Page 2 of One Pucking Heart

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.

CHAPTER TWO

ELENA

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