Chapter 13 #3
I’d miss him like crazy when I went back to Canada and he went back to Switzerland, but then I’d have notifications to keep my pulse racing.
We could text and FaceTime. Hell, we could sext and have racy FaceTime calls.
And then this summer, we’d meet up in Spain and find out exactly how much sex the human body could withstand.
Fuck yes.
I shivered in my seat. Was it the off season yet?
Unaware of me fantasizing like a dork, the players continued battling it out.
Sweden managed to score two in rapid succession, but Latvia tied it up with five minutes left in the second.
The whole place was vibrating with adrenaline and excitement; either the third period would be more of the same and they’d go into overtime, or someone would tilt the ice and take the lead.
Or maybe they’d tilt the ice in the remaining minutes of this period, which Latvia seemed hellbent on doing.
Their fourth line had managed to hem Sweden into their own end, and they’d kept cycling and shooting, cycling and shooting, until Sweden’s skaters were visibly exhausted. Then, one by one, Latvia’s skaters peeled away for a line change.
Out came Madars, giving me a little zing of excitement.
He was locked in, cycling along with his teammates as Sweden’s skaters looked like they were ready to die.
Latvia was closing in, tightening their circle and passing faster and faster while the crowd shouted at them in multiple languages to fucking shoot already.
A Swedish blueliner tried to stop a pass going to Madars, but he missed it by a mile. Madars whipped the puck back the way it had come, past the exhausted player, and it landed right on his teammate’s tape. One dagger of a one-timer later, the goal light came on.
All of Latvia’s fans—myself included—flew from our seats and roared as the players celebrated the goal.
A 4-3 lead with two minutes left in the second and a whole period of regulation left to play. I fucking loved games like this.
Sweden did a line change but Madars’ line stayed out.
After a center ice faceoff, the action moved toward Latvia’s zone.
One of Latvia’s blueliners knocked a Swede off the puck, though, and he passed to Madars.
Madars and one of his linemates broke away, tearing across the neutral zone while the crowd roared.
A Swedish player caught up with Madars before he could shoot.
Madars managed to pass to his linemate, but he and the Swedish player continued past the goal.
Madars tried to go around behind the net.
The other skater—I wasn’t sure what he tried to do, but the two of them collided awkwardly, tangled and toppled hard against the boards.
I grimaced. Even with protective gear on, that shit could still hurt.
Please don’t bang him up too much, asshole. I need him in working order.
My own thought almost drove a laugh out of me, but then my breath stopped in my throat.
Because Madars was still down, and he wasn’t getting up. The player who’d collided with him was standing over him and frantically waving for help.
“Oh shit,” I whispered into my gloved hands. “C’mon, Madars. Get up. Get up!”
He didn’t. A trainer hurried out onto the ice. Behind him, someone who I assumed was the team’s doctor also started making his way across the sheet.
Two players and a linesman were crouched beside Madars. I could see his skates, but that was it. Was there blood? Was he conscious? What even happened?
The replay showed the crash from a different angle. It wasn’t a dirty hit or anything—not even a hit at all, really—just a collision. They’d tumbled over each other, and they’d landed in a messy heap.
The other player had gotten up, and he’d immediately started waving for help.
Madars… hadn’t moved.
There was a brief clip of him on his side, agony written all over his face as he clutched his right leg.
I sighed with a little bit of relief. He was conscious and apparently able to move.
That ruled out a lot of scary things that could happen during a crash like that.
Not all of them, but the very, very worst of them.
The arena was eerily quiet. I always hated when a player was down—even when I was on the ice with them, there was precious little I could do. But at least when I was down there, I could see them. I could hear what the trainers and teammates and doctors were saying.
This many rows back from the glass, all I could do was wait like everyone else in the stands. Holding our breath. Not making a sound. Just… waiting.
After what seemed like days, two of his teammates carefully helped him to his feet.
The crowd applauded as all the players—both teams—tapped their sticks in a show of support.
Madars leaned hard on his teammates, not putting any weight at all on that right skate, but he lifted his head and waved to the crowd.
Relief hit me so hard, I almost tumbled from my chair. He was obviously in pain, and there was potential for a major injury—the kind that could end a season or even a career.
But he was upright.
He was lucid.
All I could do now was hope I hadn’t just watched the end of his career.