Prologue

Jack had never felt morelike an impotent old man than when sitting on the bench in the Blizzard dressing room. He was surrounded by younger players he"d seen on TV and a couple of guys who"d been drafted instead of him. Noticeably absent were eight key Blizzard wingers and defencemen laid out by illness, including Monahan and Lindholm.

Hardship claim.He"d been pulled up from the dregs of old AHL prospects to play for one night only because of a hardship claim. How he"d been lucky enough to get that phone call, he"d never know, and he"d never ask. He didn"t want to find out how many people they"d phoned before him.

The weight of the moment sat heavy in his stomach. There wasn"t anything expected of him. That was abundantly clear by the way the other players barely glanced in his direction. He was a filler. A body to give guys like Gaudreau and Johannsen a break. Fortunately, it didn"t matter what anyone else in that dressing room thought of him. He knew what he was capable of. Or would've been. Had his coaches in Toronto not cut him off at the knees because he dared disagree with their line calls and player management.

Live and learn.

He"d keep his skates laced, his mind focused, and his damn mouth zipped shut.

"Alright, listen up," one of the coaches began. Jack couldn't remember his name, but he thought it started with a K. "Tonight, we"re not just a team. We"re a testament to what this sport is all about. We"ve been decimated this season. Injuries, sickness, it"s been one blow after another. But it's not about the hits we take but how we drag our asses up off the ice after the fact."

He waited for the nods and grunts of agreement, then made eye contact with each of the call-ups. "Tonight, we're calling in reinforcements because nobody here is expected to be a solo act. These guys next to you have stepped into the breach without a second thought. That"s the kind of spirit that defines the Blizzard. So tonight, let"s play for each other, for the jersey, for the fans. Tonight, we fight, we bleed, we play Blizzard hockey."

Tkachuk, a killer defenceman next to Jack, leaned in as the rest of the players applauded the speech. "You going to throw up?"

Jack forced a grin. "Probably. But I'll wait till I'm standing next to Timm."

Manning laughed out loud. "I want a front-row seat."

Jack strapped on his helmet, pulled on his gloves, and followed the guys onto the ice for warm-ups. His heart bucked against his ribs as he worked to stay on his feet.

He"d played for full arenas before, but not like this. The Saddledome was a sea of white and ice-blue, and the energy was electric. He felt like he was trying to ride an escalator for the first time as he pushed his stick across the ice. He could do this.

Jack dropped into his warm-up and didn"t worry about the names on the backs of the jerseys swirling around him. By the time he hustled back to the bench for puck drop, he"d almost convinced himself he was skating at the ice arena in the Northwest with Country, Tyler, and Brett wearing Snowballs' baby blue.

The first shift was a blur. The bench felt both like a sanctuary and a prison as he awaited his ice time. Flashbacks of team tryouts and a particularly heinous school talent show in grade seven made his stomach churn. Don't choke. Don't choke. Don't choke.

When Coach barked his name, his pulse hammered a frantic Morse code, but he forced himself over the lip of the boards and onto the ice. Then everythin—the shouts from the crowd, the horns and music—blurred as he jumped into the play.

The air was crisp. His equipment snug. Jack settled into himself, and muscle memory took over.

He'd played with a cracked sternum once and scored while pain sliced through his left arm. He'd played with multiple muscle and ligament tears, with no sleep for thirty-six hours, and so hungover it felt like a construction crew had taken up residence in his cerebellum. What was the roar of fifteen thousand people?

Jack moved with the puck, feeling its weight and that hair of resistance through the stick that had become an extension of his own body. The game narrowed to pinpoints of focus—his teammates in red, two opponents narrowing in, and the net. He calculated his next move like he was playing chess, analyzing his likelihood of success in a nanosecond.

He passed. He caught. He deked. He checked. Then a few minutes later, he dropped back on the bench, sweating and heaving for breath.

The exertion focused him like sunshine through a magnifying glass, and during shift number two, Jack found a deeper rhythm. He forgot all about the lights and the cacophony from the crowd and jumbotron. He was playing in an NHL game. He was on the ice with the best of the best, and he was damn well going to enjoy it.

Jack sensed the play before it happened.

He charged up the ice, and as he approached the blue line, a pass to another call-up, Obelensky, was the obvious choice. But then his defender budged. He bit right on a small shift of Jack's hips, and in that split second, Jack knew he had an opening straight to the net.

He took it, tearing forward, holding the puck just out of reach with those extra few centimetres he'd gained with the deke. He didn't plan to make a spectacle of it, but with his defender hugging his flank and the goalie cheating left, he didn't have the guaranteed shot he'd hoped for.

It hadn't been a decision, his left leg just dragged, pulling him into a tight spiral. He coiled, scooping the puck from the ice and cradling it on his stick like a raw egg, then backhanded it as soon as he pulled out of his pirouette.

The goalie"s mitt shot up a second too late. The puck disappeared top shelf.

The lights went off.

The buzzer sounded.

All of it felt like it was happening on the other side of a soundproof wall. Even as his one-night-only teammates swarmed around him, Jack couldn't convince himself any of it had happened.

Reality had set in later that night when he lay alone in his bed watching his name splashed across every sports news headline in the country. Jack's only goal had been not to make a fool of himself, but in less than an hour, hockey fans were chanting his name in the streets.

Jack was numb as he swiped out of his internet browser and checked his text messages. Eighty-seven. He hadn't had that many text messages since . . . well, since the accident.

He ran a hand over his face as his gut clenched, then started at the bottom.

Thanks, Mom. Love you

It was electric

Talk more at practice

The more replies he sent, the faster his heart raced. The excitement that came with playing hockey on the big stage had lifted him into the clouds, but when he woke up the next morning, he'd be standing on the ground. Specifically, laminate hardwood floors.

Tomorrow, he'd wake up and eat eggs with his sister Clara and her husband Oscar.

Tomorrow, he'd turn on his computer and work from home, playing the middleman between designers and the executive team and hunting down new retail channels.

Tomorrow, he'd go back to being Jack Harrison, twenty-nine, with a +10 in his last AHL season. Which nobody would care about because tomorrow he wouldn't be a player in the NHL.

Jack exhaled and moved on to the next text message.

Maybe he didn't need to go to bed just yet.