Page 4 of Wyatt

It was times like this that Wyatt missed Max Sharpe. He’d played forward for Wyatt’s first two years, a champion sidelined by injury— and a cruel disease—just this past year.

Max had a toughness about him that had rallied the entire team. Wyatt could nearly hear him off the bench.Thin the herd!

A defender stole the puck and shot it to Lutz. He was still bleeding from the mouth a little, and Wyatt recognized him now.

C’mon, sweetheart, try me.

He stared down the guy, watching him handle the puck—nice moves—bringing it down the ice. Traffic tried to catch up to him, but no, it was just one-on-one, and Wyatt had his number.

Lutz pulled back and bulleted a shot, mid-chest, stick-side.

Wyatt shot out his glove across his body and nabbed it. Felt the puck hit his glove with a hot thud.

Yeah. That’s right.

He held up his glove, shooting a look at the clock. Five seconds—

Behind him, the siren sounded.

What—?

He looked down, behind him.

Went cold.

The puck had fallen from his glove and bounced back into the goal.

He stared at it as the crowd erupted, his heart hammering into his ribs.

No.

Brummer skated up and Wyatt looked at him.

“Sorry, Guns.” Brummer clapped him hard on the shoulder pads.

Skated away.

On the other end of the ice, the Polish team was falling apart, sticks littering the ice, the celebrating practically unclothing them.

His Blue Ox skated around, some of them heading back to the bench, a little bewildered, the others watching the Poles celebrate.

Wyatt dropped his stick, his gloves, and took off his helmet. Then he pressed his hands to his face, bending over.

Breathe.

Tonight. He had to find Coco tonight.

Because tomorrow, he was getting kicked out of Russia.

Coco knew it would be dangerous to see Wyatt in the flesh.

Her brain always went a little haywire when she watched Wyatt play hockey. She only had to get near his vortex for it to peel her heart away from her body and then she’d be running in a full-out sprint for the man she couldn’t forget.

The man who’d forgotten her.

Coco folded her arms against her parka, aware that she was probably overclothed, even if she was in an ice arena. The air held a tautness to it, the blades on the ice slicing the air, the shouts of the players echoing against the metal girders overhead. Flags of all the participating countries hung on the far end, and in the middle a scoreboard and screen displayed the dismal final score.

On the ice, Wyatt was quietly losing it.

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