Page 1 of 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.

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