Page 13 of Their Obsession

Fuck that.

My skates cut through the fresh ice as I slide backwards, creating space. It’s one on one. Me and him. My heart rate skyrockets, thumping widely against my rib cage. I zero in on the other player, blocking out everything else.

“Kolgrim!” my line mate, Max, yells, pulling my focus.

I whip my head in his direction only to be met with a sight that causes my heart to nearly stop. Skating straight at me, at full speed, with a murderous look on his face, is the six-foot-threewall of muscle known as the Raging Russian. I quickly change directions, spinning to avoid his path. He skates right past me with a growl, and I let out a sigh of relief. Until I hear the buzzer. The red lights flash.

“Kings score!” the announcer’s voice booms through the stadium.

“Fuck,” I curse under my breath as I make my way back to the bench.

Crashing onto the hard wood beneath me, I let out a huff.What the hell was that about?Guys don’t come barreling down the ice after someone without the puck. I wrack my mind—did I hit him in a previous season? Unlikely, I’d remember having checked the league’s star player. Did I snub him in an interview or something? I don’t think so.

“What’d you do to piss off the Russian?” Max asks me before squirting water through his cage.

“Fucking beats me. I don’t think I’ve ever even—”

“Kolgrim, line change,” Coach Karr’s gruff voice interrupts me.

In barely a blink, I’m up and over the board. My blades hit the ice and I’m off. I make eye contact with our third line center, giving him a subtle nod—I’m good. My head’s in the game. Mindset of a winner.

The face off is on our end of the ice this time. The whistle sounds. The puck drops. Sticks fly. Back and forth between the two teams the puck passes until it finally kicks loose. It lands on my stick and instinct takes over. I don’t even register taking off but I’m flying down the rink. The cold air against my heated cheeks and the pounding cheers of the crowd push me forward. The puck bounces off my stick with each flick of my wrist. I’m narrowing in on the net, closer and closer with each stride. It’s just me and the goalie—I’ve got a clear path to the goal, until I don’t.

I don’t even register him in my periphery until he’s on me.His huge figure hits me from the left side, throwing me roughly against the boards. Volkkon checks me with every ounce of anger he’s been harboring for the entire evening.

I can feel it the moment my knee gives out. Our bodies collide into the boards at full speed and my kneecap takes the brunt of the hit. There’s a pop and then blinding pain. I feel myself fall but I can’t seem to stop myself. Then everything goes black.

“Noah!” I register someone’s voice yelling my name but they sound far away, like they’re yelling through a tunnel.

“Noah, wake up!” they call again, beckoning me back towards conscious awareness.

Above me is an angel. A beautiful angel with strawberry-blonde hair and emerald eyes. She looks so worried. I try to reach out to comfort her, but then, all the pain comes crashing down on me.

“Fuck!” I roar as I register the throbbing sharpness radiating from my knee. My entire leg hurts.

“Noah, don’t try to move. They’re bringing the stretcher,” Lilly reassures me, but the slight quiver in her tone gives away her nervousness.

The blinding lights of the arena are shining down on me. The crowd noise has settled to soft murmurs.. The normal sounds of players attacking ice and boards are missing. All eyes are on me I realize, waiting to see how I respond.

Yeah, I’m not waiting for a stretcher. Fuck looking weak.

“Help me up,” I grunt as I push myself to sit. Pain immediately blooms in the back of my skull and a wave of nausea rolls through me.

That can’t be good.

“Noah, you went down hard. You shouldn’t get up suddenly,” Lilly puts on her best serious doctor’s voice as her hand lands on my chest.

“Where were you?” I ask her, searching her worried face forany sign of an explanation.

“Noah, what? I’m right here.” She sounds genuinely confused. She must think I’m concussed. I’m not.

At least, I don’t think I am.

“At the beginning of the game, where were you?”

“This isn’t the time or place,” she warns as her eyes dart around to the people surrounding us. She looks nervous. Something is wrong.

But her hand is still resting reassuringly against my chest. Her touch immediately makes me feel stronger, braver. I’m not going to look weak in front of fans, in front of the opponents, and certainly not in front of her. I’m a damn hockey player; strength and resilience is who we are.

---