28. April 3, Sunday Night
Chapter twenty-eight
Ilya
The emergency vet clinic waiting room smelled like wet dog, burnt coffee, and old French fries.
Hard plastic chairs creaked in the small lobby, every one occupied by a grown man trying—and failing—not to look like he’d been punched in the throat.
Hoodies, team jackets, hastily pulled-on sweats.
A few of the guys with longer hair still had damp hair from postgame showers, despite the game ending hours before.
An Animal Planet rerun played on the TV bolted to the wall. Some relentlessly cheerful vet was coaxing a golden retriever into swallowing a pill hidden in cheese. Subtitles crawled across the bottom. No one was reading them.
The Cyclones took up most of the room. The rest belonged to civilians equally wrecked over their own emergencies.
A woman clutched an empty cat carrier, an older man absently stroked the ears of a limp terrier in his lap, both of them staring at the swinging double doors like anxiety alone might force them open.
Ilya sat near the end of the team’s clump, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped so hard his fingers ached.
Across the room, Zoey sat folded into herself in a corner chair, jacket zipped to her chin, ankles crossed tightly, arms wrapped around the emergency blanket from the trunk of her car. Her coffee had gone untouched in the seat beside her, while her eyes stayed locked on the doors to the back.
She’d texted nearly the entire roster the second the vet techs had taken Fido from her car.
FOUND HIM IN THE GARAGE. LEG BAD. LOT OF BLOOD. AT EMERGENCY VET NOW.
Then the address.
Of course, they’d come.
They’d been warned away from the hospital waiting room after Christian’s girlfriend asked for space. No one knew where to put all that adrenaline and dread. So, when Zoey’s text came through, guys trickled in. One, then three, then half the damn roster.
A rookie in a hospital bed with his neck braced.
A dog on an operating table.
A woman Ilya loved sitting ten feet away with dried blood on her jeans and heartbreak still sharp on her face because he put it there.
He stared at his hands. The calluses across his palms looked foreign. Useless. He’d never felt less like a captain.
“Coffee?” Mitch asked quietly, nodding toward the sad carafe on the side table.
Ilya shook his head.
“You sure?”
“What I need,” Ilya muttered, “is a time machine.”
Mitch gave a short, humorless exhale. “Yeah. Don’t we all.”
Silence settled again, thick and humming.
Zoey shifted in her chair, and his entire body clocked it.
He shouldn’t have been looking at her. He knew that. But not looking felt impossible.
She’d scrubbed the blood off her hands in the clinic bathroom, but he could still see where it had been. Her hair escaped the neat style she’d started the day with. There were dark streaks on one thigh of her jeans. She looked tired in a way that went beyond one bad night.
When he’d first walked in, she’d been wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand. She’d looked up, saw him, and looked away so quickly he’d understood the message without words.
Stay there.
So, he had. Like a coward.
Once a few more teammates arrived, she’d crossed the room and given them the update in that thin, brave voice she used when she was trying not to crack.
“He was next to my car,” she’d said, voice rough. “I don’t know how long. He didn’t look very…”
She hadn’t finished. Just hugged the blanket tighter go her chest.
At first, Ilya thought she was cold. Shock could do strange things to a body. Then he saw the dried blood soaked into the fleece.
Every cell in his body screamed at him to cross the room and pull her into his arms. To put himself between her and the world. To do what came as naturally to him as breathing when it came to her—protect, steady, hold.
Instead, he’d stayed planted in his chair. Because every time he looked at her, he didn’t just see Zoey.
He saw Christian on the ice, eyes open and not seeing.
He saw Fido dragging himself through a cold garage.
He saw Jayden’s crayon drawing folded in his pocket. ME + ILYA = TEAM. The drawing seemed to burn hotter against his thigh. Jayden’s uneven block letters. Two smiling stick bodies in skates. One bigger. One smaller.
And then there was what he’d learned tonight.
Zoey’s foster file was moving forward. Nothing in that world was guaranteed, but it wasn’t theoretical anymore either.
The classes. The home studies. The social workers reviewing her file.
The possible connection to Jayden’s placement team.
None of it lived in the vague someday future anymore.
It was real. Close enough to touch. Close enough to change her life. Close enough that the hope in her eyes terrified him before he crushed it.
Zoey finally getting the chance to become a mother should’ve made him happy. The possibility of Jayden leaving the group home and ending up in her apartment should’ve made him happy too.
And part of him was happy. Because Jayden would be loved there. In that apartment with the too-small kitchen, the underwatered plants, and the woman who moved toward hurt instead of away from it.
Jayden would be safe with her.
Any kid would be.
Zoey was exactly the kind of person every child deserved to come home to. The kind of parent Ilya and Kira used to wish existed for them.
But close made everything real in a way someday hadn’t. Close meant she would need more than locked doors and stolen hours. Close meant she would need someone who could stand beside her in daylight. Someone steady enough not to flinch when a child’s trust landed in his hands.
Someone who didn’t turn every crisis into proof that he should leave before he was left.
He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes until stars sparked.
He’d told himself walking away from Zoey in that hallway had been the right call. Clean. Necessary. Protection.
Instead, it felt like chewing glass.
He’d left her there with her heart in her eyes and his own words—I can’t be that guy—hanging between them like a verdict.
Her hurt followed him all the way to the garage.
Into his truck. Into his bed when he’d stared at the ceiling, repeating his arguments to himself so he didn’t pick up the phone and call her.
You are protecting her. You are protecting Jayden. You are getting out before they build something around you that you could ruin.
The words sounded like logic when he was alone.
Tonight, under fluorescent lights with her bloodstained blanket in her lap, they sounded like fear wearing a better coat.
The double doors swung open with a squeak.
Every head in the room snapped up.
A man in dark scrubs stepped out, drying his hands on a paper towel. His badge read Dr. Dawson. His eyes swept the room and landed on Zoey with immediate recognition.
“The shepherd mix from the parking garage?”
Half the room rose like they were connected by a string.
“That’s me,” Zoey said, getting up so quickly her chair knocked the wall.
“That’s us,” Tommy corrected, already moving.
“Same,” Ty added.
The vet’s mouth twitched. “Okay. First, you can all breathe a little. She’s probably going to be okay.”
The room exhaled all at once. A few short, shaky laughs. One audible thank God from somewhere near the coffee station.
Then the first part of the sentence caught up.
“She?” several voices echoed.
Dr. Dawson’s eyes crinkled. “Yes. She. She was very good at hiding her cards from you, but once we got her on the table, it was obvious.”
Tommy scrubbed a hand over his face. “Man. We gave a girl a dude name. We suck.”
“I don’t think she took it personally,” the vet said dryly. Then his expression sobered. “That’s not the most important thing.”
The room went still again.
“She lost a lot of blood. We repaired a deep laceration to the rear leg, chest, and hip, dealt with a punctured lung, placed pins in a fractured femur, and started transfusions. She’s weak and badly dehydrated, but her vitals are stable.
If she avoids clots or infection over the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours, she has a good chance at recovery. ”
Zoey’s hand flew to her mouth. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“You’re welcome. She’s a tough girl.”
A few guys managed real smiles at that.
Then Dr. Dawson grimaced. “There is one more thing. She has also recently given birth.”
The words hit the room like a dropped weight.
“Birth?” Ilya heard himself say, his tongue thick around it.
The vet nodded. “Her mammary tissue is still prominent. Based on what we saw, she has—or had—puppies somewhat recently. Most likely within the last month or two.”
Silence crashed back down.
Puppies. Tiny, hungry, vulnerable little puppies. Out there. Alone.
His stomach turned.
“If they’re still alive, they may be old enough to move around some,” Dr. Dawson continued.
“But if she was nursing and then injured, they could be hungry, cold, or hiding nearby. I’d backtrack to wherever you found her as soon as possible.
Warm spaces, under cars, behind dumpsters, anywhere sheltered. ”
Tommy was already reaching for his phone. “I’m going back to the garage.”
“I’ll call arena security,” Jason said, voice tight. “Tell them no one moves cars from that level until we check. Ask them to find some boxes for us.”
“Loading dock, alley, storage areas,” Ty brainstormed, shifting on his feet. “Anyone need a ride, I’m heading over now.”
Movement broke through the room. Players moved, murmuring, organizing themselves with the sudden, desperate efficiency of men given a task after hours of helplessness.
Dr. Dawson watched them for a beat, brows lifted. “Well. That’s…good. Be careful. If you find puppies, don’t feed them cow’s milk. Keep them warm and call us. We’ll walk you through transport.”
“Can we see her?” Zoey asked, voice still unsteady. “Before they go? Just for a second?”
“She’s sedated and on strong meds,” Dr. Dawson advised. “She’s not fully out of the woods, but she’s past the immediate crisis. We can bring one or two of you back once she’s settled. Give us a few minutes.”