jumps into my throat, but he recovers immediately, stealing the puck back and passing it to Petrov.
"He's so good," I say without thinking.
Leila grins. "Yeah. He is."
Shit. I need to be more careful.
The first period ends, and we sit down, my legs shaking from adrenaline.
"This is insane," I gasp. "How do you watch this regularly without having a heart attack?"
"You get used to it." She takes a sip of her overpriced beer. "Also, you learn to trust that they know what they're doing. These guys are professionals. They can take hits that would kill normal people."
"That's not comforting."
She shrugs. "It's not supposed to be comforting. It's hockey."
The second period starts, and I'm back on my feet, screaming along with everyone else.
The Wolves score first—Groover, assisted by Jinx—and the arena erupts.
Our section is jumping, people hugging strangers, and I'm caught up in it, high-fiving Leila and the guy next to me who's wearing a jersey that's seen better days.
Then the other team scores, tying it up, and the energy shifts. Tenser now. More aggressive.
Ace has the puck again, and he's flying down the ice, and I'm leaning so far forward I'm practically falling over the railing.
"Come on, come on, come on," I mutter under my breath.
He passes to Becker, who passes back, and Ace takes the shot—
It goes in.
The goal light flashes, the horn blares, and I'm screaming so loud my throat hurts.
"THAT'S MY—" I catch myself just in time. "—THAT'S OUR GUY! GO WOLVES!"
Leila's giving me a look.
"What?" I say, trying to sound innocent.
"Nothing." But she's smiling.
The game continues, fast and brutal, and I'm completely invested now. Every play, every shot, every hit—I feel it all in my chest.
Then it happens.
Ace is skating along the boards, stickhandling the puck, when an opposing player comes out of nowhere and checks him hard—so hard Ace's body slams into the boards with a sickening thud that I hear even over the crowd noise.
He goes down.
Doesn't get up.
My heart stops.
Everything stops.
The crowd gasps. The play continues for a second before the whistle blows, and Ace is still on the ice, not moving.
"Oh my God." I'm gripping the railing, my knuckles white. "Oh my God, is he—"
"He's fine," Leila says, but she sounds worried too. "They're tough. He's fine."
"He's not moving."
"He will. Just give him a second."
The team skates over, surrounding him, and I can no longer see what's happening. The team doctor is on the ice now, crouching next to Ace, and my chest is so tight I can't breathe.
"Come on," I whisper. "Get up. Please get up."
The seconds stretch into years.
Then finally, finally, Ace moves. He rolls onto his side, then pushes himself up to sitting, and the crowd cheers in relief.
I realize I've been holding my breath and let it out in a rush.
"See?" Leila says. "Made of steel."
"That was terrifying."
"You'll get used to it."
Ace gets to his feet with help from Wall and Petrov, and he skates off the ice slowly, carefully. He looks okay—steady on his skates, moving under his own power—but something's not right. I can tell even from here.
He goes to the bench and sits down, and I watch him like a hawk, trying to determine if he's hurt, if he's in pain, if he should be in a hospital instead of sitting on a bench.
The game continues without him, and I can't focus anymore. My eyes keep drifting to the bench where Ace is sitting, talking to Coach, drinking water. He looks fine. He looks fine. But I won't believe it until I can see him up close and check for myself.
Then, with five minutes left in the third period, Ace stands up.
He's going back in.
"Oh, thank God," I mutter.
He hops over the boards and onto the ice like nothing happened, and within thirty seconds he's got the puck and he's flying.
He scores.
Then he scores again.
And then, with ten seconds left on the clock, he gets the puck one more time, winds up, and fires it into the net just as the buzzer sounds.
The arena loses its collective mind.
I'm simultaneously screaming, jumping, hugging Leila, hugging strangers, and my heart is bursting with pride.
The team piles onto Ace, celebrating, and I'm grinning so hard my face hurts.
But then, the pile disperses, everyone skating toward the bench, and Ace is still on the ice.
Then on his knees.
Then he collapses completely, face-down.
The arena goes silent.
My heart stops for the second time tonight.
"ACE!" I'm screaming, and I don't care who hears. "ACE!"
The team is rushing back, surrounding him, and the medical staff is running onto the ice, and everything is happening too fast and too slow at the same time.
I'm trying to get past Leila, trying to get to the stairs, to get down there, to get to him, but she's holding me back.
"Devon, you can't—"
"Let me go!"
"They won't let you on the ice!"
"I don't care!"
On the ice, they're rolling Ace onto his back, and he's not moving, and I can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but stare in horror as they signal for a stretcher.