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I laughed as I relaxed back against the pillows. “I mean, stranger thingshavehappened, but down by three with thirty-two seconds left? Looks like that winning streak is probably over.”

“Let’s hope. They’ve been—oh, they just scored.” She frowned at the screen. “They’d better not turn that around…”

“Oh crap. Did I just jinx us?”

“Probably.”

I rolled my eyes and laughed. Then she leaned closer and turned the screen so we could both watch. We couldn’t see the game play out, but the League’s app showed the timer, who had possession, and the score, so we could at least keep up.

The acronym EN appeared beside Detroit, indicating they now had an empty net.

“Ooh, they pulled their goalie,” I murmured. “Think it’ll help?”

“Maybe.” We watched the time tick down.

Then Albuquerque’s score changed to 6. A second later, the player’s name popped up with ENG, indicating she’d scored an empty net goal.

With four seconds left on the clock.

We watched the last four tick down, then cheered quietly (we were in a hospital, after all). Our team still wasn’t out of the woods yet—there were still plenty of games left, and it was still statistically possible for us to get knocked out of the playoffs—but we had a little more breathing room than we had earlier.

We. As if I’d be playing alongside the Pittsburgh Bearcats again this season.

“Hey.” Sabrina took my hand. “What’s wrong?”

I sighed and met her gaze. “It’s probably a safe bet that the Bearcats are going to the playoffs. But…” I gestured at my leg. “Somehow I don’t think I am.”

Sabrina frowned. “The important thing for you is to get better. We can take it from here.”

“I know you can. But I don’t want to leave the team in a lurch.”

She was already shaking her head. “You’re not. You played a key part in getting us this far. We wouldn’t be where we are in the standings without you.” She squeezed my hand and softly said, “We’ll hold down the fort while you get better.”

I smiled even as a lump rose in my throat. “You better. I did all that work, so…”

That made her laugh and roll her eyes, which helped to soothe that lump.

Right then, there was a knock at the door, and a second later, the doctor came in. My humor vanished along with the threat of tears, and I was suddenly in semi-panicked mode. This was it, and the doctor’s grim expression wasn’t promising.

“Well, we’ve got your results back, Ms. Hamilton.” She turned on a flatscreen monitor and pulled up a few black-and-white images. I was more or less familiar with what a knee MRI looked like, but hell if I could actually decipher them.

“The good news,” she said, “is that you didn’t tear your ACL.”

I released some of my breath. Not all of it, though, because I could hear the “but…” hanging in the air. “What’s the bad news?”

The doctor gestured at one of the images. “You’re looking at a grade three tear of the medial collateral ligament.”

“The—” My brain caught up, and my heart sank. A torn MCL. Just what I needed. “Grade three? How bad is that?”

Her expression remained grim. “It’s a complete tear. Honestly, I’m surprised your ACL didn’t tear along with it—youdon’t usually see an MCL tear like this without additional tearing elsewhere.”

I swallowed. “Oh. Guess I should… Guess I should buy a lottery ticket, then.”

“I would.”

Oh. Hell. I’d been joking, but… okay.

As much as I wasn’t sure I could stomach the answer, I asked anyway: “Am I going to be able to play hockey again?”