“Cocksucker,” the other wing growled, jamming the end of his stick into Leo’s ankle.
Fuck. A bright shimmer of pain radiated up his leg. And since the action had already traveled down the rink, the ref didn’t notice the illegal jab. Leo skated off in pursuit. It was only pain.
But they weren’t done with him. The jackass wing sideswiped Leo at every opportunity. It was irritating, but nothing he couldn’t handle—or so he thought. Avoiding that dude proved dangerously distracting.
Leo never even saw the big hit coming.
One second he was scraping the puck off the boards, looking for the pass, keeping clear of the wing with an attitude. The next moment he went flying into the plexi, helmet first. For an odd, frozen moment, he locked eyes with a girl seated in the front row while the force of impact kept him hovering over her. Then he crashed to the ice in a heap.
The air got weirdly cold and loud. It took a moment for Leo to realize that his helmet had popped off. He was lying on the ice feeling stunned. He opened his mouth to take a breath, and it didn’t quite work.
Shit.
The noise in the rink pressed in on him, and the lack of oxygen to his lungs began to freak him out, too. But just as panic threatened to set in, he heard an old familiar voice in his head. Give it a second, son. That’s what his retired college coach used to say whenever he or someone else got the wind smacked out of them. So Leo waited out that awful moment when his lungs forgot their job. O’Doul was somewhere nearby, cussing up a storm. “Illegal fucking hit to the fucking head!”
Leo’s self-preservation instincts kicked in. Even before he could properly inhale, he began scrambling upward, digging a blade into the ice and rising to his feet. Only a pussy stayed sprawled on the rink. And he was okay. He hadn’t even blacked out.
Standing up, Leo finally got a breath of air. The bench swam into view, and Leo could see the trainer opening the door, about to walk across the ice to check on Leo.
That would not be necessary, Leo decided. He pushed off toward the bench and found that his legs worked fine. The trainer stayed where he was and held the door open for him. During the ten-second journey, the rink came into sharper focus. Coach was leaning over the wall, in a full rant at the referee. “Bullshit! Major penalty. Game misconduct at least!”
O’Doul was there, too, gloved hands clenched into fists, yelling at the linesman.
The ref told them both to calm the fuck down as Leo stepped over the threshold. The trainer pushed him onto the bench and began to ask him questions.
Leo tuned him out, concentrated on breathing and waiting for the haze to subside enough for him to figure out exactly where it hurt.
“Any dizziness?” the trainer asked.
“Uh . . .” Pull it together, Trevi. “Just got the air knocked out of me. I’ll be okay in a minute.”
“Is it your head or your chest? Where’s the impact?”
“Shoulder took it pretty hard. But I think it’s okay.” Leo lifted his elbow and slowly rotated the joint.
The trainer grasped Leo’s upper arm and dug his fingers in among the pads. “This hurt?” he asked. “Lift your chin.”
When he did as he was told, the trainer’s fingers pressured collarbone, checking for a reaction. “I’m solid,” he said. “Hurts like a nasty bruise, that’s all.” I hope.
“Stretch it out for a minute,” the trainer advised. “Test your range of motion.”
“All right.” Leo took a few more breaths.
“Castro. Bayer. Crikey,” Coach Karl barked. “You’re up next.”
His teammates vaulted over the wall a second later. Karl had changed up the lines. Leo was initially grateful for the reprieve. The trainer came over again and questioned him about his head and chest. “Any lingering dizziness? How’s your vision?”
“Fine,” Leo insisted. “My head is fine.”
Someone picked that moment to deliver his helmet to him. Since he’d forgotten it on the ice, his I’m-sharp-as-a-tack argument took a hit. “Thanks,” he mumbled, grabbing the thing.
The player who’d flattened him had gotten only a two minute penalty, which meant that Coach Karl kept up his cursing. Leo turned his attention to the game, where Bayer and Castro were passing the puck back and forth in the attack zone, trying to capitalize on their power play. And Leo’s vision was fine—fine enough to see the puck go suddenly winging past the goalie’s knee and into the net.
“YES!” he yelled, standing up to see the lamp light. The fact that his team scored on the power play meant that the brutal hit he’d taken had served a purpose. The game was tied up now. They just needed one more goal before the buzzer. “We can do this,” he said, unsnapping his helmet to put it back on.
But Coach called another shift that did not include him. “I’m good to go,” he called down. “Send me out.” Even though there were only six minutes left in the game, Coach couldn’t keep rearranging the lines to leave Leo on the bench. That was ridiculous.
The coach wove his way down the bench toward Leo. He grabbed Leo’s jersey and yanked it up, then stuck his hand on Leo’s ribs and squeezed.
“Fuck!” Leo swore before he could think better of it. He practically flew backward, too, escaping the coach’s clutches. The man had grabbed him right where he’d been hit.
“Yeah, I thought so,” Coach Karl spat.
“I’m fine,” Leo argued.
“Sit on the fucking bench when I tell you to, rookie.”
Jesus. First he’d been ignored, and now he was being babied. Fucking Karl. Leo was beginning to doubt that he would ever win this man’s approval.
TWENTY-ONE
The ten seconds that Leo was sprawled on that ice were the longest of Georgia’s life.
Get up, get up, she chanted internally as the ref blew the whistle and teammates swarmed. The hit he took was ridiculously hard, and too high up on the body to be legal. The ref stopped the game. High hits were so, so dangerous. Players had been paralyzed by less.
When Leo staggered to his feet, she exhaled.
“He’s okay,” Becca whispered, reading her mind. Not that it was difficult tonight—she’d had her eyes glued to one player since the puck had dropped.
But Leo looked wobbly on the way back to the bench. On the rink, the linesmen were patrolling the ice, keeping a close watch on the faceoff circle, probably because O’Doul looked ready to blow like a volcano. Her father was practically foaming at the mouth down there, too. Maybe he didn’t like Leo, but he’d never take it lying down if someone pulled a move like that against one of his players.