by Devon Monk
“No burns. You’re bruised up from the game. Nothing weird. Well, I mean you always look weird to me, but not weirder.”
“Jerk.”
He grinned. “Weirdo.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Poor little brain.”
If I had the energy to flip him off, I would. Instead, I just swallowed and tried to steady my voice. “If I was really on fire…”
“You were.” His expression fell and he dropped his hand on my leg, his wolf needing to know I was whole.
“Duncan. What happened?”
He gnawed at the stitches in his lip for a minute.
“I didn’t see everything. I took that hit—not a big deal, but blood, you know? Decided to see if I could get a rise out of Paski before I got my face patched up. That tiger is just way too angry for this game and I hate how he’s been crowding Josky.”
A quick grin, and then Duncan was back to chewing on his lip.
“And?”
“And then everything just happened. Someone shoved, someone punched. It was good. Fun. The crowd went crazy. A couple of the guys were edging a shift. So it was going to go beast real fast.
“I glanced up. Saw you glaring at Steele. He was coming right at us, already catted out. You…uh…you went stone. Man, that’s a stupid way to describe it, but you just became this hard figure, all punched shadows and bladed light.
“You glowed, dude. Then you lifted your hand, pointed at Steele. He was running, about to jump on the pile of us. But then. But then.”
He shook his head and laughed, one huff of breath. His gaze held mine, the familiar clear hazel like rocks under river water.
“He turned back into a man. Like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Nobody shifts that fast. Nobody. You should have seen the look on his face. So confused. It was hilarious.”
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“You were bleeding. Angry. Shifting.”
He blew air between his lips. “Yeah. Yeah, I was all those things before you did that spell. That was a spell right?”
“I don’t know.”
He tipped his head and looked at me like I was the biggest idiot in the universe.
“You really should take some classes, Ran. Magic can be dangerous. You could hurt yourself.”
“You think?” Even with a ruined voice, he caught the sarcasm.
“Hey, I’m not the one who lit myself on fire, magic boy.”
“I wasn’t on fire. No burns.”
Duncan winced. He got up, found my water and waited until I could get my hand around it—slow, but I made it—before he sat back down.
“It was magic. Spinning like a goddamn tornado. You were in the center. At first, I could see through it, and then…there was just too much magic. It was all these colors. And bright. And dark. And solid. And loud. Just…I thought you were in the middle of a meat grinder. It happened so fast I couldn’t get out of the scrum to reach you.”
“How?”
“Graves. Blew across the ice like a demon. Bodied you out of the middle of that thing. You hit the ice and the tornado tore apart into ribbons.
“But magic was still burning out of you. Getting stronger. Brighter. You were burning up. You were on fire. So he hit you in the face.”
“I remember that.”
“You’re going to have the black eye for that.” He shrugged. “It worked. Magic was gone. Like that.” He snapped his fingers again.
“His hand?”
“Burned when he punched you. Nothing’s broken. The ice melted. Everyone pretty much lost their minds after that.
“There are reporters all over the place. They want to talk to you, but you know, that’s not happening while you’re in a hospital bed.”
It was a lot to take in. I’d wanted to stop Steele from hurting my team. No, I’d wanted to stop Steele from hurting Duncan. From ripping his head off.
But I didn’t even know if Steele had been behind that text. It could have been from anyone. Everyone knew I had a second-marked brother. It could have been an angry fan trying to get me off my game.
I groaned. “What is wrong with me? What was I thinking?”
“You were thinking you were going to knock Steele out of his shift, and keep the rest of us from throwing the game because we’d be down too many players.
“We lost anyway, but I get it. The Tide suck. If I were a wizard, I’d have done worse.”
“Hazard?” The curtain pulled aside and a doctor in a white coat walked into the room.
The woman next to him was about my height and very thin, her eyes wide, dark, and mesmerizing. She had to be old enough to be my mother, but there wasn’t a wrinkle on her soft brown skin. Her hair was a shocking white and pulled back in a hair clip thing.
She was a wizard.
Fear shot through me. I was glad they didn’t have one of those heartbeat machines hooked up to me, because it would have been beeping like crazy.
The doctor glanced at the screen in his hand. “So you are the originator of this magic use, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
The woman looked surprised at my answer. Could she read my mind? I hope she couldn’t read my mind. Just in case I thought: I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for anyone to be hurt.
She didn’t react.
“Well, I’m Dr. Burling and this is Dr. Skopil. Dr. Skopil is also a wizard.”
“I am very pleased to meet you, Mr. Hazard.” She sounded sincere, but those eyes.
It felt like she could see all the things I was made of and was judging my inability to handle magic properly.
“We’re going to need to do a few tests,” Dr. Burling said. “So if your friend…?”
“Duncan,” I said while Duncan said, “I’m staying.”
“He’s going,” I croaked.
Duncan opened his mouth to argue, but I cut him off. “I’m fine. Call your parents and give them an update. Find out how the rest of the team is so you can tell me. Okay?”
He pulled his shoulders back and glared at the doctors, who didn’t seem at all fazed by his behavior. They probably saw overprotective friends and relatives all the time.
“As soon as we’re done,” Dr. Skopil said, “we’ll call you back in. Duncan, right?” She held her hand out for him and he shook it.
“Okay. Fine. But be careful with him, okay?”
“We’re here to make sure he’s well,” she said. “We’ll be very careful with him.”
Duncan gave me one last look and then left me with the doctors.
“What kind of tests?” I asked.
“We’ll check your vitals,” Dr. Burling said. “We’ll go over your blood tests. Things are looking good, Mr. Hazard. And of course we’ll make sure that you’re suffering no unexpected effects from the magic use.”
“Do you remember using magic?” Dr. Skopil asked.
“Yes.”
“How often do you use? Would you say once a week? More?”
“Almost never.”
She nodded. I didn’t think she believed me.
“Well, this was a large use and with that comes the weakness I’m sure you’re familiar with, along with headaches, sleeplessness, fatigue, hunger, or lack of appetite. Alternately, it can come with cravings. For more magic. And that can be very dangerous, as you know.
“We want you to follow the standard recovery procedures that you’ve followed in the past. Do you have a friend or family member who can monitor you?”
“Yes.”
She was talking quickly. My bell had been rung hard enough—thanks a lot, Graves—that it was pretty much all I could do to process the information she was telling me.
This wasn’t the first time I’d been through an injury. I knew how to drink plenty of fluids and apply ice.
“Now, it was a…class two?” She glanced at her colleague.
He’d been quiet, studying something on the screen. “There’s video.” He handed her the screen.
She watched for a moment, while the doctor stared at me, eyes narrowed.
“How are you really feeling?” he asked.
“Tired. But okay. My voice?” I swallowed.
“Normal, I’d say from this kind of spellwork. It should clear up in a day or two.” He positioned his stethoscope in his ears and then pushed the buttons on the bed so that the head of it rose.
“I’m going to listen to your heart and lungs.”
I breathed when he told me to, sat up when asked. I also watched Dr. Skopil as she tapped the screen to play the video more than once. Her eyebrows were raised, but her face was otherwise frozen.
“Everything sounds good.” Dr. Burling moved away from the bed and Dr. Skopil handed him the screen. They exchanged a look.
“I need to test a few things with magic, Mr. Hazard.” Dr. Skopil’s voice trembled as if she’d just seen something frightening. “This won’t hurt. I am a diagnostic wizard.”
I nodded.
She held up her hand, palm toward me. I thought she was going to touch me, but instead she slowly held her hand an inch or two away from my body as she traced over it from the top of my head down to my feet.
“There is no permanent damage. No…damage at all. Strain. But well within parameters for spellwork.”
She folded her hands in front of herself and gave me a hard look. “What kind of wizard are you, Mr. Hazard?”
“The kind who plays hockey?”
She shook her head. “What category of magic?”
“I don’t know.”
It must have been the look on my face that made her believe me, because my voice was still a frog’s butt.
“Your records are incomplete. All we have is a recent report from Dr. Phelps.”
Uh-oh. I knew where this was going. They were going to keep me here to test me. I didn’t know how long that would take, but I was not about to be stuck in a hospital a state away from my home with wizards and doctors who wanted to poke and prod.
I was tired, embarrassed by my behavior on the ice, and just wanted to go home.
“I’m not doing any more tests.” I levered up until I was sitting unsupported. Swung my legs over the edge of the bed. “I’m not staying.”
“Mr. Hazard,” Dr. Burling said. “We need to keep you under observation for side effects.”
I kept moving. “Going. Home.”
Feet on the cold floor sent a hard chill through me. I braced one hand on the sidebar of the bed and grabbed the plastic bag with my clothes in it.
My jersey and pants. No socks.
I pulled out the pants.
“Mr. Hazard,” Dr. Skopil said like she was having none of this. “You need to get back into bed immediately. You are too weak to leave.”
Too weak? Ha! I’d felt worse after bag skates.
She wrapped her hand around my wrist to stop me.
A pop of magic, nothing more than a ping of light and the tiniest bit of heat snapped at her fingers.
She jerked her hand away.
It hadn’t hurt either of us. But I hadn’t made magic do that. I hadn’t been thinking about magic at all.
“We need a suppresser,” Skopil said. “Calm down, Mr. Hazard. Let us help you. Why don’t you stay in bed while we finish looking over your teammates. It will take some time. You may as well rest here instead of in the lobby.”
“No. Thanks.” I kept going, kept moving. Got into my sweats. Got out of the hospital gown.
“Suppresser,” Dr. Skopil repeated.
Dr. Burling tapped on the tablet.
I didn’t know what or who a suppresser was, but I wasn’t going to stand here to find out. I got the jersey over my head then had to stop to breathe.
My arms were heavy, my chest heaving like I’d just done laps.
I was wrung out. Exhausted.
I pushed, got my right hand in the sleeve. Got the left.
The curtain shoved aside and I looked up, ready to fight the suppresser.
“Random,” Coach Clay strode into the crowded room. “Why are you out of bed?”
“You must be Coach Clay,” Dr. Burling said. “Mr. Hazard is refusing to listen to our recommendations. He needs to rest. He’s clearly exhausted.”
“They want to. Test. Me.” My voice was bad and getting worse. “I want. To go. Home.”
I was pleading with him even though my voice was nearly gone. “Please, Coach,” I whispered.
He measured the doctors, studied me, then made his decision. He was by my side in a fluid second. “Can you walk?”
I nodded. If it meant getting out of here, I could run. Well, maybe fast shuffle.
“Mr. Clay,” Dr. Burling said, “Mr. Hazard shouldn’t be out of bed at this time. He is too fatigued and if he doesn’t receive rest and care, he could be permanently damaged.”
That sounded horrible, but luckily, Coach wasn’t listening to him. He slung his arm behind my back and under my arm. Then guided me to the bed.
Before I could protest, he handed me socks. “Put them on.” Then he retrieved my shoes from under the chairs
Dr. Skopil shook her head. “Mr. Clay. There has been a misunderstanding. There are a few routine tests we still need to run before we can release Mr. Hazard.”
“That so?” Coach bent and shoved my feet firmly into my shoes. “And that involves a suppresser in what way?”
I looked over the doctor’s shoulders to a guy standing in the doorway. He was big—tall and wide—arms crossed over acres of chest. He had a weird sort of long-distance expression on his face.
Something way down deep inside me went still and cold. I had no idea what he was—wizard? sensitive?—but everything in me wanted to be far, far away from him.
“We are not the bad guys here,” Burling said. “A suppresser is just a safety precaution. When a wizard pulls on magic that intense, we need to cover all of the possible outcomes.”
“You will not use a suppresser on one of my players, doctor. You can hand me the form to sign for his release.”
Burling just sighed. I guessed he’d had stubborn patients before. Maybe even stubborn hockey coaches. He handed Coach the screen.
Coach read it and signed. “I’ll have our medical staff keep an eye on him until he can see his personal doctor. Thank you.”
Coach helped me stand, and with his arm around me, we walked out of the room and through the maze of the ER. People stared at us as we walked by.
“The press is in the waiting room and there isn’t another way through to the elevator. How do you want to play this, Hazard?”
I almost laughed because he was the coach. His job description was basically coming up with strategies.
“Go through them?” I suggested.
“Think you can walk on your own?”
“Yeah.” I pulled my arm off his shoulder—he was too tall for me to be hanging there anyway—and stood still for a minute. Sweat salted my upper lip and dripped down the sides of my face. It took every ounce of energy I had just to stand.
I pulled my shoulders back. All I had to do was put one foot in front of the next until I got to the elevator.
“Don’t answer any of their questions,” Coach was saying. “Let me do the talking. Just keep moving. Ready?” He had one hand above the button to open the ER doors, the other strong and steady under my elbow.
I nodded.
The doors swung open and cameras flashed, a staccato of light.
Wow.
They shouted my name, repeating it as they surrounded us. A wall of bodies, pressing inward.
Cameras and microphones. Too many voices. Too many questions.
“Hey, Random. Random, over here! Can you tell us what happened out there?”
“Was this in response to Tabor Steele’s hit on Duncan Spark?”
“Your team is the bottom of the pack this year. Are you frustrated with your inability to do your part?”
“The decision on whether you should be suspended for shutting down a gam
e due to magic use is being discussed. Do you think you’re a danger to players?”
Coach pushed through them, one hand digging into my elbow and propelling me forward.
I just kept walking and looking straight ahead. There had to be an elevator around here somewhere. After the longest hallway I’d ever had to walk, the doors appeared.
The crowd had followed us all the way, and were still asking questions.
Coach stabbed the elevator button. “I understand you all have a lot of questions. I will be holding a press conference after all of the players have been seen by medical staff.”
A couple reporters tried to get between us and the elevator door.
Had they forgotten Coach was a player back when West Hell was even more blood and guts?
The elevator opened. Coach snarled and pushed people out of the way. A man who was miles of legs and arms stretched out of the crowd and held the door open for us.
“You’re not getting an exclusive, Dart,” Coach said as he walked me into the elevator.
The man positioned himself in front of the door, blocking the other reporters.
“You look like the butt end of hell, Clay, and he looks worse. When you’re ready to talk, really talk, you know where I am.” He reached in and punched the button, gave me a sort of puzzled smile, then turned and faced the crowd. “All right, all right. We all know how this goes. Get moving. Show’s over.”
The elevator closed. Only the two of us were in it.
Silence.
Thank God.
“Lean.” Coach pressed me up against the wall, his hand against my shoulder, helping to keep me on my feet. I leaned.
I don’t know where he got it from, but he handed me a sport drink.
I drank it dry. Wished the elevator ride were twice as long. And that there was a bed in it. And a million hours of sleep ahead of me.
“Just a little farther.” The doors chimed open and I pushed off so we could move down the long corridor.
“Clay!”
Coach went tight in a way I couldn’t process. Fight or flight? More like fight and fury.
A man in a suit stormed down the hallway toward us, fists clenched at his sides.
The guy had a seagull face. His cheekbones were sharp enough to point, his nose hooked above a narrow mouth and small chin. His hair was black and about a month past a decent haircut and curled across his forehead and at his nape.
