Chapter 1

There's nothing like the adrenaline rush I get right before a game.

My heart thumps rapidly in my chest, and my hands sweat slightly from thinking about the crowd's noise—the one I can efficiently drown out as soon as I step onto the ice—and the fuzzy feeling in my head. It happens every single time, and even after twenty years of playing this game, it never gets old. The ice is my happy place, and playing with the team that became my family? I could never replace it.

I lace up my skates quickly, my hands taking over with muscle memory, and glance around at the boys putting on their base layers, chest protectors, and hockey pants. The hustle and bustle should give me a headache, but I find it strangely comforting. They're all talking but me. It's not that I'm a loner, I just have a little ritual that I don't break before every game. Going over plays from previous games, centering myself as much as possible. Focusing. Today's game is against Vancouver, a team that has left us in the dust before, and I refuse to let it happen in a home game.

The locker room goes suddenly quiet, and our captain, Noah, takes center stage. "Alright, boys," he begins his pre-game speech, "I could give you all an inspirational speech or whatever the fuck." The guys snicker and smirk around the room. "Only I won't, because the only thing I want to say is that no one beats us at home. I expect excellence tonight, and I know it will be delivered. Now let's beat their asses!"

We all chant our agreement, "Sailors!" Hoping the crowd hears it, even though we know they won't.

Once we break apart, we single-file to the ice, and as soon as my skates touch the slippery surface, I can breathe again. I never noticed before how my shoulders are always tense, my neck stiff...until I come to the rink. As soon as I glide across the space and drop into a stretching position, I feel myself relax.

The lights of the arena bounce off the ice, painting it red and blue, and I breathe in deeply, exhaling slowly, drowning out the noise of the crowd. I stretch my groin, then my legs, then finally jump up and grab my stick.

As I make my way closer to our net, Jeremy skates up to me. "Wanna pass?" he asks me, his brown eyes crinkling. He sweeps his eyes over my face briefly, his strong nose wrinkling as he waits for my answer, and I nod.

"Let's do it."

Jeremy is a defenseman like me, my pair, and we spend a lot of time together during practice to perfect our plays. We're on the first line, along with Matthew, Noah, and Alex—who are loners despite getting along with everyone—and Oliver is our goalie.

These guys have been here for me through the highs and the lows for years now, and it's hard to imagine my life without them. When my little sister died of Leukemia, Jeremy moved in with me and took care of everything. I fell into a deep depression, not wanting to cook for myself or even clean my apartment. So he took it upon himself to do it all, and when I had no motivation to get out of bed and go to practice, he forced me to. He was my rock, and to this day, I'd say my bond is stronger with him than with the rest of the guys. He's my absolute best friend. Not to say that the other guys weren't there for me, though I couldn't have made it through without Jeremy by my side.

Either way, all of these guys have been a crucial part of my life for the past four years, as well as my journey in the NHL. Matthew is the extrovert in the group, right alongside Noah. If there was another pair of best friends, they'd be it. They're always the life of the party, and it's hard to be upset or down around them. Then there's Oliver, our goalie. He might be the funniest of the bunch and, surprisingly, a social butterfly.

Shaking myself out of my thoughts, I pay attention to Jeremy, who passes me the puck and lets it soar. It connects with my stick, flying towards the net. I'm more of an offensive defenseman, always seeking to score despite needing to protect the goalie. And Jeremy lives for that shit. I sink the puck into the net, and Oliver smirks as he slides the other way, letting me score. The asshole isn't even trying to practice.

After the twenty minutes, we all line up for the national anthem, hands over our hearts. Once that's done and the lights fully come on, we get into position. Matthew is taking the face-off this time, and once the referee drops the puck, it's fucking game time.

The energy in the arena is addictive, with the cheers, the oohs and ahs, and the clapping. But I don't let it distract me. Vancouver came to play today, and their offense is relentless, trying to score at all costs. Jeremy and I aren't letting them, though, hitting the puck to the other side of the rink and passing to our offense.

The left winger for Vancouver shoots it toward the net, and Jeremy soars for it, passing it to me. I pass to Noah, who is a couple of feet away, and he takes off with the puck across the other side of the rink. But it doesn't last long, seeing as the same guy who just tried to score, flies toward Noah and slams him into the boards, then steals it away.

It's almost time to switch lines when he comes flying toward us, taking a slap shot at the net. Only Oliver slaps it with his stick and then passes it to me. I pass it to Jeremy, who is then slammed by one of the guys from the opposite team, and he passes the puck right back to the asshole who tried to score. I get in front of the net and slap it away, but he comes back and hits it again, slamming my stick against his in the process. He throws himself into the crease, over my stick, and collides with Oliver.

I throw down my stick and yank him by the back of the jersey, taking off my helmet as we face off. With stick in hand, he shoves me back, and I do too.

"Don't mess with the fucking goalie, asshole!" I yell at him, but he just smirks.

"You fucking coward!" Jeremy yells out as everyone drops their helmets, and a fight breaks out.

I throw the first punch, connecting with his jaw since he still has a helmet on, the visor covering up to the bridge of his nose. His mouthguard falls out as I hear a crunch, and he groans. It doesn't stop him, though. He hits me square in the cheekbone, splitting my skin, and I hit him again, right over the same spot as before.

Instead of hitting me with his fist, he uses his hockey stick to smack me upside the head. I feel a crunch on the top of my head, and I fall on my ass. The rink becomes blurry, and I hear the refs whistle again. My spine begins to tingle, sweat rushes down my back, and right before I try to get up, I fall onto my back.

I blink once, trying to clear my blurry vision, but it doesn't work.

I'll always watch over you.

I hear Courtney's voice right before darkness engulfs me, swallowing me whole.

When my eyes open again, they're barely squinting, hurting from the bright lights ahead of me. I try to look around to see a white roof, except I'm moving. The rumble of an engine rocking my body side to side. The sound of sirens makes my head pound, and then my eyes connect with a man's blue ones from right beside me.

"It's okay," he assures me. "We're almost to the hospital."

Oh, that's right—asshole hit me with his hockey stick. Of fucking course. I think of replying to him, but instead just close my eyes briefly before the ambulance finally stops. That thing was making the headache worse with every bump of the road, and I bet anything that my life is about to suck even more.

"Up you go." The man says as another person helps him with the stretcher, taking me down from the ambulance and wheeling me into the entrance of the hospital.

I don't want to pay attention as one of the nurses shows up, in fact, I close my eyes. All I catch is the tail end of ‘force blunt trauma to the head' and ‘loss of consciousness'. I guess that does suck for me; if I have a concussion, I'm sitting out for the next few games. That won't bode well for Jeremy. I doubt any of the other guys can make a pair with him the way I do. He'll probably be stuck with one of the rookies.

They wheel me into a room and then leave, with the nurse staying behind. It's not lost on me that I'm still wearing all my hockey gear, and I'm burning up. My skates made it off my feet, at least, so I won't have sharp blades slicing anyone up around here. However, I'd like to see them try to take off my clothes to put me in one of those hospital gowns. That's the kind of stuff my friends would cackle over. Shit, I might too, at this point. Unless it hurts my head, then I'm holding it in.

"Hi, sweetheart," the nurse says as she stands next to the stretcher. "You got hit pretty good there, didn't ya?"

I groan, feeling the throbbing at the top of my head. "I guess so." Something tickles my cheek, and with a frown, I reach up to touch it. "What's this?" I rub the sticky liquid between my fingers, bringing them in front of my eyes as I squint to look at it. It's freaking blood.

Blood.

Oh, God.

"I think I'm gonna be sick," I blurt out, and the nurse produces a bag from her pocket and brings it to my face right before I hurl.

My stomach contracts, and I probably expelled everything I had to eat today, and more. My head is killing me the entire time, and with every heave, it feels like it's going to explode.

That asshole is going to pay for this—Meyers. I'm hunting him down the next time I play against him, and he's not making it out of that rink without his own concussion.

"It's okay," the nurse coos as I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. She pulls the bag away and throws it in the nearest trash bin. "We're gonna get you all fixed up."

I look around the room for the first time since being wheeled in here. The walls are sterile white, there's a monitor that keeps beeping angrily, and there's a sink and another trash bin across the room. Oh, and hand sanitizer attached to the wall next to the door. I glance at the nurse, a lady older than me by at least thirty years, and see her kind brown eyes smiling up at me. She's trying to make me feel comfortable. Except there's nothing comfortable about this. I lost consciousness. I was hit in the head by a damn stick. What if I can't play anymore? What if I'm benched for the rest of the season?

"It hurts to open my eyes," I groan. "What's next?"

"Just a second." She replies softly, logging on to a computer next to me. The only reason I know it's because she's clacking on the keyboard so hard I'm afraid it's going to break. Oh, and it's hurting my head again. Yay. "The doctor ordered a CT scan, and then we will go from there. But if I'm correct, you're going to need stitches."

I'll definitely be needing stitches.

If my face is any indication, anyway. However, head injuries do bleed more. But I heard the crack. It doesn't take a genius to figure out something is broken. Just like my heart.

Hockey is my everything. I haven't done anything else since I was five years old, and I always knew it was my future. Since I was a little kid, I have always dreamed of being an NHL player, and nothing was going to stop me from achieving that goal. Will this stop me now? Will this take my livelihood away? I can't help but be scared that this will literally take me out for the season, for life even. It feels like I'm failing my parents. After everything they sacrificed so I could be here, and now it could be taken away over a petty fight. My dad worked two jobs until I went to college on a full-ride scholarship. He worked so hard that I barely saw him, yet he still made time for my games. He didn't miss a single one. My parents both went through so much just so I could live out my dream, and the last thing I want to do is let them down.

My chest tightens painfully until it's hard to breathe, and I begin to sweat. Breathing is a chore, coming so hard and fast that I can't keep up. "Hey," The nurse says calmly, "It's okay. We're going to get you all fixed up. You're okay!"

I slow down my breaths as she mimics breathing exercises with me, and it actually works, relaxing me once more—as much as it's possible with a throbbing headache, nausea, and the inability to open my eyes fully. The light is really pissing me off, but nothing will ever piss me off more than if my hockey career ends here in this hospital bed. If I'm taken out of this game, I'll be ready for someone to take me out of this life, too.

"Hurts." I groan. "Really bad."

"I know, honey." The nurse touches my arm and her phone rings. "This is Stacey." The lady says, "Oh, you're ready? We'll be there in about ten minutes. God knows, I don't know how to take off hockey gear."

I smirk. "I don't know if I can help you either." I tell her honestly, "My head really fucking hurts."

"Well, you will try, big guy." She laughs, "How tall are you anyway?"

"Six-four." She gasps as I laugh, making my head throb more.

"Here, let's start with the pants, the socks, and the…oh my God." She frowns. "How many layers are you wearing?"

"A lot." I groan as she begins to pull off my socks. "I'll help, I swear."

Stacey makes quick work of removing my hockey pants, pads, and layers with the scissors. Just as my vision blurs and my head spins, there's another bag under my chin. It's like she's psychic, because I throw up again, and she pats my arm when I'm done.

"You poor thing." I do feel like a poor thing right now, not gonna lie. This royally sucks. "I'm going to remove your jersey and your top layers, and then we'll get you that CT scan, okay?"

"Alright," I grit out.

After cutting everything off, she gets me into a gown and wheels me over to radiology. It's still hard to open my eyes, but once they put me close to that dome and inject some dye into my IV, I try to relax. It's hard with the loud sound it makes, but I'm doing a pretty good job at staying still. It feels like I'm peeing myself though, with all the warmth rushing to my dick. What a strange feeling.

The radiology technician finishes up, wheeling my stretcher out to where my nurse is waiting for me, and Stacey takes me back out to the hallway with the bright lights. People pass me by, giving me looks full of pity, and I just know in my bones they probably recognize me. I hate that they pity me, mainly because it makes me think of the worst possible outcome.

Stacey opens the door to my room, pushing me in—I don't know how this small woman is wheeling me around—and hooks me back up to the monitors. The steady beep of them makes my headache worse, and I close my eyes as I try to block out as much of the light as possible. Thankfully, she walks out silently, leaving me to wait for the doctor.

After what feels like forever, there's a knock at the door, and a man in his—probably—sixties comes in. "Good evening, Mr. Anderson." He looks me over quickly and sits on a short stool beside the stretcher. "How are you feeling?"

What a stupid question.

"Like shit," I reply with a grin. There's nothing funny about the situation, but since it feels like I'm getting bad news, I'm totally deflecting.

"Yes." He grimaces. "Though you do have a small brain bleed, which should dissolve fairly quickly judging by its size. And you have a really tiny skull fracture. Only about an inch."

Yep, bad news.

"Brain bleed?" I ask as my breathing speeds up again. All the possibilities run rampant in my head. "How long will I be benched?"

"Well, first, we want to keep you for monitoring until your brain bleed dissolves." He deadpans. "Just in case it gets worse."

"Worse?" My voice rises. It can get worse? "How long?"

"A week."

"And benched?"

"If everything goes smoothly and the brain bleed dissolves…" He trails off, looking at the CT scan results on the computer. "Probably a few more weeks after discharge. We have to take it day by day."

Fuck.

"Oh, okay." That is all I can say. Because, what choice do I have?

He continues to talk then, explaining all of the complications this can have and why he's keeping me in the hospital for a week. It all goes in one ear and out the other. All I can focus on is being here for a week, benched for at least a few weeks.

But what if it does get worse?

What if I'm benched for the season?