Page 93 of Pucking One Night Stand

No warning. Just a blur of movement and a wall of muscle slamming into my ribs.

Impact.

My spine crunches against the glass. Pain jolts through me like an electric shock. Then I’m airborne, flipping sideways, my skates clawing at nothing. I hit the ice on my back, hard.

The breath punches out of my lungs. The ceiling spins.

I blink. Once. Twice.

McCullum jumps up, but I look past him. The medical team’s already on their feet.

I grit my teeth and push up on one elbow. My head doesn’t feel like it’s trying to detach itself from my neck, so I keep going.

“Jesus,” Bishy mutters, offering a hand.

I take it on one knee. Then both skates, grabbing my stick on the way.

A massive sigh rips through me and the arena.

Not today.

I tap my stick on the ice once, hard.

McCullum’s voice cuts through the bench like a whip.

“Rest and don’t fucking move!”

I snap my head toward him. “I’m fine!”

He doesn’t blink. “Bench. Now.”

"Fuck this!" I curse under my breath, just enough to slice through the boards, but I obey.

Sterling jumps the boards in my place.

I sit. Breathing hard. Stick across my knees.

Sterling’s already in motion, slick, fast, surgical.

He threads a pass through two defenders, nearly springs Jett for a breakaway.

Circles back, digs out a puck in the corner, fires a sharp-angle shot—glove save.

I lean forward, elbows on my thighs, watching every damn second.

McIntosh steps behind me.

“You good?”

I nod once.

He gives me the signal.

I tap Sterling’s gloves, jump the boards, and hit the ice like a shot.

I’m back.

And I’m pissed.