1. Maddie
Maddie
The concrete is cold beneath my knees. I barely feel it. My hands are already moving. Blood. There’s so much blood.
“Luka!”
My voice cracks across the empty parking lot outside the arena. The night feels wrong. Too quiet. Too still. Luka lies on the pavement in front of me, his body twisted at an angle that makes my stomach lurch.
“Hey—hey—Luka, look at me.” I drop beside him, pressing my hands against the side of his head. Warm. Wet. My palms slide.
“No… no, no…”
The blood keeps coming. I shove my hands harder against the wound, trying to remember the basic emergency training the team made all staff take at the beginning of the season. Pressure. You apply pressure. I press harder. It pours through my fingers anyway.
“Luka!” I scream. My voice echoes in the empty parking lot. Why isn't anyone around?
“Come on. Wake up.” His chest barely moves. His eyes stay closed.
“Please,” I whisper. My hands slip again. Blood coats my fingers. My sleeves. The pavement beneath him.
“I’m here,” I choke out. “I’m right here.”
“Luka!” I scream again. His chest stops moving. The silence is suffocating.
“No—no—no—” My hands shake as I grab his shoulders.
“LUKA!”
I bolt upright in bed. My lungs drag in a sharp breath as my heart slams against my ribs.
“Luka!” The name tears out of my throat before I can stop it.
For a moment the room spins around me. The parking lot. The blood. The sirens—
A groan comes from beside me.
“Jesus…” The mattress shifts. Tyler rolls onto his back with an irritated sigh. “If you’re gonna scream another guy’s name,” he mutters, voice thick with sleep, “take your PTSD ass to the living room so the rest of us can sleep.”
I stare at the ceiling. Of course. Of course that’s his reaction.
“You know why,” I say quietly.
Tyler doesn’t answer. He just flips onto his side, already pulling the blanket tighter around himself. The conversation, as far as he’s concerned, is over. My jaw tightens.
Tyler Mercer plays in the AHL. He’s been around hockey long enough to know exactly what happened that night. Hell, everyone in the hockey world knows. Luka’s attack made national headlines for weeks. Star NHL goalie. Ambushed outside his own arena. Almost died from the head injury.
Tyler knew all of that before we even started dating a few months ago. But caring about other people has never exactly been his strong suit. Another annoyed sigh comes from his side of the bed.
“Living room,” he mutters into the pillow.
Right. I throw the blanket back and swing my legs over the side of the mattress.
The apartment is cold against my skin as I grab the spare pillow near the headboard.
Tyler doesn’t even look at me. He’s already halfway back to sleep.
I grab the extra blanket from the chair and walk out of the bedroom.
The living room is dark and quiet. Too quiet.
I curl up on the couch, wrapping the blanket tightly around my shoulders and pulling my knees to my chest. My hands clench in the fabric.
For a moment I swear I can still feel it.
The blood. Warm. Slipping between my fingers no matter how hard I tried to stop it.
It’s been almost a year. Almost a year since I found Luka unconscious in the parking lot outside the arena.
Almost a year since the nightmares started.
And no matter how many times I remind myself he survived—No matter how many times I see him laughing in the locker room or standing in net like nothing ever happened—My brain still replays the moment I knelt beside him. The moment I thought he was dying.
In my dreams… He always does.
I rest my head against the couch cushion and stare at the dark ceiling.
Somewhere across the city, Luka is probably sleeping peacefully beside Adrianna.
Alive. Safe. But my brain doesn’t care about reality at three in the morning.
It only remembers the worst version of that night.
And the moment I thought I had gotten there too late.
The sound of cabinet doors slamming pulls me out of sleep. My eyes open slowly. For a moment I don’t remember where I am. Then the couch cushion presses against my cheek and the blanket tangled around my legs reminds me.
Right. Living room. I sit up, rubbing my eyes as sunlight spills through the apartment windows. More cabinets slam in the kitchen.
Tyler.
My brain is still foggy from the nightmare and the lack of sleep. I push the blanket off my lap and stretch, my neck stiff from sleeping on the couch.
“Morning,” Tyler calls from the kitchen. His voice is…normal. Like last night didn’t happen. Like he didn’t roll over and tell me to take my PTSD ass to the living room.
I glance toward the kitchen. Tyler stands at the counter in sweatpants and a t-shirt, opening and closing drawers while he digs around for something. He looks over his shoulder when he notices me watching.
“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he says, giving me a quick smile. “You hungry?”
I blink at him. Just like that. Like he wasn’t a total dick six hours ago.
“I was thinking I could make breakfast,” he adds casually. “Eggs maybe.”
I swing my legs off the couch and grab the pillow I must have kicked to the floor sometime during the night.
“I actually need to get to the arena early,” I tell him, my voice still thick with sleep.
Tyler pauses halfway through opening the fridge.
“Arena?” he repeats. The word comes out sharper than it needs to. My shoulders tighten automatically.
I work for the Mustangs. Tyler knows that. He’s known since the day we met. But every time I mention the team, there’s always that reaction. That edge. I sigh quietly.
“Breakfast would be great,” I say before he can push it further.
His expression relaxes immediately.
“Good,” he says, turning back to the stove.
Like the moment never happened.
I carry the pillow and blanket back to the bedroom and toss them onto the bed before heading into the bathroom to wash my face.
When I come back out, the smell of eggs fills the apartment. Tyler slides a plate onto the table.
“Sit.” He sets the fork beside my plate and takes the chair across from me.
“Big day?” he asks.
“Just normal stuff,” I say, cutting into the eggs. “Content planning. Player interviews.” The usual. The quiet, behind-the-scenes work that keeps the Mustangs’ social media running.
Tyler leans back in his chair. “So…” he says slowly.
Here it comes. I almost roll my eyes but I know that will piss him off.
“…any chance the Mustangs are looking to pull someone up from the farm soon?”
I pause mid-bite. Of course. The “farm” being the AHL. My stomach tightens.
“Why?” I ask.
He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Just curious.”
I force myself to take another bite of eggs before answering.
“I can keep an ear out.” The words come automatically. Professional. Neutral.
But the thought of Tyler playing for the Mustangs makes something deep in my chest prickle. Because that would mean—No.
I shove the thought away immediately. Because that would mean Tyler playing for Dean. Kincade, I correct myself instantly. Coach Kincade. He made that perfectly clear.
Tyler nods like he expected that answer. “Appreciate it.”
I finish breakfast quickly and rinse my plate in the sink before grabbing my bag.
Tyler walks me to the door. “Have a good day,” he says, leaning down to kiss my forehead. The gesture is gentle. Normal. Like everything between us is perfectly fine.
“Thanks,” I say. My hand tightens slightly around the strap of my bag. “I’ll see you tonight.”
“Yeah,” he says easily.
I step out into the hallway and pull the door closed behind me. The moment the lock clicks, my shoulders drop. Fresh morning air hits my face as I walk toward the parking lot.
And for a split second—I swear I can feel strong arms around me again. Hear a steady voice telling me to breathe. I shake the memory away. Because that was almost a year ago.
And Coach Kincade made it very clear. Some lines aren’t meant to be crossed.