Chapter 25
Twenty-Five
Ky
I gasp and lurch to my feet as Colt goes down in a heap.
From next to me, Damon curses, then he’s up too, leaning over the barrier in front of us, more curses tumbling from his lips as action explodes on the ice below.
Lake and Storm have launched themselves at the player on the other team, the player who just swung his stick like a baseball bat at Colt’s head. The other defenseman—I think his name is Bear—is exchanging blows with a big, scarred enforcer from the Rattlers. And Riggs…
My lungs hitch so violently it’s painful.
Because Riggs is standing over Colt, protecting him from the crush of players as the linesmen try to get the brawl under control.
But it’s chaos, absolute chaos as they work, as Riggs shoves players from both teams back, some who are trying to get him to fight, others who are too involved in their own scrums to realize they’re getting dangerously close to Colt’s prone body.
His prone, bleeding body.
“Oh, my God,” I whisper, eyes tearing up.
“Breathe, Ky,” Damon says, drawing me into his arms. “He’ll be okay.”
“He’s b-bleeding.”
“Shh.” His hand settles on the back of my head, turning my gaze from the ice, pressing my face into his chest. “He’ll be okay.”
“How do you know?”
God, there’s so much blood.
“Don’t look, baby sis,” he says, turning his body—and me too—away from the view.
But I pull out of his arms, turn back.
I have to look. I have to see.
The fights have been broken up, the players sent to the boxes or respective benches.
All except for Colt, who’s lying so damned still on ice stained red, the training staff and team doctor gathered around him, all working frantically.
But it’s when they bring the stretcher out that I can’t keep watching.
And it’s only then that I allow Damon to lead me away.
Thirty-six stitches.
A dislocated shoulder from when he fell, unconscious, to the ice.
A Grade Two concussion.
And a man who’s quickly making a place for himself in my heart not yet awake.
It’s been twelve hours since the egregiously dirty hit and he’s still not awake. His MRI and CT scans don’t show anything of major concern and the doctors keep saying that sometimes it just takes a while for patients to wake up.
But I know they’re getting worried.
I saw it in their eyes the last time they came in to check on him.
“You should go back to the hotel and get some rest.”
I look up to see Damon in the doorway, having gone back to the hotel himself to shower and change. He stayed by my side all night, as we waited, hoped for him to wake up.
Everyone was hoping he’d wake.
The team even delayed their departure to Texas, wanting word of his condition before they headed off for their next game.
Word I couldn’t give them.
Because he hasn’t woken up.
“I’m fine,” I tell my brother.
“His parents?” Damon asks.
We called them a half-dozen times, but they haven’t responded.
Meanwhile, I’ve been in contact with Blake all night.
He was watching the game, was just as worried as I was—as I am.
I shake my head. “No, they still haven’t returned my calls.”
“Blake still worried?” he asks.
I nod. “I think we’re all worried.”
Damon comes over, settles his hand on my shoulder. “He’ll be fine.”
“How do you know?”
The ghost of a smile, a tug of my ponytail. “Because he finally has what he’s been wanting for years. Hell, if the man will give up now.”
“I’m not sure—”
“He’ll be good, Ky. I’ll hang here while you shower and catch a couple hours sleep.”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“Then food,” he says. “You at least need to eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
Damon’s fingers tighten on my shoulder. “Kylie,” he begins.
“You need to rest.”
But it’s not my brother’s voice that’s trying to order me around. It’s—
“Colt!” I exclaim, bending toward him, taking his hand in mine. “You’re awake!”
He winces and tries to sit up but I stay him with a palm on his uninjured shoulder.
“Easy,” I murmur. “You’re hurt, honey.”
“Fuck,” he groans. “No kidding. What happened? Last thing I remember is Lake scoring and then—” He slips his hand from mine, fingers going to the edge of the bandage on the side of his head.
“You got a bit of a haircut…and thirty-two stitches.”
He touches the bandage, slowly tracing around the outside of it. “Jesus, some haircut.”
“I think it looks good.”
A snort, but when he tries to sit up again, I order, “Don’t.”
His eyes come to mine.
“You also dislocated your shoulder.”
Damon moves opposite to me on the bed and scowls. “No, you didn’t. Lex fucking Ambrose decided to clock you with his stick and you landed awkwardly.”
“Ambrose—” He starts to shake his head then stops, wincing again. “The little fuck hit me from behind?”
“More like used his stick like a goddamned baseball bat.”
Rage flickers across Colt’s face. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Wish I was.” Damon shoves a hand through his hair. “Unfortunately, I’m not.” His gaze comes to mine. “I’ll go tell the nurses he’s awake.” Then he slips from the room, leaving Colt and me alone.
“You okay?”
I take his hand again, hold it as tightly as I dare. “I’m not the one who was hurt.”
“You look like your black circles have black circles,” he says gently. “You should do what your brother said and go back to the hotel and get some sleep.”
“Later. After you’re settled.”
“I’m fine.”
Except he shifts on the bed and this time his wince is more intense, his skin paling as pain writes itself into the lines of his face.
Damn, where is the doctor?
“Starfire—”
“Don’t even try to be sweet and charming.” I scowl at him. “You’re hurting and you finally woke up. Let me take care of you—”
“I don’t need that.”
The words are so sharp I rock back in my chair, a thread of hurt coiling in my chest.
He curses softly. “I just mean, I’m fine. This is the job. Sometimes you get hurt. And you have a life to get back to. Don’t let me—” He breaks off, clamps his lips together, eyes drifting to the side.
“Don’t let me what?”
“You already came out for the charity event. You already stayed through this shit.”
“I wanted to be here.”
“You were. But now you shouldn’t let this take precedence. You have a long weekend. You should fly home and enjoy your time off.”
What the hell?
But before I can call him on the utter fuckery of that statement, a commotion at the door draws my focus.
“Hey, bro,” Blake says, zipping through the door in his electric wheelchair. “I’m—”
But he doesn’t finish the sentence before two people rush in behind him…and one look at the pinched expression on the woman’s face tells me all that I need to know.
She’s Colt’s mother.
And she isn’t happy to be here.