Second Shot at Love (Northwest Ice #6)

Chapter 1

Seattle

“Here!” Kyle Tinker called across the ice.

His teammate glanced across from his position on the blue line, his stick flexing as he hit the puck, sending it skipping over the sheet of ice to where Kyle waited, ready near the Vancouver net.

He collected the bouncing puck, protecting it as he positioned himself with his back to the defenseman, quickly eyeing where Chris Thomas, Vancouver’s netminder, was exposed. Then flicked the puck over the goaltender’s left shoulder straight into the back of the net.

The red light atop the net flashed, his goal song blared, as the thunderous cheers of Seattle’s fans filled the arena. Saturday night was always packed, and even more so as they inched toward the playoffs.

“Awesome job, man.” Seattle’s captain, Sam Gustaffsson, thumped him on the back, as his other teammates hugged him, before he was released to lead the fist bumps down the team bench.

“Nice work, Tinks,” Coach Aitken called.

Kyle nodded, sat and grabbed his water bottle, squeezing in some necessary hydration to wet the dryness of his mouth as the next line skated into position.

The frantic pace of his heartbeat gradually slowed as he watched the play, his mind shifting to anticipate what Zac Parotti and his other opposing teammates would do.

Kyle had to be always aware, always assessing, always anticipating.

Except with the one person he should’ve paid more attention to—

Stop!

He refocused on the game with renewed intensity.

Now wasn’t the time to let regrets haul him to the sea of uncertainty.

Why he still let this happen even after living here for three years he didn’t know.

Right now was about winning this game, and finally wiping away Chris and Zac’s smirks, friends though they may be.

Kyle needed to win against them. Just once.

But just before the second period ended, Zac scored to tie the game again, the light atop the Seattle net flashing, muting the crowd’s roar.

“Typical Parotti,” Alex Turner muttered, as they headed to the team’s dressing room. “Always knows how to spoil the party.”

“No one can deny the guy is good.” Which was why Zac Parotti had earned an Olympics berth and led the team in goals for Canada on their way to winning gold recently.

Kyle had been assured by Team USA officials that he’d been first reserve in case of illness or injury, which had eased some of the pain in being omitted from the final cut.

Still, at twenty-nine he remained young enough that he might get another chance in four years, while some of the other veterans had probably played their last.

And when it came to it, while being cut from the national team was tough, there were plenty of others facing far harder challenges.

Like the poor pregnant widow of JT Oskar who was still coming to terms with her husband dying in a horrific car accident on New Year’s Eve on his way to play for San Jose.

That game had been called off and rescheduled, as San Jose still battled with the repercussions of losing one of their key players.

Events like that sure put other things in perspective.

Kyle took the eighteen minutes of intermission to quickly down a protein bar and an energy drink, and re-tape his stick as the coach and captain gave their usual spiels to lock in, stay focused, and keep their head in the game.

The defense coach used the whiteboard to remind what plays should be executed and the power-play units were given their instructions.

As one of the key offensive players on the top power-play unit, their team had practiced long and hard and knew the drills, but it was time to make it work against Vancouver’s excellent penalty-killing teams.

The clock ticked down, the Zamboni had resurfaced the ice clean, and they traipsed back down the tunnel to the bench.

“Let’s do this!” Sam called, before taking to the ice, readying for the face-off against Zac Parotti.

The horn blew, signaling the start of the period, as the zebra dropped the puck and Parotti banged it to a waiting Vancouver winger. Fortunately Seattle’s defensemen were awake and alert, blocking shots galore, even lying down to make sure the puck didn’t pass. Now that was commitment.

Kyle waited, anticipation rising as the lines changed again.

It would soon be his turn to go back out onto the ice.

The game was close, a seesaw of energy and goals and flashes of brilliance that probably looked awesome on TV, tonight’s game one of the few Seattle would see televised across the nation this season.

Still, it was a great chance to prove that Seattle were contenders, and should be taken seriously in the Pacific Division, as they battled with Vancouver and Edmonton to lead the division and claim home-ice advantage for the upcoming playoffs.

Twenty seconds later, he was back on the ice, skating hard to be first to collect the puck which had hit the boards and now was skidding his direction.

He scooped it up, keeping it glued to his stick as he swerved Vancouver’s defense, and paused, readying to take the shot.

Then a hard slash to his side felled him face-first to the ice.

The ref’s whistle blew but he barely noticed, aware only of waves of pain cascading through his side and back. People spoke, touched him, but he shook his head. Yet even that action hurt. Heaven and earth he’d never felt pain like this before.

He gritted his teeth, might’ve heard one crack, as he tried to push himself up to all fours. Blood filled his mouth. Great. He must’ve cut his lip or tongue as well. Maybe broken his nose.

“Tinks?” someone yelled.

He closed his eyes, pressed his lips together to hold back a whimper.

“Tinks!” Gerry Travis, one of the team’s trainers, bent down, hollering in his ear above the noise of the crowd. “Where’s it hurt?”

“Here,” he gritted out, reaching behind him to indicate the spot, partway between his hips and ribs.

“Your ribs? Back?”

He didn’t know exactly what section, but it “hurts like Hades.”

“Can you get up?” Gerry asked, as Sam and Kyle’s teammates hovered near. “Or do we need the backboard?”

He drew in a deep breath, pushed himself upright. Sam skated closer and helped him stand. Kyle grimaced, unable to stop a groan of pain.

“Dude, you’ll be okay.”

Sure he would. Easy for someone else to say. He nodded, acknowledging the crowd with a small wave as, still hunched over, he skated off the ice.

His teammates tapped the ice with their sticks, the traditional tribute when someone left the ice injured, and he caught Chris and Zac’s grimaces, nods, and fists over hearts, the signal sometimes used to silently acknowledge a fellow member of the Northwest Ice online Bible study, and that they’d pray for him.

The trainers escorted him down the tunnel to the medical room and he was soon examined by the team doctor, who helped him to strip off his jersey and undershirt, then began gently pressing around the tender area.

He released a hiss of pain.

“Hmm.” Doc Cheloff frowned. “I don’t like that.”

“Me either,” Kyle groaned.

A quick scan on a portable X-ray left the doctor frowning. “I’m not sure if it’s your ribs, or something more internal, but we need to get you to hospital for assessment and to undergo more scans. Okay?”

“Whatever you want.”

The doc gave him pain meds, which he sucked down as a trainer grabbed a bag with Kyle’s necessary things, then he was transported to the waiting ambulance required at all NHL games. He closed his eyes, as the road’s bumps jolted and jarred, poking his pain.

Zac and Chris might be praying, and he bet some others might be too, but how was this God’s best for him?

He’d attended the online Bible study this week where the Reverend Josiah had shared about trusting God in the highs and the lows, but seriously, this was ranking there among the lowest of his lows.

Not the ultimate low—that had been mixed up in that time ten or so years ago when he’d left Washington and headed east with his folks—but pretty close.

Ugh. Where was God now?

He had to focus on something good. A Bible verse. A promise. Anything.

And then he remembered a face he’d always thought more beautiful than any other, one that more recently had often wafted through his dreams. Where was she?

What was she doing? He hoped she was well, that she’d accomplished her dreams. But if he was ever to see her again, well, that would be beyond awkward.

For how did a man apologize for giving up the woman he’d been so stupid as to let get away?

* * *

Earsplitting groans bounced off the walls of the exam room as Dr. Genevieve Rivas winced at the extent of the young man’s compound fracture.

Saturday nights working in Seattle General’s emergency department were always stupidly busy, and lately people seemed to be looking for more extreme ways to hurt themselves.

Such as the eighteen-year-old’s broken leg that had resulted in bone piercing the skin, and bellows of pain coming from the kid’s lungs.

“Hey, Jimmy, I know you’re really hurting right now, but I want you to be brave.” Gen glanced at the man’s female friend as he refused to listen. “I need him to quieten.”

“Jimmy!” His girlfriend shook his arm. “Stop that noise right now. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

Yeah, not quite what Gen had intended. Still, it had the desired effect, as the volume dropped by half and Gen was able to finish her assessment.

She glanced at the nurse, then girlfriend, then the patient himself.

“It’s a bad break, so we’ll need to send you to the OR, but first we need to clean and cover the wound.

” She gave the order for IV antibiotics and pain meds, then worked with the nurses to clean the debris then cover it with a sterile dressing.

The operating room would see the debridement and irrigation for the wound, bone and tissues to clean all contaminants, before the realignment and fixation could begin.