Page 23

TWENTY-THREE

HUDSON

Our four-game win streak is in jeopardy of being broken tonight.

We’re getting our asses handed to us by the Orlando Hurricanes, and we’ve played like shit since the puck dropped.

It doesn’t help that the referees keep sending us to the sin bin for questionable penalties, and it feels like we’re one play away from the game getting out of control.

To add insult to injury, Coach earned a game misconduct for screaming at the refs after two missed tripping calls. He refused to leave the box for five minutes before being escorted to the locker room by arena security.

Not even our faithful hometown crowd can help revive us. Being down 4-1 with five minutes left in the third period, we’d need a miracle to get out of here with a win.

Things aren’t looking good.

“Fucking asshats,” Maverick yells from the bench when Grant gets tangled up with an Orlando player. “This is fucking bullshit .”

“We’ve got a damn target on our back. The worst team in the league beating the defending Stanley Cup champions? C’mon. That shit is fuel to the fire.” I take a sip of Body Armor and hand the bottle back to our equipment manager. “Gotta keep our chins up for five more minutes. That’s it.”

“If I don’t wind up in jail at the end of this, it’ll be a miracle,” Mav grumbles, and we tumble onto the ice in unison for a line switch.

Both our offense and defense have been stagnant all night. Each shot we take is an inch wide. Each one of Liam’s attempted saves is a half second too late. He broke his stick during intermission, and I know he’s pissed at himself for giving up so many goals when he leads the league in save percentage.

“Hayes,” Riley calls out. “All yours.”

He passes me the puck after scooping up a rebound. The rest of our teammates are still behind our net and throwing an extra elbow when they shouldn’t be. They’re starting shit because tempers are high, and I take advantage of the open ice. I head for our opponent’s goal, refusing to go down without some sort of a fucking fight.

When my mom was around, she used to tease me.

She said I was a giver, not a taker, because I’ve never really cared about scoring. Some guys want to be the skating leaders with the most points, but that doesn’t mean anything to me. I prefer assisting. Passing to someone who can sink a pretty slap shot like it’s an easy Sunday morning walk.

It’s almost like I can hear her whispering at me to take the shot for once. She’s urging me to charge forward, and after a quick glance up at the rafters, I grin as I pass center ice.

The Orlando player who just emerged from the penalty box spots me coming. He takes off in my direction, but he never bothers to track the puck. He’s only paying attention to me , and there’s a scary look in his eye.

I expect him to stop. I expect him to reach out his stick and deflect the breakaway. I expect him to force me left, away and around the goal instead of straight on at the crease. It’s a typical defensive play, one I’ve practiced thousands of times. It’s what I would do if I was in his position, but he does none of those things.

Instead, he’s leaning forward, pivoting his body, and turning his shoulder. He’s moving faster. One minute I’m on my skates, and the next I’m airborne.

A searing pain shoots up my arm as I flail mid-air. A yell works its way from my mouth. In an effort to protect my head and wrists as I come down, I land on my side.

The ice is cold beneath me. There’s an excruciating throb in my arm. Everything hurts, and I lie motionless, afraid to move out of fear I broke a bone.

Or worse.

Blinking my eyes open, I see our Stanley Cup Champions banner hanging in the corner of the arena. I hear whistles being blown and what sounds like a scream from somewhere behind me.

You’re okay , I tell myself. You’re conscious . You’re breathing . That’s enough .

“Hey. Hey .” Lexi appears at my side, and it’s never a good sign when she’s on the ice. “Talk to me, Hudson. What hurts?”

“My arm.” I grimace, holding back the string of curses I want to yell out. “My right shoulder.”

“What about your spine? Your head? Can you wiggle your toes?”

“Let me try,” I grit out, and the relief is sweet when all five of my toes on both feet curl and release like they should. “I can move my toes.”

“Can you tell me your name? Where you are?”

“Hudson Hayes. In the middle of a shitty hockey game where we’re getting beat by people from fucking Florida .”

Lexi smiles and carefully takes off my helmet. “Grant’s going to be mad you said that.”

“What the hell happened?”

“A cheap shot by that dickbag Davidson.” She moves her hand to my chest and stays there while I take a couple of deep breaths. Bending over me, she pokes my back, and I hiss when she drums her fingers against my shoulder. “No bones are protruding. I don’t think it’s broken, but you’re looking at a bad bruise and probably riding the bench for a game or two. I want to get your gear off so I can take a better look and run you through some stretches. You’re done for the night.”

“ What ? I’m fine. I can?—”

“Say that without looking like you’re going to cry, and I’ll let you stay in,” she challenges, but I can’t. It hurts too damn bad, and I know she’s right. “Do you want me to get you a stretcher?”

“Absolutely fucking not.” I let my eyes close briefly. “Help me sit up, and I’ll be good to skate off on my own.” I use my left hand to push myself up. The crowd cheers, and I give them a small wave. I turn my neck, noticing gloves strewn across the ice. Sticks are everywhere, and an unattended helmet that isn’t mine sits right over the logo. None of my teammates are around me like they normally would be after an injury, and I can’t help but laugh. “Hell. Who started it?”

“Who do you think?” Lexi asks. “Maverick didn’t like the hit you took. No one did. Even Liam got involved. Pretty sure we’re going to finish the game with our fourth line because of penalties.”

“Was the hit that bad?”

“It was intentional. You had the puck, sure, but the douche made no effort to go for the puck. On a scale of one to ten, I’d say it was probably an eight.”

“Not sure there are guys out there who are more loyal than ours.” Taking a deep breath, I push myself onto my knees and slowly stand. “You’re going to put me through hell in the trainers’ room, aren’t you?”

“You bet your ass I am, Hayes. Icing. PEMF therapy. You’ll be fine in a few days after I’m finished with you.”

“We’re lucky to have you in DC, Lex. You’re the best of the best.”

She blushes and moves to my other side so she can loop her arm through my uninjured one. I make sure to skate slow so she doesn’t fall, and I wave at the crowd again.

“Hey.” Maverick pulls up to my side. “You okay, man?”

“Hurts like hell, but I’ll be all right.” I look at his split lip and the bruise already forming on his cheek. The front of his jersey is bright red from blood, and I laugh. “Christ, Mavvy. Are you okay?”

“You should see the other guy.” His grin shows off dried blood on his teeth. “Fucked him up real good.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“’Course I fucking did.”

“Shitty play by the Hurricanes’ player.” Riley skates backward next to us. Even he lost his gloves, and I can’t remember the last time he was in a fight. “I hope the league suspends his ass.”

“Y’all close out this game,” I tell them. “Tomorrow will be better, and I’m going to be fine.”

“Such a selfless guy.” Maverick kisses my cheek, and I do my best to shove him away. “Take care of yourself, Huddy. I don’t like skating without you.”

The rest of the team gives me a pat on my unhurt shoulder as I move toward the tunnel. Our assistant head coach checks in with me, and when I make it off the ice, Lexi and I trudge to the athletic trainers’ room.

I strip out of my gear until I’m left in compression shorts and hop on the table. She takes me through a series of stretching exercises, tests my range of motion, and numbs the pain with an ice wrap. An hour after the rest of the boys leave, I’m glad to learn nothing is sprained or broken.

I’m just thoroughly beat up.

With a couple of over-the-counter pain killers in my system and my arm in a sling that makes driving home nearly impossible, I finally unlock the door to my condo. I groan when I bend down to take off my shoes. I rest my forehead against the wall and squeeze my hand into a fist, tired and in pain.

When I got banged up in high school games, my mom was there to help clean me up. She never coddled me, but she did wipe away the blood. She plugged in the heating pad and made me laugh. Seeing her made me feel better.

I regret all the times I tried to shrug her off when I was younger. When I tried to pull away and tell her I was fine. When I acted like I was big and tough and cool, because I really fucking wish she was here right now to take care of me.

I sigh and pull away from the wall. It takes me longer than usual to reach the kitchen, and when I do, I find Madeline there.

She’s bent over the sink with curved shoulders, and the sight causes me to do a double-take.

“Hey,” I call out. “Are you okay?”

When she turns to look at me, her cheeks are streaked with mascara, and I catch the bloodied paper towel wrapped around her hand. I move to her as quick as I can, registering the knife on the counter and pushing it out of the way.

“What happened?” I look around the room then back at her. “Did someone do this to you?”

“That damn knife is the culprit. I was cutting some onions for breakfast tomorrow. Trying to get ahead of the game, you know?” Madeline huffs out a sigh. “My grip slipped. I sliced my finger instead of the onion, and I made a mess.”

“What do you need?” I turn on the sink with my left hand and wet a stack of paper towels. “Do you need to go to the emergency room? What about stitches?”

“It’s not that deep. I’m just trying to get it to stop bleeding.” She holds her hand above her head. Her eyes land on the temporary sling around my shoulder, and she gasps. “Oh my god. What the hell happened to you ?”

“Bad hit in the game. It’s not broken. Just bruised.”

“Wow.” Madeline laughs. “What a pair we make.”

“Between the two of us, we almost have a healthy human. Let’s get you bandaged up. I have a first aid kit in my bathroom.”

“I’m okay. Really. It’ll stop bleeding soon.”

“That wasn’t up for debate, Madeline,” I say, and when I turn and head for my bedroom, I’m glad to hear her following me.

“Is your head okay?” she asks. “That must’ve been some hit if you’re wearing a sling.”

“I hurt like hell, but Lexi told me I’ll be okay in a few days.” I push open the door with my hip and flip on the bathroom light. “Take a seat.”

“I don’t get a tour of your room?” Madeline sits cross-legged on the closed toilet seat. “I saw a headboard out there.”

“Do most people not have a headboard?”

“I’ve heard rumors about men putting pillows on the floor and calling it a mattress. Sheets and a headboard are impressive, yes.”

“The bar sure is low.” I squat and open the cabinet under the sink. I rifle through the toilet paper and electric razors, finding the first aid kit and setting it on the vanity. “Antibiotic ointment first, then a bandage. I’ll put some gauze on it after to hold everything in place.”

“This isn’t your first time patching someone up, is it?” Madeline asks.

“I’m a hockey player, Mads. I’ve seen lots of injuries.”

“I’m guessing you’re not squeamish.”

“Nope. Blood doesn’t faze me.” I put on a glove from the kit and move the blood-soaked paper towel away from her finger. When I see the cut, I grimace. “Shit, Madeline. This is deep.”

“Not deep enough to warrant stitches. I’ve had worse.”

I don’t like the sound of that one bit, but I toss the paper towel in the trash can and open the tube of Neosporin. “Can you wash your hands for me?”

She leans over and turns on the faucet, using soap and water to clean the wound. I’m impressed when she doesn’t flinch. “You’re up, doc.”

I laugh and squeeze out some of the ointment. Dabbing it on the cut, I sigh in relief when I can tell she’s right about not needing stitches. I toss the tube back on the vanity and peel open a Band-Aid.

“Did you and Lucy have a good night?” I ask.

“Yeah.” Madeline smiles at the mention of her daughter, just like she always does. “We did some homework, then we made cookies for Lucy’s class. I left you a couple in a bag on the kitchen counter. I figured it could be a consolation prize after a rough game.” She pauses and glances up at me. “We watched the first period, and it wasn’t pretty. I’m sorry you all had a bad night.”

“It’s part of the sport, unfortunately. It sucks, but it doesn’t do us any good to dwell on it. What kind of cookies did you make?”

“Snickerdoodle. You, um, mentioned they were your favorite on Thanksgiving, so I wanted to give them a try. I think they turned out okay, but you’ll have to be the judge.”

“Delicious dinners. My favorite cookies. You’re too good to me.” My tongue sneaks between my teeth as I wrap the bandage around her finger. She winces in pain, and I gently smooth over the area with my thumb. “Almost done. You’re doing so well.”

She inhales sharply. Her throat bobs, and her eyes meet mine. I’m afraid I’ve hurt her even more, but then she whispers, “Thank you for doing this for me,” and all is right in the world.

“Of course,” I rasp. My head feels like it’s swimming. The adrenaline from the game is wearing off. The injury is catching up to me, and seeing her hurting isn’t making things any better. There’s this… this need pulsing through me. It’s something I’ve never experienced before. I want to make sure she’s okay. I want to help and take care of her. “Last step.”

“If hockey doesn’t pan out, you might have a future in medicine.”

“Might be a few years late with that one, and I doubt all my patients would be as good as you.” I unravel a generous wad of gauze and rip it with my teeth while Madeline watches me. “Are you doing okay?”

“Yes. Are you doing okay?”

“Honestly? No. I could use some more drugs. Everything hurts. This is the worst I’ve been injured since—” I roll my lips together and wrap the gauze around her finger and across her palm so the bandage stays in place. I lift her wrist and check to make sure everything is secure before setting her hand on her thigh. “I’ll be okay. That’s the best I can do with putting you back together.”

“It already feels so much better.” Madeline pauses and looks up at me. “Will you please let me take care of you like you took care of me? You’re in pain, Hudson, and I’m sure you exacerbated it by patching me up. What can I do?”

The idea of someone else taking care of me like Mom did makes me instantly feel better. My mouth curves into a smile. “Okay,” I say. “I could use the help.”