One Pucking Heart

Chapter One

Beckett

Well, this fucking sucks.

The moment that asshole in his yellow-and-black jersey comes barreling into me, smashing me into the boards, I feel it. The twist of my body, the unnatural angle of my leg as I’m slammed between the one hard surface and a hotheaded dipshit. I’m all for a good fight during a hockey game, but this was uncalled for. It’s not a fight but an attack. 

I never aim to hurt another player, even when I despise them. Would I enjoy giving a deserving opponent a black eye or busted lip? Sure. Who wouldn’t? But I’d never want to cause them irreparable harm. It’s a mutual respect. As deep as rivals go, the fact is we all love this game. We wouldn’t be here if we didn’t. This game is our life, our livelihood, our stress relief, and, in my case—my family. It’s everything to me, and as I fall to the ice, I’m terrified I’ve lost it.

I’m no stranger to injuries. I’ve broken or sprained so many parts of my body playing this game over the past twenty years that I’ve lost count of them all. When I was a child, the emergency room staff at our local hospital called me a frequent flier. My mother would take me in, and the nurses would look at her in question as if to say “your kid is hurt again?” My mom would utter one simple word—hockey—and the nurses would nod knowingly. 

This game has been the most important thing in my life since I was six years old. Hell, I’m quite sure I subconsciously chose my best friend because I knew he’d be great at the sport, and I needed someone to practice with. The idea of something taking me out early is my worst nightmare. Maybe that’s dramatic, but it’s the way it is. This is more than a game to me. It’s everything. 

So, yeah… this injury feels different. Everything is off, from the position of my body when I’m hit to the way I fall to the ice to the sheer pain radiating up my leg. I catch my best friend Cade’s stare as I hit the ice, and I can see the state of my injury reflected back at me. It must look as awful as it feels because Cade takes one look at me, and rage consumes his features. He flies toward my attacker and throws his gloves off, pounding on the jerk's face. With a flurry of movement, Sebastian Calloway, our center, joins the fight. 

I try to push my body from the ice but can’t move my leg. Our hometown fans go crazy in the stands, the sound deafening, and I hate that they have to see me this way. I equally despise that my parents and sister, who are somewhere in the crowd of navy-and-white jerseys, have to witness this.

The team medics are at my side, giving me instructions, but my focus is across the ice as Bash and Cade are escorted to the penalty box, along with the douche, Kyle Whitmore, from Pittsburgh. The medics help me up onto my good leg, and I take in the time on the clock—less than five minutes left. 

Our NHL team from Michigan, the Cranes, has had an amazing run this year. Cade and I were drafted to the Cranes right out of college. This is our fourth year here, and in that time, this is the best our team has been collectively. We have the right combination of talent, personalities, and that something special that makes a team great. This was supposed to be our year. We were first in our division and entered the Stanley Cup playoffs in round one against the team from Pittsburgh. We should’ve beat them and moved on by the fourth game. Yet here we are in game seven in a three-game tie. The winner of this game will move on to round two of the playoffs. 

The score is currently one to one. A goal would seal the deal for either team, and half of our guys are off the ice. Bash and Cade will be in that penalty box for the rest of the game, and I’ll be on my way to the hospital. It will take a miracle to pull out a win, and somehow, I just don’t see one coming. 

The game resumes while I’m put on a stretcher off the ice and rolled out of the arena, where I’m lifted into an ambulance. The sight of my mom running toward the ambulance in my number eighteen jersey causes the dam that’s been holding my emotions in to break. 

Bitter, angry tears fall. 

“Wait, I’m his mom,” she shouts, climbing into the ambulance. “I’m coming with him.”

She doesn’t wait for permission because nothing would keep her away. She’s always been my most fierce protector and a wonderful mother. 

My chest heaves as tears roll down my face. A mix of anger, regret, fear, and sadness consumes me. “Mom,” I choke out as she takes my hand. 

She gives me a warm smile. “It’s okay, my love. It will be okay. I promise.”

“It feels different,” I state. 

I’ve heard many stories of catastrophic knee injuries taking players out for good, and the amount of fear bubbling beneath the surface over this possibility is more than I can handle.

“Listen.” She runs her fingers through my hair, moving it away from my face like she did when I was a little boy. “We aren’t going to worry until we talk to a doctor, okay? Think positive.”

 I nod.

“Dad is following in the car, and Iris will head over with Cade.” She rubs her thumb against the skin of my hand.

With a dip of my chin, I acknowledge her again.

The hospital was prepared for my arrival, and the staff wastes no time. My uniform pants are cut from my leg, and I’m put into a bulky plastic brace before I’m wheeled off to the radiology department, where I get an MRI. 

After the scan, I’m taken to a patient room, where my parents wait. It’s rare to see my dad in a hospital room. Hell, it’s rare to see my dad, period. He’s a hotshot lawyer with his own firm and is somewhat of a workaholic. Having him at my game tonight was an unusual event. Regardless, it’s nice that he’s here.

My mom rushes to my side. The nurse, all five feet of her, locks the bed in place and tells us that the doctor will be in to update us soon. She’s a tiny woman—young and attractive enough. She lingers in the room longer than is needed and retakes the measurements of my leg for my brace three separate times. She checks my vitals more than once and fiddles with a machine on a pole not even connected to me. She instructs me on how to use the TV remote and call button if I need anything, all while gifting me with a lingering smile and stolen touches. I assure her I’m fine. 

I’m not oblivious to the flirting. Not to sound like an arrogant ass, but I’m used to it. Let’s be honest, I lucked out in the looks department, have a kick-ass personality, and make millions playing a professional sport. Of course she’s doting on me and providing special attention. Normally, I’d be all about it. Hell, I’ve had more one-night stands than I can remember. But at this moment, I just want her to leave. My career may very well be over, and that devastation outweighs a booty call any day.

My mother clears her throat and pins the nurse with a stare. “We’re good. Thank you so much.” Her tone is sweet as can be, but the message is clear. Leave. 

The nurse blinks, and with a shy smile, she exits the room.

With a shake of her head, my mom releases a breathy laugh. “What is it with you and women?”

“I can’t help if I’m a catch, Mom.” I raise my shoulders with a forced smile, trying to keep the air light. 

My father grumbles something from his chair in the corner of the room, but I don’t attempt to decipher it. I have enough on my plate without his judgments.

The door swings open, and my sister, Iris, rushes in. “What did they say?” Her eyes are wide as she looks from me to our mother.

“No word yet,” Mom answers. “He had an MRI, and we’re waiting for the doctor to read it.”

She blows out a breath. “Okay.”

“Where’s Cade?” I ask. 

Cade and I have been best friends since we were ten years old. We’ve gone through all the important stages of life together. We both played hockey for the University of Michigan and were drafted to the Cranes upon graduation. Some might say our friendship could use a few more boundaries, but we’re fine just the way we are. Now that he’s dating my sister, our lives are even more entwined, and I don’t see that changing.

“He’s parking the car. He dropped me off at the door so I could get up here,” she says. “He’ll be here soon.”

I nod, and I know I'm radiating pure worry by the look on Iris’s face. It’s impossible not to. In a matter of minutes, I’ll find out the course of my future, and if it’s worst-case scenario, I truly don’t know what I’ll do. I can’t imagine a life without hockey. Obviously, I can’t play forever, but at twenty-six, I’m way too young for retirement. 

“Everything’s going to be okay.” Iris pulls up a chair next to Mom and takes a seat at my bedside. 

I don’t normally shy away from attention, but all this fixating over my injury and the sympathy in their eyes are more than I want to deal with. I gesture toward the jersey she’s wearing in an attempt to change the subject. Cade’s number, the number ten, is front and center across her chest. “Traitor.” My eyes narrow.

She drops her chin, looking at her jersey. The skin around her eyes crinkle. “I’m sorry. I had to. He’s my boyfriend, but I made a sign with both of your numbers.”

“Yeah, I saw your sign,” I grumble. “I’m just saying, you think your sister loves you, and then she’s discarding your jersey for someone else’s as if it means nothing.”

She laughs. “You can have every female NHL fan in Michigan wear your number. Cade has me.”

I extend my hand to Mom, who’s wearing the number eighteen on her chest. “At least my mom still loves me.”

“Always.” She squeezes my hand. 

A ton of females in the stands today had number eighteen jerseys on. I can’t deny that. It’s a running joke that my number is also a contract. Must be at least eighteen years old to win the affection of Beckett Feldmore. I’m not about to get tangled up with a sixteen-year-old who looks twenty-one. No thank you. I may be a slut, but there’s a line I won’t cross—for moral and legal reasons. I play it off like that was the reason I chose the number in the first place. The truth is much less exciting. When Cade and I were drafted and asked what number we wanted, he immediately knew he wanted to be ten, as it had special meaning to him. I hadn’t thought about it, and my number from college was already taken. The equipment manager had looked at me and said, “Eighteen is available,” and I agreed. The made-up age of consent story is just better.

Two people enter my room. One I know well but wish I didn’t, and the other I’ve never seen before but wish I knew intimately. 

Our team doctor, Dr. Hoomeister, better known as Hootie, waddles in. The man is ancient, grossly incompetent, and looks like an owl. I swear he knows some scandalous secret about Coach Albright or the team owner that he holds over their heads because there is no other reason he should be the doctor to an NHL team. I wouldn’t trust the man to water my plants, let alone hold any authority over my medical care. Thankfully, the team’s PTs are brilliant, so I’ve gone to them any time I’ve needed anything over the past four years.

The woman at his side is stunning. She’s tall and slender with beautiful curves. She has long brown hair that falls over her shoulders in waves, big brown doe eyes, and nice full lips. 

I sit up taller in the bed, now glaringly aware that I’m in a hospital gown. I’m not sure who this goddess is, but I guarantee I don’t want to meet her in a piece of fabric akin to a dress with my ass hanging out. Not that I have a choice.

Dr. Hootie talks, but I’m having difficulty deciphering what he’s saying. With squinted eyes, my stare bounces between the blathering idiot and the mystery woman. 

With a smile toward Dr. Hootie, she steps forward, taking over the conversation. I find myself in a trance as I listen to her soothing voice—like a ten-year-old schoolboy just realizing the joys of the opposite sex. 

I’m startled by the outburst beside me. “Oh, that’s great. Isn’t that wonderful?” Mom squeezes my arm. 

Chalk it up to the meds I’ve taken, the crash in adrenaline, the headache, or the fact that I’m channeling my inner pre-teen, but I’m in a sort of daze and having a hard time concentrating. 

Replaying the words the goddess just spoke, two things stand out. First, I’m going to be able to play next season. Second, she’s going to oversee my recovery.

So maybe today isn’t the worst day ever.