25. Cole
Cole
The Portland Fog were getting away with murder tonight, and I didn’t like it one bit. Their brand of dangerous play had no place in professional hockey. No one taking the ice for a fucking game should have to worry that they might not be able to skate away on their own power.
When the refs refused to call blatant boarding and slew footing, our opponents grew bolder as their fear of being penalized diminished.
I had a very bad feeling that this game was going to end with someone headed to the hospital—more than likely, that someone being me or one of my teammates.
With a grunt, I heaved myself over the boards on a shift change during the second period. Keeping my head on a swivel, I barely managed to dodge a hit from the Fog’s biggest goon, feeling a rush of air against the back of my neck from the near-miss.
My already accelerated heart kicked into triple gear.
Fuck, that was close. Too close.
Levi got stripped skating through the neutral zone, and the Fog dumped the puck toward our net.
Crew hustled after it, peeking over his shoulder to keep an eye on the forward, Marakov, chasing him from behind.
He got there first, slinging it around the boards to Dylan.
Since Crew had relinquished possession of the puck, it became illegal to hit him, but that didn’t stop the six-four forward from leaping into the air to nail my brother in the side of his head with an elbow.
My twin crumpled immediately, and I forgot all about the game as I rushed toward him, dropping to my knees at his side. My heart sank to my stomach when I found him unconscious, and I waved frantically toward the bench, calling for the medical staff.
Mindful not to move him after he’d suffered a head injury, I kept my hands to myself as I spoke to his eerily still form. “Crew, buddy. I need you to wake up.”
All the air left my lungs in a rush when his lashes fluttered, then lifted.
He groaned, his words coming out slightly slurred. “Mom, it’s Saturday. No school today.”
Jesus, not only had that jackass knocked him out, but he’d knocked him back at least a decade.
“Not Mom, bud,” I replied as a trainer flanked me on either side, ready to assess his condition.
Crew’s brow furrowed in concentration as he looked at me, and after what felt like an eternity, recognition slowly filtered into his blue eyes. “Cole.”
“That’s right.”
“Where—?” He swallowed so roughly his Adam’s apple bobbed. “Where am I?”
“We’ll take over from here.” I was shoved out of the way by the team’s physician as he pulled out a tiny flashlight and began to gauge my brother’s pupil reaction.
Rising to my feet, I hovered nearby, several teammates coming to join me as we watched the medical staff run through a concussion assessment right there on the ice.
Eventually, they got Crew into a sitting position, but his eyes were glassy, and he swayed precariously—both telltale signs of the brain making brutal contact with the skull.
One of the trainers turned around. “Can two of you help to get him up and to the tunnel?”
Levi and I were the first to volunteer, flanking Crew’s sides and hauling him to his feet.
My twin was so unsteady that he leaned all of his weight on me as we moved across the ice, and I nearly lost my balance.
Thankfully, Jagger was nearby and quick to right me, joining us in the struggle to move Crew to the bench.
Once the handoff to the doctor and his team was complete, and Crew disappeared down the tunnel toward the treatment rooms for further evaluation, I turned to Coach.
“What’s the call?”
There was a grim expression on Davenport’s face. “No call.”
“WHAT?!” I roared, whipping around to aim my fury at the refs.
The four officials stood gathered together, shooting the shit while waiting for play to resume after the injury stoppage.
Skating in their direction, I shouted, “How the fuck do you not call a penalty on that dirty hit?”
The head referee stared me down. “It was clean from where I was standing.”
Sarcastic laughter fell from my lips. “Oh yeah? Guess you missed the part where he left his fucking feet and led with the elbow. And let’s not forget the fact that the hit happened away from the puck!”
Marakov skated to stand behind the refs, wearing a shit-eating grin on his face, and bringing his fists to his face to mimic crying. “Wah wah wah,” he taunted in heavily accented English.
My blood pressure spiked, and I lunged, ready to tear his fucking head off.
Unfortunately, the four men in striped shirts between us held me back.
Grunting with exertion as I fought against their hold, I screamed, “The second they drop the puck, you’re mine, you hear?”
Markov curled his fingers into a come and get me gesture. “Bring it on.”
“Astor, you need to calm down before I throw your ass in the box,” the head referee warned.
I scoffed. “Probably the safest place to be, given the piss-poor officiating tonight.” Then, because I was feeling particularly spicy, I said, “Mind if I get your autograph after the game? It’s not every day you get to meet the guy who all those blind ref jokes are about.”
His face turned an ugly shade of red, one arm swinging to point toward the home bench. “Get the fuck off my ice!”
With a roll of my eyes, I shoved off, skating backward so Marakov could see the murder in my eyes.
I might not get a go at him tonight, but I’d get my chance later in the season, with the Fog being one of the Surf’s divisional opponents.
The next time we squared off, the gloves would come off, and I’d settle the score for what he did to my brother.
Boos rained down from the crowd when it became clear that I had been ejected. I offered them a wave, silently letting them know it was okay, even though it wasn’t.
When I reached the bench, I spoke to my teammates. “Keep your heads on a swivel, you hear?”
Then I stepped past them and onto the rubber mats that lined the hallways underneath the arena.
Normally, after being kicked out of a game—something that had only happened once before in my entire career—I’d head straight for the locker room, remove my gear, and get dressed so I could watch my team finish from the press box.
But tonight, circumstances were different, so instead, I pushed through the door of the training room where Crew was reclined on a padded bench, surrounded by medical personnel.
“How’s he doing?” I asked.
Dr. Briggs’s mouth was set into a straight line. “Woozy, disoriented, and in a lot of pain.”
The disoriented part was what worried me the most. The brain was a delicate yet extremely important organ. Not only could repeated hits to the head end a career early, but there were also long-term effects, like CTE, that diminished a former-pro’s quality of life post-retirement.
I couldn’t stomach the thought of that happening to my twin. Not when the systems put in place to protect him from head contact had failed—the refs who were on the front lines of enforcing player safety.
Sure, the league would step in and review it. Likely slap Marakov with a couple-game suspension and make him pay a pittance of a fine—$5,000 being the maximum for any single infraction. But that wouldn’t undo the damage to Crew’s brain.
“We’re gonna send him over to SD General for a CT scan just to be on the safe side.”
I stiffened, reading between the lines. They were concerned enough that they wanted to rule out a brain bleed.
“Is there time for me to get dressed? I’d like to go with him.”
“Sure,” Dr. Briggs replied. “But make it quick.”
Already moving, I tossed over my shoulder, “Just give me five minutes.”
Hustling my ass to the locker room, I stripped faster than I ever had in my life, mentally apologizing to those on shift at the hospital tonight for the hockey stink I didn’t have time to wash off. Tossing a pair of joggers and a sweatshirt over my base layer, I ran back to the treatment room.
Out of breath, I huffed. “Ready.”
Crew groaned, extending a hand with his eyes closed. “Cole?”
“Right here, bud.” I stepped up to his side, taking his hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze.
“You get even?” he asked.
“They kicked me out before I could.” There was no point in lying to him, not when he’d catch the replay later. “But I will,” I promised.
A corner of my brother’s lips twitched. “Can’t wait to hear what got goody-two-shoes Captain Cole ejected.”
Chuckling, I ran my free hand through my hair. “There may have been some reference to blind ref jokes.”
“Classic.” Amusement filtered into his voice.
EMTs filtered into the room, helping Crew onto the gurney they brought with them, and I braced for the long night that lay ahead.
As expected, we spent hours at the hospital. Levi and Jagger were nice enough to drive my car over and park it in the lot, ready and waiting for when it was finally time to go home.
The doctors at SD General determined that a nasty concussion was the extent of Crew’s injuries, unable to give a definitive timeline on how long it would take for his brain to heal—every case, every individual, was different in that regard.
Crew was a cranky mess by the time they discharged him, and he passed out in the passenger seat within seconds of buckling his seatbelt.
Vision blurry from the sheer exhaustion of being awake for close to twenty-four hours straight, I drove through the entrance to our shared neighborhood just as the sun began to crest on the horizon.
Since my brother lived alone, I guaranteed the doctors I’d keep an eye on him while he recovered, so instead of dropping him off at his place, I pulled into my garage.
Killing the ignition, I let my head fall back against the seat and my eyes drifted shut.
I must’ve fallen asleep because I was jarred awake by someone knocking on the driver’s side window, my sharp cry of surprise filling the cabin.
Crew groaned, lifting a hand to his head. “Too loud.”
“Sorry,” I muttered, rubbing at my bleary eyes before shifting them to find Bridget standing outside my car window.
She tugged the door open, her lips turned down in a frown.
“You should have ordered a car to drive you home if you were so tired you couldn’t make it inside the house without falling asleep.
” Leaning into the car, she pressed her forehead to mine and said softly, “I can’t lose you, Cole. Not after I just got you back.”
Guilt hit me square in the chest. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
Dusting her lips over mine, she withdrew, training her gaze on Crew. “He okay?”
I lifted one shoulder. “Depends on your definition of okay. He’ll recover, but there’s no telling if the damage from that hit will fuck him up twenty or thirty years down the road.”
Bridget hauled in a deep breath. “If it does, we’ll handle it.”
Hope filled my chest like a balloon. This was the first time she hinted that she planned to stick around—with me—long-term.
Not in any hurry to tempt fate, I didn’t draw attention to what her statement implied. Instead, I climbed out of the vehicle, pulling Bridget into a quick hug before rounding the trunk to help Crew exit from the passenger’s side.
My brother used me as a human crutch as we shuffled through the mudroom, past the kitchen, and into the living room. I eased him onto the larger of the two couches, and within seconds, he got comfortable enough to pass out again.
Turning to face Bridget, I noted the dark circles under her eyes. “Did you get any sleep last night?”
She shook her head. “Not a lot. I drifted off a few times, but kept waking up, checking my phone for updates.”
“Why don’t you head up and grab a couple of hours?” I jerked my chin toward the staircase.
“Will you come with me?”
I cupped her cheek. “I want to. More than anything. But I’ve gotta keep an eye on Crew, watch for complications.”
“How about we take shifts?” she suggested. “I’ll take first watch since I’m slightly more rested than you are this morning.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I began to protest.
“I know I don’t have to, but I want to. You’ve taken such good care of me, and now it’s my turn to repay the favor.”
Pressing a kiss to her lips, I murmured, “You’re incredible, you know that?”
Bridget hummed, soaking in my praise. “You’re not so bad yourself.” She gave me a light tap on my hip, teasing, “Better get going before I change my mind.”
“I’ll be back in two hours, tops.”
“Make it three,” she countered.
A smile split my face. “So bossy.”
“Don’t pretend like you don’t like it.”
She was right about that.
I would happily let this woman boss me around until the end of time if it meant she stayed forever.