Chapter 38
Chapter Thirty-Eight
RHETT
The arena shakes around me as the crowd screams, my heart beating heavily in my ears.
My breaths race out of me as I skate down the length of the ice, following Paxton as Ashton drops a stretch pass right onto the tape of his stick, like it’s a damn drill and not thirty minutes into this game against LA.
The tension is high tonight, Paxton’s old teammates exploiting his weaknesses every chance they can.
There’s no bad blood between them, but all’s fair in hockey when we’re trying to close in on a playoff berth.
I cut into my edge to stop just inside the blue line, keeping track of the forward sitting a few feet from me, trying to keep the path of the slot closed off as Paxton rims the puck to Thorne on the other side of the net.
One of the Reign gets a hold of it and tries to clear it, but Ashton manages to keep it in, snapping off a pass to me.
I don’t even look for my brother, passing it blind, trusting he’ll be there.
He is. The puck slaps against his stick as he tries for a one-timer. Metal dings as it hits the crossbar and then goes into the netting, causing a stoppage of play. I ease over a few feet, setting up for the face off. It’s Brett that comes up to me, standing opposite me.
“Hey, man,” he says with a grin. “Long time no see.”
I roll my eyes. “Not long enough, Brett.”
He scoffs, still grinning like a fool. “Come on, you know you’ve missed me.”
Do I like Brett? Yes, actually. But on ice, we’re not going to get along.
My retort is cut off as the puck is dropped.
Brett pushes past me, gunning for the puck as Kane slots it back after winning the face off.
Thorne beats him to it, dumping it toward the net where Paxton’s waiting for a potential tip-in.
One of the Reign players roars up on him in his blind spot, cross-checking him.
Paxton crumples just as the puck gets to him and the goalie’s stick lunges out, trying to poke check it away.
There’s a horrifying scream, and then all I can feel is Carys’s panic swirling through me.
I forget I’m supposed to be holding my position.
I forget I need to wait for the referee to blow the play dead.
I’m rushing across the ice where Paxton is still crumpled, red slowly pooling on the ice beneath him.
The goalie’s eyes are wide with panic, and he’s throwing off his gloves.
“Oh fuck, Pax man. I’m so fucking sorry, dude,” he says. He looks over at the benches, but one of our trainers is already racing for the goal, towels in hand.
The entire arena drops into eerie silence as another trainer is called over and then the paramedics that never see action are rushing onto the ice, too.
There’s way more blood than just a normal slice on the face from a stick.
Carys’s panic is all-consuming, overwhelming everything I might be feeling.
I skate closer, but the trainers keep a hard line.
“What’s happened?” I ask him.
“Skate to the neck,” he says grimly. “They’re getting it patched, and then they’re getting him out of here to evaluate for neck and spine injuries.”