Page 295 of Playing the Pucking Game

But maybe I was wrong. Maybe I should have sent one of those messages. Hell, maybe I should have gone and sought him out so we could talk.

It’s been like this since the very first puck drop. Rett has already been in the penalty box twice, but still, he isn’t letting up. And it’s not just Linc he has his sights on, either.

The Vipers are currently winning three to zero, and the Bandits are losing control, although no one seems to have lost their grip quite like Rett.

Linc’s words earlier about my brother figuring shit out seem so far from the truth right now that they’re laughable.

The Vipers’ fans go wild when a penalty isn’t called, and play resumes once Linc has righted himself.

At the other end of the bench, Coach Watson—Casey’s dad—glances back at me with concern etched on his face.

I wince, unable to do anything to rein my brother in but wishing I could.

As the seconds count down to the end of the second period, we all watch with bated breath as Monroe steals the puck from Westly and quickly shoots it to Linc, who takes off down the left side of the ice with his eyes set on the goal.

We might be up by three, and he may have had two assists, but he’s yet to find the back of the net, and I know he’s desperate for it.

Behind him, Rett is like a machine as he closes in. His face is set with a determination that makes my stomach twist up tight.

Rett, no. Please. Please don’t do this, I silently beg.

I stop breathing as Linc pulls his stick back and prepares to shoot, but he never gets to make contact because Rett collides with him, sending him flying backward.

I swear to God, the entire arena gasps as Linc hits the ice.

“Oh my god,” I whimper, my eyes locked on Linc’s unmoving body.

Play stops as the referee speeds toward Rett. I’m vaguely aware of him finally being ejected from the game, but I don’t pay him any mind as he sulks off. My focus is on Linc.

Dr. Phillips, our lead physician, races toward him, but with the crowd of players surrounding Linc, it’s hard to see what’s actually happening.

There’s movement beside me before a heavy arm wraps around my shoulders. I know from the stench that it’s a player, and when I glance over, I find Killer with his eyes also locked on the ice.

“He’ll be okay. He won’t let Donnelly take him down. He’s got too much to fight for.”

A sob erupts, and I just about manage to catch it.

I swear, time seems to stop, but in reality, it’s probably only a minute or two before Linc sits up, and the second he does, his eyes find mine.

“I’m okay,” he mouths.

“He’s okay,” I breathe, tears burning red hot.

You’re at work. Do not cry.

Do. Not. Cry.

You are a professional, and right now, Linc is just an athlete.

“See,” Killer says, giving me a squeeze as Fletch and Kodie help him to his feet.

My breathing is labored as they slowly make their way over.

“Excuse me,” I blurt before ducking under Killer’s arm and racing ahead of them. I need to be there when he gets him on a bed to be checked over.

There is a small team of people in the room watching the game on a TV screen, and the second I race inside, they all jump into action.

“Oh,” Nathan Cromwell, our head PT, says when his eyes land on me, not a broken hockey player.