Spencer
seventeen
Bray took the shift change. He was on the ice for barely a minute at a time, but he came off gassed. They were moving so fast, I could barely keep up. The Seals were down, chasing the win. But it was still the first half of the season—we were only a couple of months in—and they’d been on a streak.
The Florida Fireballs were out for blood, though, and they were cocky.
Their center had a big mouth. It was water off a duck’s back for Gauthier—that bloke was as cool as a fuckin’ cucumber—but Bray loved the taunt.
I watched his lips move as he mouthed off to the bloke and winced as the Fireballs’ center grew redder and his lip curled in disgust. Someone was going to throw down gloves, and I doubted it would be Bray loosing the first punch.
The fights were a rude shock when I’d watched my first NHL game.
I’d grown up with rugby. It was known for its brute strength and speed.
The Gold Coast team I supported back home was one of the best—Liam Masters and Bryce Flaharty, the captain and vice captain, were at the top of their game and had been for years.
Their tackles left your ears ringing with the thunderclap.
Then they dusted themselves off and went for the football again.
We used to say “Bring back the biff,” but that’s because there were few fights now, unlike hockey.
These damn hockey players were like a bunch of testosterone-fueled children who couldn’t keep their tempers in check.
And I’d married the biggest instigator of all.
I’d seen plenty of fights when Bray was with the Blizzards—they were happy to dish out a bit of their own justice.
I never got used to seeing it then, and I’d never get used to seeing it now, especially because I’d let my guard down with the Seals.
They were more about finesse than brute force, and that suited me fine.
Bray subbed off again, and I could breathe once more. The third line jumped the boards, and Kunetsov flew right into the mix. He skated through it, expertly playing keepaway with the puck. Yes!
I whistled and cheered, the fans around me doing the same.
The atmosphere of home ice was electric.
The stadium floor literally vibrated with the screams of the crowd, and my ears rang for hours after each game.
But the best part was the upswelling of support for Bray since he’d started following Keeley’s directions.
Number sixty-nine jerseys were popping up everywhere, and I’d even seen one in the window of the whole foods grocer we shopped at for my food.
I hadn’t known about the NHL’s unspoken rule that sixty-nine wasn’t an approved number, but they’d let it go for Bray.
He’d worn number six when he’d first started playing, and then in college wore a nine for his two favorite players—I couldn’t remember their names—but the NHL had thought it was sentimental.
I smirked. They didn’t know my husband like I did.
But I loved that my guy was starting to see this kind of fan support.
I was so grateful for Keeley—she’d singlehandedly rescued his fuckin’ career. But my Texas wasn’t doing it for recognition. He was doing it to make Keels happy. He was completely arse over tit for her.
So was I.
Bray clambered over the boards again with the rest of his linemates and drove straight through the melee for the puck. Sticks clacked, and Minns crunched one of the Fireballs against the boards. He opened up a minute gap for Bray to squeeze through.
He was in front of Florida’s goalie, in the Seals’ attack zone.
They were setting up to score. But if I could see it, so could the Fireballs.
The puck flew between our guys. Hux, Gauthier, Minns, Mironov, and Bray, all passing and defending, interchanging their roles so fluidly that the Fireballs looked like amateurs.
I held my breath as Bray deked it out with one of Florida’s players. He passed.
I scanned the ice.
There.
Gauthier had it.
He turned on a dime.
He shot it like a bullet straight to Hux.
Hux to Minns.
Minns to Bray.
Bray to Gauthier.
Gauthier lined up. He shot it.
The Fireballs’ goalie batted it away, catching it easily on his arm pad.
It soared through the air at head height.
Bray skated in, directly into the puck’s path. What was he doing? He raised his stick and batted it like he was swinging a tennis racquet. The puck did a complete one-eighty.
I was on my feet, my hands in the air. I cheered.
Florida’s center was right there, moving like a freight train.
My gut twisted. My breath caught.
He wasn’t stopping—
Stop!
—head down and shoulder braced like a fucking rugby tackle. Everything moved in slow motion as he collided with Bray.
He lifted him clean off the ice.
Bray’s arms cartwheeled.
He flew back.
Slammed into the boards.
Bray.
He slumped. Dropped like a stone to the ice.
Fuck. Bray.
Unmoving.
Bray, get up.
My breath caught in my throat. Get up.
My ears rang. Get up.
My chest tightened. Fucking get up, Texas.
Spots appeared in my vision.
Panic enveloped me.
My heart slammed against my chest.
The rushing of my pulse in my ears drowned out the boos.
Please. Don’t do this. Get up.
A scream, a bloodcurdling cry, ripped through the arena. Bray.
My hands shook. Get up.
Bray pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. He shook his head slowly as if he was trying to clear the haziness.
I sucked in a breath.
He collapsed again, and the air rushed from my lungs. Bray, move. Get up.
A hand closed over my shoulder.
I reacted. There was no thought.
I had to protect him.
He needed me.
I tore my eyes away from Spencer and spun, my fist already cocked.
A man.
His hands were up like he was surrendering. He soothed, “Woah, woah, dude. My bad.” He pointed a few rows back, two seats from the aisle.
Keeley.
She was as white as a ghost. Hannah was in her arms, wailing. She waved to me, beckoning me to go with her.
I watched as she shuffled past the people closest to her and raced down the aisle.
I followed, clambering past people to get to her. I shot down the stands, taking the concrete steps three at a time, trying to catch up with her.
She handed Hannah to one of the people dressed in a team polo shirt and hopped over the boards. She took Hannah back and stopped to speak to one of the coaches.
I didn’t slow down, hurdling the boards at full speed. I needed to get to him.
I slammed against the chairs, nearly tipping them. One of the players—I didn’t even see who—steadied me.
I raced blindly down the tunnel, searching for the medical center.
“Spencer, wait,” Keeley called.
I skidded to a stop, and she jogged toward me, holding Hannah tight as she caught up.
I needed her. Fuck me, I needed her.
Hannah was wailing and laughing at the same time. It was a contradiction that made the moment surreal.
She gripped my shoulder, lending me her strength. “It’s okay. He’s okay.”
“I need to see him.” My voice was thready, panic lacing my words.
“Spencer,” she soothed, and cupped my face with her free hand. “He’s okay.”
“How do you know that?” I demanded. I was trembling, unable to stop.
“He skated off the ice himself.”
I shook my head. No, that wasn’t right. “What? No. He collapsed again.” My panic bled into my pitchy voice.
“He did. But then he got up, and Gauthier helped him off the ice.” She wiped a tear away with her thumb, and I sucked in a wobbly breath. “The medics will be assessing him for a concussion. But he’s awake. It’s okay, babe. He’s okay.”
The breath rushed from my lungs, and I collapsed into her arms, hugging her and Hannah tight as I fought back the terror of seeing him lifeless on the ice. Keeley rubbed my back, and Hannah gripped my hair, tugging me closer to her.
“Minns and Rune are in the box,” Keeley murmured. “Rune crossed the line and haymakered that bastard, and Minns got a few in too. They love him.”
“I’m so scared,” I whispered, my voice as broken as my heart.
Hannah pressed an open-mouthed kiss to my cheek, and I sobbed, tears spilling down my cheeks.
“Pencer, no cry,” Hannah cooed, and I hugged her tight.
Hannah patted my head, soothing me, and I laughed. “You sweet girl, I adore you.” I pressed a kiss to her forehead.
A door opened ahead, and a person in scrubs with a stethoscope around their neck walked out.
“Caleb,” Keeley called. “Can Spencer see him?”
“In a few minutes. Trisha’s running through the concussion protocol with him. They’re in the quiet room.”
“Thanks.” She turned to me and explained, “The quiet room has low lighting, and it’s insulated from the arena noise. They can only assess him if he’s awake, okay?”
I nodded, and she clasped my hand, leading me further down the corridor into the bowels of the arena. We waited and waited some more. It could have been minutes or hours—I had no idea—before the door in front of us opened, and a woman in scrubs and a doctor’s jacket walked out.
“Oh, Mr. Anderson, I was just on my way to call you. Trisha, the team doctor,” the woman said and held out her hand.
“How is he?” I demanded, skipping over the pleasantries.
“Concussed. A little woozy and headachy from the hit, but he didn’t black out. He remembers it, so that’s good. He's off the ice for what will likely be a week, but it might be two if the headache persists.”
“Okay,” I breathed, the tension draining from me, my adrenaline dropping like a stone.
“You can go in there if you whisper. He’ll be able to go home in a couple of hours, assuming he passes my next assessment. He’ll need someone with him, monitoring him, for the next twenty-four hours. If his symptoms worsen, call 911, then me.”
“If he needs to be monitored, shouldn’t someone be with him?” Keels asked and gestured to the door.
“Patrick is in there.” She smiled reassuringly and clicked on her tablet to make a note.
Keeley turned to me and squeezed my hand. “I’ll look after dinner and meet you back at your apartment.”
Without looking up from her notes, Trisha advised, “Miller can’t eat for at least six hours. Small amounts of water only until then.”