Page 80 of Dice & Dekes

“See you after the game,” Knova whispers. She presses her lips to my cheek, which effectively breaks my brain. Why would she kiss me if she’s already washed her hands of me? I want to get her alone to ask for the CliffsNotes of whatever she’s thinking, but there’s no time for that now.

“See you,” I wheeze. Great, just what I needed. A full-blown panic attack. Is this what Knova felt like after her disastrous LifeSource flight? Because it fucking sucks.

“Let’s go, Romeo,” Knight mutters, dragging me toward the tunnel. “We’ve got a puck to drop and a panic attack to postpone.”

* * *

I know better than to let my mind wander during a game, but that’s exactly what I’m doing.

Knova kissed my cheek like she meant it, and now I can’t stop thinking about what she’s going to say after the game. Did she clear out the condo? Is this our last hurrah?

I miss a pass. Then another. Knight side-eyes me from across the ice like I’ve grown a second head. The puck zips by, untouched. I go after it half a beat too late.

And that’s when it happens.

I never see the guy coming.

There’s a sound—just a split second before impact. A warning. A rumble of skates. Someone shouts my name.

Then—

CRACK.

The world explodes.

I hit the boards with a sickening thud, all ribs and shoulder and skull. My helmet jerks sideways. My body bounces once, then folds like a card table. The ice is cold and too close, and I can’t seem to get enough air.

Someone screams. I think it’s from the stands. My mom. I try to sit up, but my limbs aren’t listening. My ears are ringing and my vision is doubling, then tripling. Everything is too bright and too loud.

“Shit—Vik! Viktor!”

Knight’s voice. That much I can parse.

I blink, try to speak. My mouth works, but nothing comes out. A trainer kneels beside me, flashlight already aimed at my pupils.

Coach is barking at someone. Players are circling. The ref’s arm is up, but I’m not listening to the penalty call. There’s a buzz in my head. Something swelling behind my ears.

“Stay with me, buddy,” Camden says. His voice is too tight, too high-pitched. “Just hang in there, okay?”

Knight crouches beside me, a hand on my shoulder. His eyes are wide, scared. That never happens.

I try to joke. I think I say something about cat videos. Maybe Shark booties. But it comes out a jumbled mess, so nobody laughs.

Someone’s taking off my helmet. My neck’s stiff. There’s a rattle in my teeth I can’t quite explain. The lights above me swirl into a kaleidoscope. My stomach lurches.

“Sawyer!” someone calls.

And suddenly she’s there—Violet Sawyer, all business, her gloved hands cool against my skin.

“Head injury team’s here. Let’s get him off the ice.”

“Violet,” I mumble. “Tell…”

She glances at Knight, her eyes sharp as scalpels. “Let’s just get you stabilized first, okay?”

They lift me with practiced care. A spine board. Neck brace. The cold seeping up through the back of my jersey makes me shiver. Everything’s spinning, but worse than the pain is the embarrassment.

I hate this. I hate scaring my team. I hate not being able to walk off the ice under my own power.

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