32. Chapter 32
Cody
No response from either of them.
No good morning. No good luck. No what are we doing later.
Then again, do I really want to hear from them right now?
Okay, maybe from Atlas because he’d say some shit about who’s kicking whose ass. And I hope he brings it today. I’m ready after he fucking kidnapped Blue again the other day. My mom told him where the spare key was, and he still chose to break in. Scared the shit out of Davis.
Honestly, I kind of wish I’d been there because my little brother cracked a vase over his head. Dipshit deserved it.
But Hunter . . . he already gave us a lecture earlier this week about fighting.
I tuck my phone into my bag and zip it shut.
Doyle's hand claps down on my shoulder, rattling my pads. “Let's go win this.”
I knock my fist against his chest. Sucks he won't be on my line tonight. We had something going the past few weeks—the kind of chemistry you can't practice into existence. But Walsh is back, which means Doyle drops to the third line.
Fuck. Henneman. Connor Henneman.
I shake my head as we file out of the locker room. That's going to take some getting used to.
Novotny slams his goalie stick on the ice. “Hope the Serpents brought a priest because they're about to witness a miracle—the miracle of zero pucks getting past this gorgeous fucking wall of perfection.”
Half the team chuckles when Coach Harper slaps him upside the head, telling him to focus.
I step onto the ice and take in four thousand Serpents fans packed into a building apparently designed to make every asshole in it louder.
Green and black everywhere—jerseys, face paint, flags, some shirtless guy with a serpent drawn across his chest in body paint sitting next to an older man in a fire department hoodie screaming something at our bench that I can't make out but I'm sure is real creative.
They hate us. Every single one of them.
I fucking love it.
Halfway through the lap, I spot Ryan in the stands behind the glass on the visiting side, Titans hoodie on, settled in like he's been there a while. I tap my stick against the glass as I pass, and he grins, nodding once.
“Jenkins.” Connor glides past and hits me on the shins with the blade of his stick. “Eyes forward.”
Ugh. Possessive prick.
Doyle and I had gone to visit Ryan in the hospital after his surgery.
Connor wasn’t there at first, but when he walked in, he literally grabbed Doyle by the hoodie and dragged him out.
Ryan just rolled his eyes from the bed as if he'd already accepted his husband was a lunatic.
I walked out a few seconds after. Connor yelled about Ryan needing to rest, then slammed the door in our faces.
I chuckle. Hunter would be the same way. But Atlas would probably do some shit like crawl through the ceiling tiles to get back in . . . just to piss off Hunter.
As I’m gliding across center ice, I spot Atlas about to make his way by. I smirk. “Ready for me to kick your ass?”
He skates past me like I'm not there. Eyes straight ahead, stick low in his hand, jaw locked. No chirp back. No grin. No shoulder check as he passes.
Nothing.
I pivot, skating backward, staring at the back of his jersey. “Atlas?”
No response.
Stopping along the boards, I search for Hunter. He’s stretching, eyes locked on Atlas. And when Atlas skates around the corner, about to pass Hunter, he turns and goes the other way.
What the fuck?
Doyle glides up, bumping my shoulder. “The hell is that about? But . . . it might make it easier to get around them if they're not synced.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. Kinda want to punch him right now. No one’s taking advantage of my boyfriends.
Goddammit.
When the hell did I turn into Connor Walsh—fuck—Henneman?
I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. Whatever is going on, I can’t do anything about it right now. So, I go back to warm-ups, glancing occasionally at the other side of the rink. Atlas is definitely keeping away from Hunter. Even their teammates keep watching them.
The horn sounds, and we make our way to the bench. Coach Nieminen yells at us one last time, then sends the starting line out. I smirk as the crowd gets louder. Time to kick some Serpent ass and make their fans regret showing up.
Knight juts his chin across the ice. “They changed their lineup.”
Atlas is out. But not with Hunter.
My grip on my stick tightens.
I crack my neck and slide into position on the wing, knees bent, stick on the ice, eyes on the dot. The ref drops the puck, and Connor wins it, sending it back to Knight, who snaps it up my wall. Rua shadows me step for step, his stick slashing at mine before I even have possession.
No whistle.
I glare at Rua over my shoulder. “Easy, hands of stone. Try playing the puck once in a while.”
“But you like it rough, Buttercup.” He winks and shoves me from behind, but not hard enough to draw a call.
I glance at the linesman. His attention is elsewhere, so I jab my elbow into Rua. “What I like is none of your business.”
He laughs. “You’ve made it the whole floor’s business. Oh, wait. That’s Trembley.”
Yeah, my boyfriend is loud. It’s why we don’t have sex at my house.
I stay on Rua as the Serpents pass the puck around. Reyes sends it to Shaw, who takes a nasty wrist shot. Novotny blocks it, and Knight picks up the rebound, sending it out of the zone.
Connor explodes through the middle while I angle up the boards with him, tracking the bouncing puck. It takes a funny hop and settles just ahead of my stick.
I reach, my weight tipping forward, when someone slams into me square between the shoulder blades. I go face-first into the glass hard enough that my teeth click together.
No whistle again.
But as I start to turn, Atlas darts past, not bothering to look my way.
My eyes narrow. “Hey, asshole. Don’t fucking take your bad mood out on me.”
No reaction.
Oh, that’s fucking it.
I get back in the play. Knight at the blue line. Our other winger at the far hash marks. Connor pops into the high slot for the return. Knight walks the line and wrists one.
Shaw gets a piece of it, the puck changing direction just enough that Atlas is forced to pivot and go after it. He stumbles. Just a hitch in his stride, and the puck skips past his stick.
Our winger gets there first and feathers a pass into the slot. Right onto my tape.
I don’t think, I just rip it. Far side, under the bar.
The red light flashes, and the whistle blows. My teammates swarm me, tapping my helmet, and I grin so hard my cheeks ache.
“Fuck!” Atlas slams his stick on the ice.
My smile drops, and I hang back as the rest of my teammates skate back to the bench. I skate closer to him as he passes. “Hey.”
“Hey.” He still doesn't look at me.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” He skates away without another word.
I skate over to the bench and hop over the boards. Our second line gets a few shots off, but nothing goes into the net. Doyle’s line doesn’t do much better, but fuck, my best friend gets put into the boards by Hunter so hard the plexiglass sways.
It’s a clean hit, but it takes Doyle a second to push to his knees and shake it off. The Serpents get possession and skate into our zone. Hunter takes a shot. It goes wide.
Doyle picks it up and gets around the Serpents’ defense.
Shit. A breakaway. I’m on my feet. “Go!”
He dekes, pulls Hayashi out of position, and tucks it around his pad.
“Yeah!” I bang my stick against the boards.
Our fourth line isn’t as successful, and the Serpents control most of the play. Luckily, Novotny is on fire and stops everything they throw at him. Which also means we’ll be hearing about how great he is in the locker room when the period’s over.
The Serpents take another shot, and it’s deflected into the safety netting. Time to get back out there.
I hop the boards and skate back into our zone, taking my spot high on the wall between the hash marks and our blue line, lined up in Trembley’s lane. He’s set up at the point, so I square to him, stick in the passing lane, ready to jump any puck they try to move up my side.
Serpents win the draw and fire. Novotny kicks out his leg. The puck hits the pads and rebounds. Rua goes after it, but I’m on him, lifting his stick with mine. Shaw skates in, gets possession, then passes to Reyes. He takes a shot, but Knight gets his blade in the lane and deflects it.
Our other winger gets to the puck and chips it over to Connor, who accelerates, taking it out of the zone. I follow, turning on the wheels. Connor steps over the red line and rims it hard around the boards, the puck kicking off the end glass and wrapping behind the net.
I cut in after it, chasing it down below the goal line, Atlas right behind me. I stay on the line, ease up just enough not to eat the glass, and get my stick on the puck as it comes off the boards.
“Shit!”
Everything hits at once.
A body. The boards. The glass.
My teeth crack together, pain flashing through my jaw as my shoulder slams first, then my ribs, then my lower back catches against the dasher.
The air leaves me in one ugly burst.
For half a second, there’s no sound. No crowd. No skates. No whistle.
Just white.
Something hot and electric rips down both legs. Then, they’re . . . gone. And I drop.
My knees hit the ice, then my hip, then I’m on my side with the cage of my helmet pressed against the cold, staring at a blur of skate marks carved into the surface. I breathe in through my nose, slowly, because Coach is always yelling about staying composed after contact.
Head up. Find the puck. Get back in the play.
So I try.
My glove scrapes against the ice. My shoulder moves. My ribs complain. My lower back sends a sharp, ugly warning through me.
But my legs stay quiet.
“Cody!”
Atlas.
“Don’t move him!”
Who’s that? I don’t recognize the voice.
Atlas’s face is in front of mine, his head resting on the ice. “Little J, are you okay? I caught an edge. Didn’t mean to hit you like that.”
I smile at him, not liking how pale he looks, or how wet his eyes are. “Hey, you’re finally talking to me.”
“Yeah.” He blinks and a tear escapes, rolling over the bridge of his nose. “Cody, are you okay?”
“I . . . I can’t feel my legs.”
“Fuck!” His voice cracks and more tears flow, his lips trembling. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
The whistle is blaring, strings of curses and creative threats filling the air. Wouldn’t be a hockey game without a fight. But for the first time, I don’t want to join. Because the guy I love is breaking right in front of me, and I can’t even move to grab him.
“Atlas, it’s okay.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m—” He disappears from my view.
“Atlas?”
“Cody, don’t move, just stay still.” Mara, one of our trainers, kneels beside me, calm like this is normal, like I didn’t just tell Atlas I can’t feel my legs. Her hands close around my helmet, holding my head still. “Can you look at me? Don’t try to move. Just eyes on me.”
“Where’s Atlas?” My voice wobbles. “He said he caught an edge. It was an accident.”
“Cody.” Her voice stays even. “Look at me.”
My breaths saw in and out. “He didn’t mean to do it.”
“I need you to focus. Look at me.”
So I do.
“Do you have any pain in your neck?”
“No.”
“Head?”
“No.”
“Back?”
“Yeah. Low.”
The yelling and cursing intensify, the whistles screaming again. I take a shuddering breath. It was an accident. They need to stop fighting. He didn’t mean it.
Another trainer kneels beside her, black-and-green jacket, radio already in hand. “EMS is coming down. Spine board is on its way.”
Spine board.
That sounds dramatic.
Mara doesn’t look away from me. “Good. Cody, stay with me.” She touches my glove. “Can you squeeze my hand?”
I do.
“Good. Again.”
I squeeze.
She pulls her hand away. “Can you wiggle your toes?”
I try.
Nothing.
I try again. Still nothing.
“Okay. Don’t force it.” Her expression doesn’t change.
“That seems bad.”
Mara’s mouth tightens for half a second. “We’re going to take care of you, Cody. Stay with me.”
Before she can say more, the rink erupts again.
“Kincaid, stop! Stop!” someone yells. “You’re fucking killing him, man.”
“What’s happening?” I try to lift my head.
Mara’s hands are on my helmet, pinning it gently to the ice. “Cody, don’t move your head. Eyes on me.”
“No, what’s happening?”
The glass rattles somewhere behind me, followed by more shouting.
“Kincaid!” Reed’s voice is practically a growl. “Let him go. Let Trembley go.”
My stomach drops.
No. No. No.
I try to get up, but only my shoulder moves, my glove scraping uselessly against the ice.
“Cody, you need to stay still. Stay still,” Mara says, as someone braces my shoulder with their hands.
My breath starts coming too fast. In. Out. In again before the last one finishes.
“Cody.” Mara's voice is sharper now. “Look at me.”
I can’t.
The glass rattles again. Someone yells Hunter’s name. Reed curses.
“He didn’t mean it.” I barely get the words out, tears flowing from my eyes uncontrollably. “He didn’t—he caught an edge—he didn’t—”
I have to stop Hunter. Have to get to Atlas. He needs me. They both do.
But I can’t move. I can’t fucking move.