Chapter 8
Georgia
Hockey is not a game. It is a socially sanctioned riot.
Usually, I hated hockey games. They were loud, cold, and barbaric.
But tonight, I wasn't just a spectator. I was a stakeholder.
My eyes were glued to the center circle. To Number 19.
Toby stood at the face-off dot, leaning on his stick.
He was a giant in black and silver. Even from here, I could see the tension in his shoulders.
I knew what it meant. I knew that under the pads, under the jersey, his right hip was taped so tightly it was probably cutting off circulation.
I knew he had spent an hour on the floor of the penthouse this morning while I worked the knot out of his adductor, his breath hissing through his teeth.
He looked up.
It was impossible. There were thousands of people in the stands. The lights were blinding. But his head tilted back, and his masked face turned directly toward the glass where I was standing.
He couldn't see me. I knew that. The glare on the glass, the distance—it was physics.
But I felt it. The invisible tether that snapped tight between us.
I see you.
I pressed my hand against the cold glass. "Be careful, you idiot," I whispered.
The referee dropped the puck.
The explosion of violence was immediate.
Toby won the draw, snapping the puck back to his defensemen. But before he could even turn, the opposing center—a massive guy from Michigan State who looked like he ate bricks for breakfast—slammed into him.
Crunch.
The sound of bodies colliding echoed even through the glass.
I flinched. My hand flew to my mouth.
Toby didn't fall. He absorbed the hit like a stone wall, shoved the guy off, and skated up the ice.
"Yeah! Get him, Cap!" Jager yelled from the bench. I could see him banging his stick on the boards.
"He's favoring it," I murmured, my eyes narrowing.
Lola, standing next to me in a black mesh top and holding a smuggled flask, leaned in. "What?"
"His stride," I said, unable to look away. "He's not extending fully on the right side. He's shortening the push-off. He's protecting the hip."
"You're scrutinizing his skating mechanics?" Lola took a swig from her flask. "God, you are whipped. Just enjoy the view, G. He looks like a gladiator."
He did. That was the problem.
He was magnificent. He moved with a predatory grace that defied his size. He was faster than everyone else, smarter than everyone else. He anticipated the play before it happened. He was playing a different game entirely.
But I saw the grimace when he turned sharply. I saw the way he leaned on his stick during whistles to take the weight off his right leg.
I wasn't watching a game. I was watching a man walk a tightrope over a canyon of failure, and I was the only one who knew the rope was fraying.
The first period was a blur of violence. North Haven scored once—a slapshot from the point. Michigan State answered with a gritty goal in the crease. 1-1.
But the real battle was happening away from the puck.
The Michigan State players were targeting Toby. They knew he was the engine. They were taking runs at him, slashing at his ankles, hitting him a fraction of a second late.
"Dirty play!" I yelled as a defenseman cross-checked Toby in the lower back right in front of the net. "Ref! Are you blind?!"
"Whoa," Lola laughed. "Easy, tiger. Since when do you yell at refs?"
"Since they started letting assault happen on the ice!" I seethed, my nails digging into the railing.
The second period ended. 1-1.
I checked my phone. No texts. Of course not. He was in the locker room, probably getting re-taped, probably staring at the wall and visualizing the third period.
I felt sick.
The third period started. The energy in the arena shifted. It got tighter. Desperate.
With five minutes left, the score was still tied.
Toby took the puck in his own zone. He wound up, gathering speed. He beat one defender at the blue line. He deked another at the face-off circle.
He was in alone. A breakaway.
The crowd rose to its feet, a roar building like a tidal wave.
Toby pulled the puck to his backhand, freezing the goalie. He had the open net.
But he didn't shoot.
At the last second, the Michigan State defenseman—Number 55, a guy named Kovac who had been hacking at Toby all night—caught up. He didn't play the puck. He swung his stick like a baseball bat, chopping down hard on the back of Toby’s right knee.
It was a cheap shot. A filthy, career-ending kind of slash.
Toby’s leg buckled.
He went down hard, crashing into the boards behind the net at full speed.
THUD.
The arena went silent.
Dead silent.
Toby didn't get up. He lay crumpled on the ice, motionless.
"No," I breathed. My blood turned to ice water. "No, no, no."
"Oh shit," Lola whispered.
The trainer ran out onto the ice. The referee signaled a penalty. A fight broke out near the blue line—Jager was pummeling Kovac—but I didn't care.
I only saw Toby.
He rolled over. He clutched his knee. Then his hand moved to his hip.
He tried to stand. He put weight on the right leg and immediately collapsed back to one knee.
My vision blurred. A wave of nausea rolled through me.
The tendon.
If he snapped the tendon, it was over. The draft. The bonus. The freedom. The boathouse studio. Us.
"Get up," I whispered, pressing my forehead against the glass. "Please, Toby. Get up."
As if he heard me, Toby pushed himself up. He shoved the trainer away. He stood on one leg, using his stick as a crutch. He looked up at the VIP box. He looked straight at me.
His face was pale, sweat dripping from his chin. His eyes were wild with pain.
He shook his head once. I'm not done.
He skated to the bench. He didn't go to the locker room. He sat down, slammed his helmet on the floor, and yelled something at the trainer.
"He's staying in?" Lola asked, incredulous. "Is he insane?"
"He's desperate," I said, my voice hollow.
The game restarted. Four on four.
Toby stayed on the bench for two shifts. Then, with one minute left, the coach tapped him.
He vaulted over the boards. He couldn't skate at full speed. He was limping on skates. But his presence changed the gravity of the game. The defenders backed off, terrified of him.
The puck came to him at the point.
He didn't skate. He just wound up. He put everything—his pain, his anger, his fear—into a slapshot.
Crack.
The puck was a blur. It blew past the goalie's ear and hit the back of the net so hard it popped the water bottle into the air.
Goal. 2-1.
The buzzer sounded.
The arena erupted. Beer flew into the air. People were hugging, screaming.
I didn't cheer. I sank onto the bench seat, shaking uncontrollably.
He did it. He won.
But at what cost?
The tunnel outside the locker room was a chaotic mix of media, family members, and team staff. It smelled of damp concrete and victory.
I waited in the shadows near the equipment room, away from the cameras. I was wearing my VIP pass, clutching my purse to my chest.
I needed to see him. I needed to see that he was walking.
The door to the locker room opened.
Players started trickling out. They were high on the win, laughing, shouting. Jager walked out with an ice pack on his knuckles, a grin plastered on his face.
He saw me. His grin faded slightly. He walked over.
"Hey, Sterling."
"Where is he?" I asked.
"He's in the trainer's room," Jager said quietly. "Doc is looking at him. It... it looked bad, G. That slash was nasty."
"Is he walking?"
"Barely." Jager looked around to make sure no one was listening. "He's refusing crutches because there are scouts in the hallway. He's an idiot."
"Yeah," I choked out. "He is."
Just then, the door opened again.
Toby walked out.
He was wearing his suit pants and a white undershirt. He was carrying his jacket. He was walking with a hitch in his step, but he was upright. His face was a mask of stone. He was sweating, his hair wet and messy.
He was scanning the crowd. Not looking at the reporters. Not looking at the scouts.
Looking for me.
His eyes found me in the shadows.
The relief that washed over his face was so raw it broke my heart. The mask cracked. For a second, he looked like a lost boy.
He jerked his head toward the side exit—the one that led to the private player parking lot.
I nodded.
I slipped away from Jager and walked quickly toward the exit. I pushed through the heavy metal door into the cold night air.
The parking lot was empty, lit by a single flickering streetlamp. Snow was falling heavily now.
The door opened behind me.
Toby stumbled out. He let the door close, leaning his back against the brick wall. He closed his eyes and let out a long, ragged exhale.
"Toby," I whispered.
He opened his eyes.
I ran to him. I didn't care about the snow. I didn't care about my heels.
I reached him and wrapped my arms around his waist, burying my face in his chest. He smelled of soap and Deep Heat and exhaustion.
He hissed in pain as the impact jarred his hip, but his arms came around me instantly, holding me tight. He buried his face in my neck.
"You're alive," I mumbled into his shirt.
"Barely," he grunted.
"You idiot," I said, pulling back to look at him. I was crying. I hadn't realized I was crying until I felt the hot tears on my cheeks. "You absolute moron. Why did you go back out? You could have ruined everything."
"I had to win," he said, his voice rough. He wiped a tear from my cheek with his thumb. His hand was shaking. "If we lost, the scouts would say I can't carry a team. I had to show them."
"You showed them you have a death wish!" I hit his chest lightly. "I thought you broke your leg. I thought it was over."
"It's not over," he said fiercely. "I scored."
"You can barely stand!"
"I'm standing right now," he argued. "Because you're holding me up."
The admission hung in the cold air.
He looked down at me. The adrenaline from the game was fading, replaced by something darker. Need. Pain.
"Take me home," he whispered. "Please, Georgia. Just get me out of here before I fall down."
"Okay," I sniffled, wiping my eyes. "Okay. Give me the keys."
He handed me the keys to the Rover.
I guided him to the passenger side. He leaned heavily on me, his arm draped over my shoulders. Every step was a battle. I could feel the tremors running through his body.
I got him into the seat and buckled him in.
As I walked around to the driver's side, I saw a shadow move near the entrance of the tunnel.
A man in a trench coat. Holding a notepad.
He was watching us. Specifically, he was watching Toby struggle to get into the car.
My stomach dropped.
A scout.
I got into the car and slammed the door. I started the engine quickly.
"Who was that?" Toby asked, his head lolling back against the headrest.
"Nobody," I lied. "Just a fan."
I pulled out of the lot, driving fast.
Toby reached over and took my hand. His fingers interlaced with mine. He squeezed, hard.
"You look good in my jersey," he murmured, his eyes closed.
"Shut up," I said, my voice thick. "Just rest."
"You're wearing my name," he continued, a slur of exhaustion in his voice. "Means you're mine."
"Yeah," I whispered, glancing at him. "I'm yours."
I drove through the snowy streets of Duluth, my hand in his, my heart aching.
He had won the battle. But looking at the pale, broken man in the passenger seat, I was terrified we were going to lose the war.
Getting him into the penthouse was an ordeal.
The elevator ride was silent. Toby leaned against the wall, eyes closed, breathing shallowly.
When we got inside, I helped him to the bedroom. He sat on the edge of the bed, groaning as he extended his leg.
"Pants off," I ordered, switching into physio mode. It was safer than girlfriend mode.
He chuckled weakly. "Usually you buy me dinner first."
"Shut up and let me see the damage."
He unbuckled his belt and shimmied out of the suit pants.
I gasped.
His right hip was a disaster. The tape job was shredded. Underneath, the skin was angry and red. But it was the bruise on the back of his knee—where the stick had hit—that made me sick. It was already purple and swelling fast.
"Toby..."
"It looks worse than it is," he lied.
"It looks like you were hit by a truck."
I ran to the bathroom and grabbed the scissors. I cut the tape off his hip carefully. The skin was raw.
"Ice," I muttered. "We need ice. And elevation. And ibuprofen."
I ran to the kitchen, filled three bags with ice, grabbed a bottle of water and the pills.
When I came back, he was lying back on the pillows, staring at the ceiling. He looked... small.
"Here," I said, handing him the pills.
He swallowed them dry.
I packed the ice around his knee and his hip. I propped his leg up on two pillows.
"Is that better?" I asked softly, sitting on the edge of the bed.
"Yeah," he sighed. "Thanks, Doc."
I brushed the hair off his forehead. His skin was cool now. Clammy.
"You scared me tonight," I whispered.
"I scared myself," he admitted. He opened his eyes and looked at me. "When I hit the boards... I thought it was gone. The bonus. The plan. Everything."
"But you got up."
"I saw you," he said. "In the glass. You looked like you were going to jump over the railing and kill someone."
"I considered it."
He reached up and cupped my cheek. His thumb traced my lip.
"You're my anchor, Georgia," he said. The intensity in his eyes was blinding. "When I'm on the ice, and the noise is so loud I can't think... I look for you. And when I see you, the noise stops."
My heart stuttered.
"Toby..."
"Come here," he tugged on my hand.
"You need to rest. You're injured."
"I need you," he corrected. "Just... lie with me. Please. I need to know you're real."
I hesitated. This was dangerous. Lying in his bed. Touching him.
But I couldn't say no. Not to him. Not tonight.
I kicked off my heels. I climbed onto the bed, careful not to jostle his leg.
I lay down beside him, on top of the covers.
"Closer," he murmured.
I scooted closer until my head was on his chest. I could hear his heart beating. Strong. Steady.
He wrapped his arm around me, holding me tight against him. He buried his face in my hair.
"Stay," he whispered.
"I'm staying," I promised.
We lay there in the dark, the city lights casting long shadows across the room.
His breathing deepened. He was drifting off, the exhaustion finally winning.
But I was wide awake.
I traced the pattern of his heartbeat against my cheek.
I love him.
The thought hit me with the force of a slapshot.
It wasn't just attraction. It wasn't just trauma bonding. It wasn't just a deal.
I loved him. I loved his discipline. I loved his brokenness. I loved the way he looked at me like I was the only person in the stadium.
And that terrified me more than anything.
Because love was a weakness. Love was leverage. And my father knew how to use leverage better than anyone.
I closed my eyes, listening to the wind howl outside.
We were safe in the tower for now. But the storm was coming. And I wasn't sure if love was enough to survive it.