by Lynda Aicher
“Hey, hold up.” Meg raised a palm. “You’re way ahead of me. I have no idea what I’m doing next month, let alone in four.” Her chuckle was another reminder of her ability to live more in the moment than Sam ever could. “I’ll worry about that stuff when I need to.”
Envy bloomed, green and fleeting. Could she try that philosophy with Dylan? Enjoy the now instead of brooding over things that had yet to happen?
A collective groan, along with a few gasps, shot through the room. She jerked her eyes to the game, the delayed recognition of a hard board slam surfacing from her subconscious.
“Rylie took a hard hit in the corner that he’s slow to get up from.” Sam caught the announcer’s narration over the yells of the angry patrons. The whistle blew and the camera cut from the action to show Dylan curled on his side, face to the boards.
The world fell away as the camera focused in on the slow pounding of Dylan’s fist on the ice. His other arm was clutched across his body to grip his hip.
Her heart drowned out everything but its galloping beat where it echoed through her head. She tried to suck in a breath and couldn’t manage more than a weak intake of air.
Her vision darkened, narrowing on the replay running on the screen. The hit had come from the side. The illegal charge propelled Dylan into the boards, skates leaving the ice before he crashed into the Plexiglas. They zoomed in on his face to show the clear grimace, followed by an openmouthed expression of pain.
It was his immediate fall to the ice that shot Sam to her feet. “Oh, God.” The exclamation was more a moan that rang hollow in her ears. A dozen possible injuries flew through her mind, none of them good.
“Sam. Hey. It’s okay.”
The insistent tugging on her arm finally got through her sensory-delayed brain. “What?” she snapped, whipping around on Meg as fear charged her aggression forward.
Meg’s calm, serious expression slowly got through to her. Meg had always been the one to ratchet her back when she’d gotten riled during a game.
She forced herself to take a breath and let her friend pull her down to her seat, her legs giving out easily. This was crazy. She was overreacting. Players got injured all the time. It was part of the game. None of her rationalizations stopped the worry that continued to spiral into a sick swirl of dread and concern.
Dylan wasn’t any random player.
“Are you okay?” Meg asked, rubbing Sam’s arm.
She had to get it together. “Yeah.” She took some long, slow breaths followed by a drink of water. Her throat was still dry but it helped to focus on something besides Dylan.
“You don’t look it.”
Her chuckle cracked on a sour note that stole the little calm she’d collected. “I don’t feel so good either.” She had no way of finding out how injured Dylan was. No one to contact or call for an update.
And even worse, no one would know to call her either.
Chapter Seventeen
Pain exploded in Dylan’s hip. It shot across the front of his abdomen, screamed down his leg and fired up his back all at once. He was vaguely aware of hitting the boards before dropping to the ice. He broke his fall with his arm and curled onto his side. The initial blast of agony transformed into a widespread throb that pulsed from his hip and covered most of his lower right half.
Dylan ground his helmet into the ice, teeth clenched tight to hold in the cry that charged up his throat. Every curse word he knew flew through his mind, his fist pounding a beat on the ice to keep them in check. He couldn’t process what had happened beyond he was fucked.
“Rylie.” The sharp bark of the team doctor penetrated his fog of pain. “Damn it, Rylie. Tell me where it hurts.”
Something touched his thigh, and the cry he’d been biting back released in a strangled whimper that sounded nothing like him. He panted through the fire raging down his side and focused on Doc’s question. “Hip,” he grunted. “Leg.” Those two words were all he could manage.
“Shit.”
“Get the stretcher.”
More words were exchanged over him, but he couldn’t concentrate on what was being said. He tried to push up so he could get off the ice on his own. He didn’t want to be carried off. The stab of misery that blew through his lower body dropped him back to the ice.
“Damn it, Rylie! Stay still.”
Hands were on his shoulders then. Someone removed his gloves. He wanted to protest. He needed his gloves to play. He had to play.
He wasn’t fucking playing any time soon.
The truth rammed its way through the pain to add to his torment. All the years of practice and sacrifice, everything he’d given up to live his dream—it all flashed through his thoughts. He was so close to reaching that next level, and now one hit and his career could be done.
Hands on his arm. Another on his calf that he barely felt through the tingling numbness that had overtaken his leg.
“We’re going to roll you slowly. You hear me, Rylie?” Doc went silent, and Dylan forced his eyes open. The man stared down at him, intent and waiting. He managed a grunt for confirmation. “This is going to hurt, but work with us.”
“You can do this, Cowboy.” The trainer grabbed Dylan’s hand, and he gripped it tight.
The urge to curse the man changed into a gut-wrenching groan of agony. He clamped his mouth closed, sucking huge breaths through his nostrils to fight off the nausea that rolled up his esophagus. He refused to humiliate himself like that. Not in front of the fans and other players.
He counted instead. One. Two. Slow, incremental numbers that he ground out in his mind through the spear that blazed through his hip and the disjointed realization that he couldn’t lay his leg flat. Eight. Nine.
“You’re doing good, Rylie.” The trainer’s voice was right by his ear. It helped. Gave him strength when his was fading. “They’re going to lift you now.”
Dylan grunted and kept counting. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Every bump jarred his hip and sent another stab of radiating pain outward from his hip. Fifteen. Sixteen. He numbly let them reposition his arms. The trainer tugged his hand free of Dylan’s hold. He’d forgotten he still clung to it. Straps were buckled around him, held him down. Nineteen.
He was moving. A round of clapping and cheers echoed through the stadium. For him. Not the kind he wanted though. No player ever wanted these kind. Twenty-three.
“Hang tight, Cowboy.”
“This game’s for you.”
There were more words from his teammates, but he blocked them out. Twenty-five. Their encouragement reminded him of how bad it was. Twenty-six. He was being rolled down the ice—not skating.
Finally he was in the tunnel. The blessed darkness swept over him after the brightness of the stadium lights. He couldn’t close his eyes though. It’d make it more real somehow. More devastating.
The chills started then. He clenched his teeth to keep the shivers from racking his body. They were talking above him again. He didn’t want to hear their speculation. Twenty-nine. Thirty.
“Dylan.” A light shined in his eyes. He blinked, too stunned to turn away. The light was gone, leaving a ring of fading stars behind. “We’re taking you to the hospital.” Doc’s words slowly penetrated the fog that’d held some of the pain at bay.
He blinked again, and Doc’s face came into focus. The almost-shaved hair over a receding hairline. Light brows lowered over narrowed eyes. Glaciers team jacket zipped tight over a collared shirt. No tie. Clean shave. The details were processed in snippets that worked into a whole.
“I’ll be right here,” Doc said before he left Dylan’s field of vision.
The ambulance lights were too bright when they rolled him into the back. His eyelids fluttered but he refused to let them close. The throbbing down his side had stabilized to a constant pulse that matched the pounding beat of his heart. Steady and fast.
There was more talking, medical jargon that skipped over him. The wail of the siren breached the interior, the normally piercin
g sound muffled. What number was he on? Forty? Forty-one. Forty-two. A shiver caught him unprepared. His entire body shook in the tight bonds. He gasped, agony blanketing his right side from chest to knee.
“Take it easy, Rylie.” A hand on his shoulder. Another on his forehead.
He panted through clenched teeth. The pressure on his jaw gave him something else to focus on. Forty-five. Would the pain fucking end? Forty-six.
Someone wrapped a blanket over his chest. It didn’t stop the chills that continued to shimmer under his skin. He stared at the ceiling. Forty-nine. His fingers were freezing. He curled his hands into fists. It didn’t help. Fifty.
His chin strap was freed, his helmet slowly slipped off his head. He’d forgotten about it. Where were his gloves? His stick? Were his skates still on?
Fifty-four. The paramedic asked him a series of questions that he answered on autopilot. Nothing hurt above his rib cage. No, his neck didn’t hurt. Yes, he could move his fingers. Fifty-eight.
The guy didn’t ask about his leg. Guess the man could tell it hurt like hell.
How long would he be out? How bad was his hip? Leg? Was this the end of his career? The questions circled in a repetitive loop until he forced them to stop. Sixty-two. Sixty-three. Count. Breathe. Don’t panic. Sixty-four.
“We’re here, Dylan.” Doc was over him again, a grim smile in place. “I’ll be at your side.”
Was that comforting? It wasn’t who he wanted at his side. Samantha’s blond hair and cocky smile came into his mind. Sixty-eight.
He was rolled into the ER moments later. A flood of people hovered around him as the stretcher was rushed through the halls. White walls. More bright lights. People in scrubs. Again he noted it all in flashes of information. Seventy-four.
Would Samantha even want to be here? How would she know where he was?
“On three.”
He was lifted and moved before he understood the intent. The jostling reawakened the blaze that’d evened out into something manageable. He cried out before he could stop himself. Shit. Damn. Fuck. He curled up on reflex as a way to control the pain.
“Keep him still.”
The barked order was followed by a pair of hands thrusting his shoulders flat to the bed. He couldn’t clench his teeth any tighter. Seventy-seven.
Faces flashed in and out of his line of sight. Lingo he didn’t understand. Cool air rushed over his stomach. Over his chest.
His throat ached. He tried to swallow but had no saliva.
Something landed on his hip. His curse roared in his head and rebounded in his ears. He gulped for air. The bile rose again as stars danced red and black in front of the overhead lights.
“Damn it. Sedate him.” That demand cut over the rest of the noise.
Yes. No. He didn’t know which was better. To get away from the pain, or to feel it and know he was still here. What would he wake up to?
If he didn’t go to sleep, he wouldn’t have to wake up.
Seventy…
Chapter Eighteen
Sam paced in front of her car, short strides that burned energy and took her nowhere. Her breath left clouds before her face, yet she didn’t feel the cold. Her ears and nose were numb where her cheeks were warm. Her boots crunched through the path she’d worn over the snow-covered parking lot. How long had she been waiting?
She checked the time on her phone. An hour.
The door swung open, and she lurched forward. A Glaciers player ambled out of the exit, waving to the security guard before the door swung closed. There were kids lined up near the exit and they approached the guy, autograph books in hand. The collected women hung back.
Sam squinted to make out who the player was. She rose on her toes and craned her neck to see around the cars parked in front of her. Disappointment hit and she dropped her heels back to the ground. She needed Feeney or Walters. Maybe Bowser. They might tell her what had happened to Dylan. Anyone else would ignore her. Not that she blamed them. Her insistence on not dating Dylan meant almost no one knew about her.
Or what he meant to her. Not even him.
Damn. She nibbled on her thumbnail. The one already whittled down to a stub. It’d start bleeding soon if she didn’t stop. Her teeth caught on an edge and she bit the nail off anyway.
They’ve taken Rylie to the hospital. The announcer’s update had sent her flying from the restaurant. She’d been backing out of the parking space before she’d realized she had no idea which hospital to go to.
The door swung open again. Three guys came out, their voices carrying through the dry air. Her pulse picked up, only to plummet again. Not who she needed. The Glaciers had scored in the last two minutes of the game and held the lead to win the game. There’d be interviews and celebrating. Cooldowns and showers. Damn.
She wrapped her arms around her and kept up her vigil through eight more guys exiting the stadium. It’d be warmer in her car, but she couldn’t sit still. How badly was Dylan hurt? Did they know any details? Was he alone? She assumed his family was all in Texas. She didn’t know for sure though.
The gripping worry held her chest and stomach in painful knots. She definitely wasn’t on his contact list.
The door opened again. She held her breath.
“Feeney!”
The high-pitched call from one of the kids sent her heart racing. She was moving before she’d thought about it. She slowed her pace when she reached the last line of cars, bouncing anxiously as Feeney finished signing the kid’s items.
“Thanks, Feenster!”
A chorus of similar calls followed when the man waved and stepped away from the small group. He nodded at the women, exchanged a few words but kept moving. She caught a gushing question regarding Dylan and she bit her tongue to keep from snarling at the woman.
No! Dylan didn’t need her help.
Sam’s territorial snap only upped her determination as she paced Feeney, heading toward the far end of the lot. She waited until they were out of earshot of the other people before she hustled to catch up to him.
“Hey, Feeney.” Her voice was sharper than she’d intended but she was too wound up to stress about it. “Justin,” she said louder when he didn’t respond.
He jerked to a stop and turned, frown almost menacing in the darkened parking lot. “What?”
She ignored the irritation she heard and hurried to his side. “How’s Dylan?” His eyes widened when she got closer. She didn’t care what he thought or even said. He was her best chance of getting information. “Can you tell me anything? Please?” She’d beg and promise whatever the man wanted.
He shifted his bag on his shoulder, gaze shooting back to the stadium exit. His scowl pulled on the scar that slashed down his cheek and seemed to point out the off-centered line of his nose. “We’re not allowed to spread rumors or gossip.”
“Come on.” Somehow she managed to keep the annoyance from her voice. “I’m not a random person. I…” She wet her lips and willed back the tears that rushed up to sting her eyes. “I’m worried. I have no way of contacting him or getting information except to beg for it.” She held his gaze the entire time he scrutinized her. Couldn’t he see how desperate she was?
“Coach would have my head.”
“Coach knows about me,” she quickly said.
“Then why don’t you ask him?”
“I don’t want to bother him. Not if I don’t have to.” She waited to see if he was budging from his resistance. When he remained silent, she gave in and added, “He doesn’t know we’re dating.”
Feeney’s brows winged up at that. “You’re dating Rylie? Really? Since when?”
How far could she fudge? “Since before you caught us on the ice.” Feeney wouldn’t know better, she hoped. Unless Dylan had said something to him. Her stomach knotted tighter and she prayed that her lie held.
“Christ.” He swiped a hand over his bristly hair that was still wet from his shower. “I was heading over there if you want to follow me.” She was nodding before h
e finished. He pointed a finger at her. “You didn’t learn anything from me though.” He looked over his shoulder then shook his head. “You’d better not be lying to me either.”
“I’m not.” At least not that he knew. She bounded up and threw her arms around his neck. “Thank you.” She released him and was heading to her car in the next second. “I’m parked over there. Wait.” She spun around. “Tell me what hospital in case I lose you.”
“Rylie dating,” she heard him mumble before he looked up and heaved a sigh. “It’s in St. Paul. Just follow me. That way I’m not telling you anything.”
“Okay.” She wasn’t happy with that, but she’d take it. She’d run every red light she had to in order to stay with him.
She sprinted back to her car and was waiting at the lot exit when he rolled past, his SUV slowing long enough for her to see his face under the parking lot lights.
It’d been over three hours since Dylan had been taken off the ice on a stretcher. The time had expanded, though, so it felt like five hours ago. Even ten. Not knowing anything at all was slowly eating away at the little calm she’d tried to maintain.
Getting upset or mad wouldn’t get her anywhere. Not if she wanted to be there for Dylan. And she did. More than she’d thought possible.
*
Dylan scrambled his way out of the dark fog on a desperate edge of necessity. He had to wake up. Why? It didn’t matter.
Sounds came first. Talking. Machines beeping. He tried to turn toward a voice, only his head was too heavy to shift. What the hell? Panic set in. Where was he? What’d happened?
“Dylan.” A deep baritone. Rough and gritty. He knew that voice.
Yes. He tried to shout the word. Nothing came out. He sucked in a breath, and the smell hit him. Sterile, medical, disinfectant, death, pain—the memories rushed in to smother him.
“Dylan. Stop. You’re going to hurt yourself.”
Something pressed on his shoulder, and he fought it off. It was keeping him away. From what? The beeping grew faster. Louder.
