Prologue

Maddox

"Wheels, wheels, wheels!" one of my teammates shouted from behind me. Translation: skate fucking fast.

My chest heaved as I pushed my legs to the limit, racing to the corner where the puck slid free. It was Game 5 of the Eastern Conference Finals, and my hockey team, the Indianapolis Speed, was competing against the Charlotte Crusaders. The winner of this series would go on to play for a league championship. As their captain, it was up to me to set the tone, which was why I was busting my ass on the forecheck to beat the defender for the Crusaders, Hartley, to the puck. I had total trust in my wingers that they would be perfectly positioned for a quick pass and, hopefully, a go-ahead goal that would put us one step closer to advancing.

Each breath I took burned, my thigh muscles screaming with the effort, but I got there first. Stick down hard on the ice, I turned my body to survey where my teammates were placed. My eyes locked on Jenner Knight in front of the net, but before I could flick my wrist for the pass, Hartley slammed me between his hard body and the unyielding boards.

The air was forced from my lungs as my right knee twisted awkwardly against the boards with the force and angle of the impact. I could have sworn I heard a pop, a split-second before white-hot pain exploded deep within the tissue of the joint. With the weight of Hartley gone as he skated away, I dropped like a rock, the agony spreading rapidly up my leg.

I knew instantly that I was fucked.

I was thirty-four and had played this game a long time. I'd dealt with more than my fair share of injuries during my fourteen-year professional career. My knee was trashed, and even if I hadn't torn something—which I was pretty sure I had—there was no way I would be taking the ice again this postseason.

The roar of the home crowd in Indy quieted, and medical personnel rushed onto the ice as fast as they could in their street shoes.

As I writhed, clutching my knee, one of the trainer's hands unbuckled my helmet.

"Talk to me, Maddox." The lead trainer, Sam, was assessing the damage. Even though it was obvious where my injury lay, he had to ask.

"My knee," I forced out through gritted teeth. "Heard a pop. Hurts like a bitch."

"Give me a number from one to ten. How bad is the pain?"

"Nine." My answer had Sam grimacing.

Hockey players were tough. We played through injuries—including broken bones—all the time, especially at this point in the season with a championship on the line. It took a lot to admit the pain level was that high, but I knew there was nothing to be gained by sugar-coating it. This was bad, and it was best to wrap my head around it now.

"All right, let's get you up." Sam peered over his shoulder, motioning to players who must've been hovering close by to help me sit up.

Jenner and my other winger, Asher Lawson, looped their elbows under my armpits and hoisted me into a sitting position .

With his free hand, Jenner, one of my closest friends on the team for years, patted my shoulder. "How you holding up?"

"Been better," I huffed out.

"Good thing we have vacation time coming up," he teased.

I barked out a pained laugh. "Not too soon, I hope. We have unfinished business."

"Damn straight," Asher said from my other side.

Sam crouched so he was at eye level with me. "You good for them to lift you up?" When I nodded, he instructed, "Keep your right skate off the ice."

Jenner and Asher heaved me off the ice into a standing position, only my left skate blade touching the slick surface beneath me. Fully upright, I wobbled, the pain darkening the edges of my vision.

I will not pass out. I will not pass out.

I am motherfucking Maddox Sterling. I have no business being out on the ice if I can't handle a little pain.

Slowly, my wingers dragged me from behind our opponents' net to the open door to the Speed's designated bench that led to a hallway beneath the arena. They passed me off to the waiting training staff, and I was forced to hop down the tunnel on one foot until we reached the X-ray room.

As soon as my ass hit the bench of the medical table, I let out a sigh of relief. While the trainers removed my skates, I ripped off my jersey and the top half of my gear. My base layer was plastered to my skin, soaked with sweat, as we'd been in the middle of the third period of the game when I was injured. I silently prayed that my boys could break the tie in our favor before the buzzer sounded. Overtime was sudden death in the playoffs, and if we lost tonight, the team would be forced to travel to Charlotte for a Game 6. If we won, we would secure our spot in the championship series .

Even knowing I was done for the season before medical tests were performed to confirm that fact, I wanted the Speed to play—and win—a championship so badly I could taste it.

Our divisional rivals, the Connecticut Comets, had done it the prior year after beating us in seven games during the second round. As irony would have it, that series had come down to a Game 7 overtime.

That game still haunted me.

I'd taken a penalty late in the first overtime period—tripping their captain and face of the league, Jaxon Slate—putting my team down a man. My former college captain, Cal Berg, became the overtime hero, scoring the winning goal during that power play. I would never forget that moment, the sinking feeling of guilt layered with the disappointment of defeat. It didn't matter that we had squandered opportunities earlier during overtime; I was the one sitting helplessly in the box, watching on as my team struggled and failed to kill the penalty I'd incurred.

So, this year had to be our year. We were one win—one goal—away from playing for a championship. And even though I wouldn't be by their side on the ice, I would support my teammates as their leader. Knowing my boys, they'd rally for me; it's what we did for each other.

"Maddox?" Sam's voice pulled me from my thoughts.

"Yeah?" I groaned as he shifted my knee, bending it gently. Even that slight movement felt off; my knee wasn't stable. I knew I was missing a ligament holding everything in place. It was only a matter of determining which one.

"We need you to lift your hips so we can take off your hockey pants. Then, we'll move you over to the X-ray machine."

I nodded, knowing the drill. This might be my first torn ligament, but I'd been around long enough to have scares. A strain could mimic the symptoms of a tear, but I knew that wasn't the case tonight. So, the first step would be to rule out a potential bone fracture. Then, I'd be sent for an MRI at Indianapolis General Hospital. That scan would find any damage to my soft tissue.

Dr. Sanders, the Speed's team physician, entered the room. He gave me a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Trying to make the win even more dramatic, are we, Maddox?"

My heart stopped beating, and all the pain faded away, if only for a moment. "We won?" I breathed out.

Nodding, he confirmed, "None other than our new rookie, Braxton Slate, with the game-winning goal."

Closing my eyes, I let out a slow breath. We were one step closer to lifting that gleaming silver trophy high above our heads before our names were carved into it for all of eternity, immortalizing us as champions.

"Kid's got great instincts," I remarked.

Braxton happened to be the much younger brother of Jaxon Slate. Braxton had been sent over to us from Connecticut in a trade near the deadline in the middle of his rookie season and was currently living in my house until he got settled in Indianapolis. He was a great asset to our team, and it was a wonder the Comets had let him go, especially to a divisional rival. But from what I understood, he'd requested the trade. I couldn't blame him. His brother's skill level was unmatched; he was a generational talent, the measuring stick to which every current player compared their game. I couldn't imagine living in that shadow, not just in the same family but on the same team. It made sense why he would want to branch out and spread his wings. Honestly, he was playing better hockey now than I'd seen from game film of the Comets prior to our matchups throughout the season. Indy was where he belonged, and we were glad to have him .

I only hoped the boost of adding yet another young, enthusiastic player to our roster would be enough to cover my absence as the Speed were championship-round bound.

The sound of post-game analysis and replays of Braxton's game-winner, combined with the heavy dose of painkillers coursing through my veins, had me loopy enough to relax in the hospital bed as I awaited the results of my MRI.

Dr. Sanders walked in with another doctor, and my suspicions were confirmed. Our team doctor worked with a specialist whenever heavy-duty surgery repair was involved. I would lay good odds that the one accompanying him would be the best orthopedic surgeon in the Midwest.

Dr. Sanders spoke first. "How are you feeling, Maddox?"

My body melted into the mattress. "Whatever drugs you gave me, keep 'em coming."

He chuckled. "Good. I'm glad to hear pain management is no longer an issue." He stepped aside, gesturing to the other doctor. "Let me introduce you to Dr. Harris. He's a premiere orthopedic knee surgeon we had flown down from Chicago."

Nailed it.

"Hit me with it, doc." There was no need for pleasantries. Facts and timelines were more critical.

Dr. Harris walked to the side of my bed, a tablet held in his hands. "Hello, Maddox. Unfortunately, the results of your MRI revealed a full ACL tear, which will need surgery to repair it. "

I nodded. "How soon can I be back on the ice?"

Dr. Harris huffed out a laugh, throwing over his shoulder to Dr. Sanders, "Athletes are always fun."

"One-track minds," Dr. Sanders confirmed.

Turning his gaze back to me, Dr. Harris explained, "I'm sorry to inform you that you won't be back on the ice this season."

I waved a hand. "I kinda figured. What about next season?"

His lips folded in, and dread settled in my gut. "The recovery time for an injury such as this is considerable. You won't be able to put weight on the knee for three months."

I did the quick math. It was late May, so three months from now would be late August. Okay, so I would miss the front part of the season next year. I could deal with that.

But any blossoming hope died at his following words. "Even for a non-athlete, recovery can take six to nine months. And with the risk of re-injury, I wouldn't suggest pushing yourself to beat that timeline."

The pity in his eyes spoke volumes about what he wasn't saying.

When I didn't respond, simply staring at him, Dr. Harris shifted uncomfortably, turning to Dr. Sanders.

Dr. Sanders stepped closer. "Maddox, with your age, it is possible this is a career-ending injury."

I jolted in bed like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over my head. But my racing mind honed in on a single word. Possible. Holding onto it like a lifeline, I asked, "Are you saying I can't play again?"

He sighed. "It's my professional opinion, and that of Dr. Harris, that we recommend you not push yourself to return to the game."

I shook my head. "That's not what I asked. If I follow through with rehab, can I play again? "

Dr. Sanders was used to dealing with headstrong athletes, so he nodded. "Everything in your recovery would have to be perfect. I don't see you playing next season if you want to come back at all. You can't take shortcuts in physical therapy or with exercises at home. And even then, I can't make any guarantees. You know how it works. You'll have to pass an extensive physical to be cleared to play."

"Fine. Consider it done. A year off, rehabbing. How soon can we do the surgery?"

My mind wandered as both doctors prattled on about the intricacies of the repair surgery and when it would occur. I didn't care about the specifics, focused only on the after, when I would work my ass off to get back on the ice.

The game was my life. I wasn't just going to accept that a bad hit into the boards was the end if there was still a chance I could lace up again. I knew I was an old dog and the window was closing on my career, but in my mind, it wasn't closed yet. I wasn't giving up.

Come hell or high water, I would be back with the Indy Speed—with my teammates—as soon as I was healed.

That was a promise.