CHAPTER TWO

E van

I force my eyes open, then squint against the glare of an annoyingly placed ceiling light. The arena is gone, and I’m on my back, staring at a stark ceiling that’s far too close. There’s no swoosh of skates, no thwack of sticks, no hum from the crowd.

I am definitely not on the ice anymore.

I struggle up. I need to get back out there.

“Relax, Evan.” Dr. Novak fixes a professional smile on me beneath her immaculately trimmed heavy darks bangs. “You can rest. You gave us a scare.”

My head aches, and my eyes are groggy. “I, um, aim to entertain.”

“You succeeded.”

Somebody snorts. Coach Holberg slaps a hand on my shoulder. “Good to see you’ve come to. I’m going back out. Take care of yourself, Evan.”

A thought occurs to me, and I tense. “Did Stella see?”

Dr. Novak’s eyes soften. “I’m sure the girls are looking out for her.”

“Good.” I jerk my head into a nod. The world spins, and my throat swallows around an acrid taste that wasn’t there during the game. “What’s wrong with me?”

“You had a hit to the head.”

My cheeks burn. I’m not paid to be distracted. I’m not paid to be injured. I’m paid to skate. I’m paid to win.

I scramble from the seat.

“Sit down. I need to ask you some questions.” She removes some cards and a timer from a drawer.

“You got it.” My gaze moves to the door again, but I blink sore, irritated eyes and manage a tight smile.

“What’s your name?”

My heart sinks at the question. This is basic concussion protocol in Boston. And I so don’t want to have a concussion.

“Evan McAllister.” I slink my gaze back to the door, wondering how long this will take.

She frowns. “Remember, I’m timing this.”

“Er... Right.” I know that. My head feels thick and aches.

I wonder if Stella is worried. I want to be in the game and not in this stark office, the only color the occasional motivational poster.

“Can you recall the events that led up to the injury?” Dr. Novak asks, her voice gentle.

“I’m not allowed to black them out?”

Her lips don’t even twitch. But then, tonight has been all about failure.

“Evan? What happened?”

Bile rises in my throat, but I swallow it back. “I got slammed into the boards. It was nothing. I should return.”

“Nice try.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. Do you have a headache?”

I squirm. “Yeah.”

“Nausea?”

“Maybe.”

Her face grows more serious, and she turns on some sort of light-shining instrument that I hate at once.

“Just a little,” I add quickly.

“I wouldn’t expect a hockey player to say anything else,” she says. “You have to tell me all the symptoms.”

“I know. I’m fine. I swear.”

She nods.

“Almost done,” she says, her voice soothing.

I don’t want soothing. I want to be out on the ice.

“Can you spell hockey backward?”

She waits, and I think I manage it.

She doesn’t look happy, though. I’ve failed this test. I had a habit of doing that in high school. Thank God I get to play hockey.

Dr. Novak goes through the rest of the concussion protocol.

It’s not the first time I’ve gone through concussion protocol, but all the other times I was with a player. It’s never been me before.

I hate it.

I hate this room and the scent of antiseptic and sweat that would probably send my cologne maker straight to his grave.

Dr. Novak steps back. “All done.”

“I’m fine?” My voice rises, and I hate the note of vulnerability. Vulnerability is so not my thing.

“You have a concussion,” Dr. Novak says in her most professional voice, the same voice she used when I hurt my shoulder two years ago.

I groan.

“Do you have someone who can watch you?” she asks.

“Uh—” My parents usually watch Stella, but they’re on a cruise this week. That’s why the WAGs were watching Stella tonight.

Dr. Novak’s brow furrows. God, this is one of our rare weekends off. Everyone has plans. She’s probably worried she has to give up her plans for me.

“Sorry. It, um, hurts to think.”

Footsteps patter outside, and my heart leaps.

“Stella! Your daddy’s busy,” a female voice, either Francesca or Jasmine, says.

I snort.

Then the door swings open, and Stella rushes toward me, a blob of blue and white clothes, and caramel pigtails.

Jasmine’s curly black hair glows under the lights as she follows Stella apologetically. “I’m sorry, Evan.”

I shrug, my gaze fixed on the love of my life.

Stella eyes the room skeptically. “Why are you here?”

“I have to check your daddy for booboos,” Dr. Novak says.

Stella wrinkles her nose. “Injuries. I’m not a baby.”

“I know, baby,” I say.

She gives me an affronted look, and I don’t resist the urge to smile.

“Sorry, Stella.”

“Are you okay?” Her voice wobbles, and I hate it. I hate that I’ve worried my brave, confident daughter.

“Just a little headache, honey.”

Stella appraises the computer and desk and assorted medical equipment.

“I don’t like this room.”

“I don’t either.”

Dr. Novak clears her throat. “You still haven’t told me who can watch you.”

“I—”

I don’t want to admit that I don’t have anyone, but it’s true. There’s no wife at home. No girlfriend. Not anymore.

“Course,” I lie.

A worried expression sails over Jasmine’s face. “I’m going with Isaiah to visit his parents.”

Shit.

“I’ll be fine,” I lie again.

I mean, do I really need someone?

“I don’t even think I was unconscious,” I say.

“You were definitely unconscious.”

“Okay, let’s find someone to watch Evan and Stella,” Dr. Novak says brightly, and my heart sinks.

“I’m sure it’s not necessary—”

“It’s absolutely necessary,” Dr. Novak says. “Head injuries are no joke.”

I can’t protest.

My throat dries. I should have been more careful. God, why wasn’t I more careful?

Montreal was desperate. I knew that.

“The game is over.” Jasmine types rapidly onto her phone. “I’ll have Isaiah ask around.”

“Okay,” I say weakly.

Then Jasmine smiles. “Someone volunteered.”