Page 2 of Hot for the Hockey Player (The Single Moms of San Camanez: The Vino Vixens #2)

With a heavy heart, all I could do was shake my head.

We knew this was part of the job when we all signed up to play.

Players got traded all the time. Unless you had an ironclad contract with a no-trade clause in it, it was always an option.

And while Roman Woodman was a great right-winger, he was second-string and, like me, this was a contract renegotiation year for him too.

Murmurs about contracts and trades made up a lot of the locker room chatter.

Everybody who was in a contract year feared for their future.

Some players were eager to move, while others—like Roman and myself—were happy where we were, as we attempted a bit of normalcy in our lives and aspired to set down some shallow roots.

After the national anthem was sung by a local teenage girl from some prestigious choir, it was time for the puck drop. As first-string center, I took my position at center ice, ready for the face-off.

The Riptide’s center—Maxim Hoff—joined me there. “Roy,” he greeted. “How’s it going?”

“Had a fantastic night’s sleep.”

He grinned. “Me too.”

We both put in our mouth guards as the ref skated up with the puck. “All right, guys. Let’s have a clean game, hmm?”

Hoff and I both merely snorted and glanced at the ref before focusing back on the ice.

The puck smacked dead center in the middle of the decorative “R” and it was game on.

Once my skates hit the ice, I thought of nothing else besides the game.

Everything else in my life, everything outside the two hundred by eighty-five-foot frozen rectangle—including the crowd—got shoved to the back for later.

I had a single goal for these three periods, and that was to score goals, or help my teammates score goals.

I got the puck first and passed to Henderson, my left-winger who was open.

He took it up the ice, closing in on the goal.

The scrape of sharp blades and my teammates hollering at each other filled my ears.

The Riptides’ strong defensive line launched themselves on Henderson.

Their defenseman, Barbier, shoved Henderson hard into the boards, but I raced up and grabbed the puck before Hoff could get it.

That opened me up for a shot, but before I could take it, their other defenseman, LeBlanc, hooked my skates with his stick, sending me to the ground.

The ref blew the whistle, and LeBlanc was handed a two-minute penalty. Henderson came over and helped me to my feet. “You okay?”

I nodded, then faced off into the defensive zone with Hoff.

Hoff and I played together briefly for Colorado, and he was a good dude.

A bit older than me, with a family, but he tried to play a clean game.

Not a lot of fighting or penalties. He was one of the good guys and I liked playing against him because I knew it would be a fair game.

“Y’all right?” The Texas native asked me.

“Never better.”

The puck dropped again and we were off. The Riptides were one man down, which was to our advantage. We needed to use these two minutes wisely and keep the puck in their defensive zone for a better chance at scoring.

Franks hollered that he was open, so I passed across the ice to him on the left.

He launched it to Henderson, who shot it back to me.

Barbier was on me again, but I handed off the puck to Franks again before Barbier could swoop in.

Franks took a shot on goal, but the Riptides’ goalie, Neyman, deflected, passing it to Hoff.

Hoff took it up the center, and we swarmed him.

Our defensive line got ready, rushing Hoff in offense.

I was the first to catch up with Hoff, but just as I was about to swoop in to try to steal the puck before he reached the blue line, Barbier came up on my right and checked me hard from behind, sending me flying into Hoff.

I’d been checked from behind before, but something about the way I fell sent alarm bells ringing in my head as my skull rattled in my helmet when I hit the unforgiving ice.

A sharp, stabbing pain in my lower back had me flopping onto my belly as I tried to wiggle my toes in my skates. The din of the crowd’s gasps faded into the background. All I could hear was the deafening thud of my pulse in my ears.

Something wasn’t right.

The ref blew the whistle and my teammates, as well as Coach Nilsson, rushed over.

Hoff was there too, having recovered from his bail better than me. “Roy, you okay?” he asked crouching down, concern on his scruffy face.

“No, man,” I said, fear sending shots of adrenaline through me. “Something’s wrong.”

“Just stay still,” Nilsson said, dropping to one knee beside me. “Paramedics are coming.” He rested a hand on my shoulder and gave me his best “dad” face, since he really was like a father to all of us. Stern, but fair. Encouraging, but not demeaning. He was honestly the best coach I’d ever had.

I swallowed and nodded, the flash of the paramedics’ red jackets coming into my peripheral vision.

They had the spine board, and after asking me some questions and assessing things, they lifted me onto the board and strapped me in.

My helmet was off now, and my eyes shifted over the crowd as the gurney rolled me to the exit.

“On three,” the taller paramedic said when we reached the step to leave the ice. “One … two … three.” They lifted me, but it was a smooth transition.

The stands erupted into thunderous applause. But that just made the pounding in my head worse. I was about to close my eyes when dark-brown, chunky curls framing a heart-shaped face, and alert amber eyes caught my attention.

I would remember those eyes anywhere.

Gabrielle Campbell, the mother of my hockey host family for three years, stared back at me with fear and worry.

She had two children—two teenagers— with her.

It’d been ages since I’d seen Damon and Laurel.

They were just toddlers when I lived with them, but Gabrielle hadn’t changed a bit.

She was still gorgeous. Still had that serious, guarded way about her.

When we locked eyes, her cheeks pinked up in a very sexy way.

They were right on the edge of the bottom bowl, against the glass for the exit.

A great spot to watch the game and see the players as they entered and left the ice.

All I could do was blink. My arms were strapped to my sides, and I was told not to move.

She followed me with her gaze.

“Hi,” I mouthed, offering her a faint smile.

Her throat moved on a swallow, and the intensity of fear in her eyes increased. She mouthed “ Hi” back, prompting my heart to do an extra little jump.

And then I was gone, rushed into the ambulance and off to the hospital as my mind swirled with memories from my time spent living with the Campbells, and panic that I’d never play hockey—or walk—again.