Page 93 of Puck Yes

All the breath whooshes out of me, and I stumble, tripping over my own feet, and landing flat on the ice with a loudoof.

My head rings. My wrist barks. My knees scream. Everything aches all at once.

And the next thing I know, my husband scoops me up and carries me off the ice.

36

ON NOTICE

Hayes

The game can’t end soon enough. We can’t score fast enough. I have to get off the ice and check on Ivy after carrying her to the assistant athletic trainer who was waiting in the tunnel.

I plow through my line shifts during the final period, racing against the clock. If I can just pad this lead. If I can just get off the rink. I fly down the ice, shoulder to shoulder with Stefan, who spots an opening and passes to me.

Just try to stop me, goalie.

I blast that motherfucking puck to the back of the net without thinking twice.

My teammates cheer and the crowd erupts, but I barely feel the usual adrenaline rush. I just want this game to be over.

When I return to the bench with Stefan, he yanks up his helmet, then says, so only I can hear, “She’ll be okay.”

“But I hate that she’s hurt at all,” I mutter.

“Yeah, I know.” He pats my back.

How is he so fucking rational?

He taps the boards with his stick. “You can do this,” he says, calm and in control.

But I feel like a high-tension line. I’ve been such an asshole for the last few days. I’ve fucking ignored her, and I hate that.

And now she’s hurt, and she probably hates me. Why the fuck didn’t I say more when she texted? Why didn’t I text her?

You know why. You’re fucking scared.

I breathe out hard, then take this surge of irritation and pour it into the rest of the game, making sure we rack up a win.

When the buzzer sounds, I’m out of there without looking back.

* * *

The second my skates are off, I march into the athletic trainers’ room, barking, “Where’s my wife?” from the doorway.

Ivy sits on the bench in the corner, kicking her sneakered feet back and forth, drinking grape juice and icing her left wrist while talking to Briar, the yoga instructor who’s been contracted to work with the team. “And when she saidyou and me?” Ivy says with a sigh.

Briar, standing by the counter of medical supplies, clasps her chest like she’s swooning. “I was done. Just done. The entire box of tissues—gone,” Briar says.

“Same,” Ivy says in that tone women use when they’re bonding over something romantic said on TV or in a book.

What the hell? Where is the athletic trainer? The assistant trainer? I’m about ready to pull my hair out, and they’re discussing romantic quotes?

“What’s going on?” I demand, closing the distance to the dark-haired beauty I’ve missed terribly. “Are you okay?”

Ivy turns to me at last. “Oh. Hi,” she says, then waggles the bottle. “This is like candy. Have you had this before? Or is that against the diet rules?”

We’re talking about grape juice and diets? She fell and I carried her off the ice, terrified she was hurt badly, and we’re discussing drinks?