Chapter 16 Home Ice #2
Second period, Boston scored first on a weird bounce that went off Volkov's skate and past Elias. The crowd—their crowd—exploded, and I felt the pressure ratchet up another notch.
Come on. Tie it up. Do your fucking job.
We pressed hard, and with eight minutes left in the period, we finally broke through. Benny made a perfect pass through traffic, and I one-timed it top shelf before their goalie could react.
Goal.
The celebration was quick—fist bumps, taps on the helmet—and then we were back to work.
“That's it,” Coach called from the bench. “Keep it going. More of that.”
But Boston answered back three minutes later with another goal, and we went into the third period down two to one.
Boston came out desperate, playing like their season was on the line—because it was.
They were clogging the neutral zone, icing the puck every chance they got, making us work for every goddamn inch.
Their forecheckers were relentless, and their D-men were throwing hits like they were trying to put us through the boards.
My legs were burning, heavy like someone had filled them with concrete. My lungs were screaming for air that wouldn't come fast enough. But I kept going because that's what you did.
“Stay with it!” Coach's voice cut through from the bench during a line change. “Make them work harder than you!”
Five minutes in, Boston had a power play when Hallowell took a stick infraction. Two agonizing minutes of defending, blocking shots, sacrificing bodies. Elias made three saves that should've been goals, and when we killed it, our bench erupted.
“That's it! That's fucking hockey!” Mace was screaming, slamming his stick against the boards.
But we still needed a goal.
Eight minutes left.
We pressed hard. Benny made a great play to keep the puck in at their blue line. Rook cycled it low. I found space in the slot and Rook fed me a perfect pass. I wound up and fired—
Their goalie got a piece of it with his blocker. The puck deflected high and wide.
“Fuck!” I slammed my stick against the ice.
“Again!” Coach's voice. “Do it again!”
We regrouped. Won the draw. This time Volkov carried it in, drew two defenders, and dished it to Hallowell at the point. One-timer toward the net—
Deflection.
Rook had tipped it perfectly, changing the angle just enough that their goalie had no chance. The puck hit twine, and the red light flashed.
Goal.
The bench exploded. I crashed into Rook, grabbed his helmet, screamed something incoherent. The few hundred Wolves fans who'd made the trip were losing their minds, and suddenly the building didn't feel so hostile anymore.
“Let's fucking go!” Finn was screaming, slamming into all of us. “Bury these fuckers!”
Back to the bench, and Coach was standing there with his arms crossed, but I caught the tiniest hint of satisfaction in his eyes.
“That's one,” he said. “Now get another one.”
Six minutes left.
Boston came at us hard, trying to retake the lead before we could build momentum. Their top line was buzzing—fast, skilled, relentless. Elias made two more huge saves, and Volkov blocked a shot with his shin that had to hurt like hell but he didn't even flinch.
“Hold the line!” Rook was shouting. “Make them earn it!”
Four minutes.
We got possession and tried to push back, but Boston's defense was locked in. Every time we tried to enter their zone, they collapsed, forcing us to regroup. The clock was becoming an enemy now, ticking down too fast.
Three minutes.
TV timeout, and we huddled at the bench. Everyone was dead on their feet, breathing hard, faces red and slick with sweat.
“Next goal wins it,” Mace said, and nobody disagreed.
Coach leaned over the boards. “First line—Hartley, Rook, Cho—you're going out after this. I want speed. I want pressure. Make something happen.”
“Yes, Coach.”
He caught my eye, held it for a half-second longer than he should have. Something passed between us—trust, maybe, or expectation—and then he looked away.
The timeout ended. We lined up for the faceoff in the neutral zone.
My heart was hammering so hard I could hear it over the crowd noise.
Rook won the draw clean, pulling it back to Volkov. I was already moving, finding space on the wall, calling for it. The pass came hard and flat, and I caught it in stride.
I drove up ice, feeling their D-man angle toward me. To my left, Benny was creating space. To my right, Rook was driving hard to the net.
Options. I had options.
Their forward tried to step up and cut me off, but I chipped it past him and accelerated. The puck was loose in their zone now, and it was a race. I got there first, took possession, and cut toward the middle.
Two minutes thirty seconds left.
Their D-man was on my back, stick checking, trying to separate me from the puck. I protected it, kept my feet moving, scanning for the play.
That's when I saw it—the opening. A lane to the net. Their goalie was cheating slightly to his left, overcommitting to the pass option to Rook.
If I could get a shot off, top shelf, far side—
I wound up.
The defenseman hit me from behind.
Not a clean hit. Not a legal hit. A full-force cross-check directly between my shoulder blades that sent me flying forward, out of control, face-first toward the boards.
I didn't have time to brace. Didn't have time to turn. Didn't have time to do anything but slam into the glass at full speed.
The impact was catastrophic.
I heard it before I felt it. The crack of my helmet against the glass. The sound of something in my body breaking. Then the pain hit—white-hot and all-consuming, radiating from my shoulder down through my arm and up into my skull.
I went down hard, face-first on the ice, and the world tilted sideways.
There were whistles. Shouting. The sound of skates rushing toward me. But it all sounded muffled, like I was underwater.
I tried to push myself up, but my left arm wouldn't work. Wouldn't respond. Just hung there useless and screaming.
“Don't move.” Someone's voice. Tess, maybe. The trainer. “Stay down. Don't try to get up.”
I could taste blood in my mouth. My vision was blurry at the edges, swimming in and out of focus.
“Hartley.” Another voice. Closer. Desperate. “Jace, can you hear me?”
Grant. That was Grant.
I tried to answer, tried to say I was fine, but my tongue felt too thick.
There were hands on me now. Checking my neck, my head, my shoulder. Every touch sent fresh waves of pain through me, and I heard myself make a sound—something between a gasp and a scream.
“We need a stretcher,” Tess was saying. “Now.”
“Jace.” Grant's voice again, and I managed to focus on him. He was kneeling beside me on the ice, one hand on my good shoulder, and his face was pale. Terrified. “Stay with me. You're going to be okay.”
I wanted to tell him I was fine. Wanted to get up and keep playing. But my body wasn't cooperating. The pain was too much. The world was getting darker at the edges, narrowing down to a tunnel.
“I got you,” Grant was saying, and his hand moved to the back of my neck, steadying me. “Just stay with me. Help is coming.”
Rook's face was grim, Mace was looking ready to murder someone, and Finn's eyes were wide with shock.
The stretcher arrived. Hands lifted me carefully, and every movement sent fresh agony through my shoulder, my head, my entire body. I bit down on a scream, tasted more blood.
“Easy,” Tess was saying. “We've got you. Just breathe.”
But breathing hurt. Everything hurt.
They were moving me off the ice now, and I caught a glimpse of the Boston player who'd hit me. He was in the penalty box, but he didn't look sorry. He looked satisfied.
Rage tried to surge up through the pain, but I didn't have the energy for it.
The tunnel was bright. Too bright. The lights stabbed into my eyes, making my head pound worse. Faces swam in and out of focus—medical staff, concerned looks, someone asking me questions I couldn't quite parse.
“Jace.” Grant's voice cut through the fog. He was there, right beside the stretcher, walking with them. “Look at me.”
I tried. God, I tried. But my vision was tunneling again, getting darker.
“Stay awake,” he said, and there was command in his voice. The same voice he used on the bench. “That's an order. Eyes on me.”
I managed to focus on his face for a second. Saw the fear there, the barely controlled panic.
“Grant,” I tried to say, but it came out slurred. Wrong.
“I'm here.” His hand found mine—my good hand—and squeezed. “I'm not going anywhere.”
The medical room was a blur of activity. Bright lights, cold hands, someone cutting away my jersey. Questions fired at me that I couldn't answer properly. Something about my name, the date, what hurt, how bad.
Everything hurt. Everything.
“Possible concussion,” someone was saying. “Definitely shoulder—could be separated, could be broken. We need to get him to the hospital for scans.”
“Do it,” Grant said, and his voice had gone hard. “Now.”
“Coach, you can't—”
“I don't give a fuck what protocol says. Get him to the hospital.”
There were more hands on me, moving me, lifting me. The world spun violently, and my stomach lurched. I felt bile rise in my throat.
“Gonna be sick,” I managed to say.
Someone got a basin under me just in time. I retched, and the movement sent fresh agony through my shoulder that made me scream.
“Jesus Christ,” Grant's voice, tight with something that sounded like grief. “Careful with him.”
“We're trying, Coach.”
Everything was fading now. The edges going black. The pain was too much. My body was shutting down, trying to escape.
The last thing I remembered was Grant's hand in mine, holding tight.
The last thing I heard was his voice, rough and desperate: “Stay with me, Jace. Please. Just stay with me.”
Then nothing.
Just darkness.
Cold.
Empty.
Gone.