Page 2 of Goal Line

He just laughs it off, like he’s impervious to injury despite the fact that his knees are almost always killing him these days.

When we get back into the locker room, I dump my gear at my stall and grab my phone off the shelf, lifting my jersey and tucking it into the front of my hockey pants.

“You need your phone to take a shit?” Colt mumbles, side-eyeing me from where he stands at the locker next to mine.

“I might be in there a while.” I turn and head into the bathroom.

Luke

Evie, are you okay???

Also, heads-up that your mom is on her way to NYC to see you.

I get the alert that she has her notifications silenced, so I click “Notify anyway.” I wait for the read receipt to pop up,but it doesn’t. Gritting my teeth and taking a deep breath, I stand there, waiting...and waiting.

Then I call, but it goes straight to voicemail.Fuck me.

My mind’s darting in a million directions, trying to figure out how to get a hold of her, but the only option I can think of is the nuclear one. The one my pride can barely allow me to choose.

A few moments later, as I hear Coach starting to give us our final instructions before the game, I realize my chance to contact Eva is coming to an end.

I pull up the contact I have saved only in case of emergency. It’s a number I never wanted to have to use: Christopher Fucking Steele.

That’s how he’s saved in my contacts, and the only way I’ll ever refer to Eva’s skating partner. But given that I’m sure he’s with her, and given that this whole situation is pretty much his fault, I text him anyway.

Luke

I hope you’re with Eva right now, because her mom’s on her way to the hospital, and she can’t find out the truth until Eva’s ready to tell her. My game is about to start. Take care of her until I can get there.

Even though we’ve never exchanged messages, I don’t bother telling him it’s me, because I know Eva gave him my number for emergencies, too.

And now, I just hope that he’s with her. It’s not something I’veeverwished for before. Because whatever’s wrong with her, and hopefully it’s not any of the worst-case scenarios that my mind is considering, I’m guessing she doesn’t have her phone and I need him to deliver that message.

As I listen to the guys getting rowdy, I know we’re about to head back to the ice for the start of the game. I don’t have time to wait around for Christopher Fucking Steele’s response. I just have to pray everything works out.

Heading back into the locker room, I set my phone on the shelf and gather my gear, feeling like my heart is lodged in my throat. For the next two and a half hours, I’m going to be watching the game, knees bouncing, desperately wanting my team to win, but lacking the focus to stay fully engaged.

All I want to do is hop onto my father’s private jet and fly to New York to make sure Evie’s okay. I’m definitely not in the ideal mental space as I head into Game 7.

Let’s hope I’m not needed on the ice tonight.

Chapter Two

EVA

“The good news, Evangeline,” the doctor says, standing next to my hospital bed surrounded by three young residents, “is that both you and the baby are fine.”

I breathe out a long sigh of relief and slump back against the raised mattress.

The older doctor nods toward one of the residents, and she explains how my body gave out on me, thanks to a combination of dehydration, low electrolytes, low iron, and exhaustion. “After we’ve finished giving you IV fluids and iron, you’ll be fine to go home. But you need to start taking iron and some additional supplements, and you definitely need a few days of rest. You really shouldn’t push yourself so hard while you’re pregnant.”

“I’m a figure skater trying to qualify for the Olympics,” I remind them, my voice tight with the frustration I’m feeling. “Pushing myself is part of the job.”

I’m not being flippant. I know what my body is capable of. Or what itwascapable of, apparently, since pregnancy seems to be changing me daily, and what I could easily do three days ago might be challenging today.

That’s precisely what happened in our last international competition, when I had to downgrade a difficult jump that Christopher and I had executed perfectly dozens of times. That competition should have been a first-place finish and the crowning glory at the end of a season fraught with personal challenges. Instead, we dropped from being the top-ranked US pairs team to third place.

“For the next few months, you’re going to need to take it easy,” the older doctor says. Christopher’s hand tightens around mine in response to the way I squeeze his, while he sits rigidly beside me.