No. Not on my watch.
I launch myself in desperate pursuit, legs burning as I close the gap. The forward cocks his stick for the shot. I dive, stick extended in a last-ditch poke check.
My blade catches the puck, disrupting the shot, but the forward’s momentum carries him forward, his knee connecting directly with my temple as I slide beneath him.
White-hot pain explodes behind my eyes. The world tilts sickeningly as I skid across the ice, helmet wrenched sideways from the impact. But it’s the crack of my head against the ice on the way down that turns the world black for a few seconds. Vaguely, I register the final buzzer, the roar of the crowd celebrating our win.
But those sounds come from somewhere far away, muffled behind the high-pitched ringing in my ears. I try to push up onto my knees, but my arms won’t cooperate. Ice pressed against my cheek. Cold. Shouldn’t it feel cold? I can’t tell anymore.
“Darren! Don’t move.” Jax’s voice, urgent. Huge hands on my shoulders, steadying me.
I blink, trying to focus, but everything blurs. Faces swim into view, all familiar, all wearing various shades of worry. Even Zayn.
Shit, I really must be fucked up if that asshole is fretting over me.
“Med team’s coming,” someone says. Aidan, I think. The rookie sounds scared.
I want to tell them I’m fine, but my tongue feels too big for my mouth. The rink spins around me in nauseating circles. Definitely concussed. Not my first, probably won’t be my last. Part of the job description.
“Just... need a minute,” I manage to slur. The words don’t sound right even to my own ears.
That’s when I notice something strange. A scent, threading through the usual smells of sweat and equipment and ice. It’s warm and rich, like woodsmoke. Like the bonfires we used to have after high school games, the whole team gathered around the flames, celebrating or commiserating.
Why am I smelling that now?
“Do you guys... smell that?” I ask, confusion making my voice small. “Like... smoke?”
The team exchanges looks I can’t interpret. Jax leans closer, sniffing subtly, then freezes. His eyes widen, meeting Dmitri’s over my head. The winger’s expression shifts from concern to one I can’t identify.
No, that’s not true. He’s looking at me like I’m a fucking porterhouse steak.
“What the hell?” Zayn mutters, backing up slightly.
Aidan just looks confused.
“Smell what, Brick?” Jax asks carefully, his hand still on my shoulder. But I get the feeling the fucker knows exactly what I’m talking about.
“Bonfire. Woodsmoke.” The words feel thick in my mouth. “S’weird.”
The medical team pushes through the gathered players, dropping to their knees beside me with a clinical casualness that puts me a little more at ease. One shines a penlight in my eyes, making me wince.
“Pupils unequal,” she announces. “Definite concussion. Let’s get him stabilized for transport.”
As they work, securing my neck in a brace, I drift in and out of awareness. The woodsmoke smell isn’t the only one competing for dominance now. There are others, too. Scents I know well, but more intense than they’ve ever been, like someone cranked up a dial. And they’re all growing stronger by the second, wrapping around me like a warm, soft blanket.
Winter and pine. Bourbon. New leather. Vanilla and sugar. All swirling together, forming an irresistible concoction I can’t get enough of, all somehow mingling perfectly with the woodsmoke. Maybe the concussion is messing with more than just my balance.
“It’s coming from him,” I hear Zayn whisper to Dmitri, voice pitched low but not low enough. “That… that scent.”
I don’t like the way he says that. That low, almost reverent tone. That’s not Zayn. That’s sure as fuck not how Zayn talks about anything involvingme.
Dmitri grunts something in Russian that sounds like agreement. And he’s still looking at me like he wants to eat me.
The fuck?
They slide me onto a backboard, the movement sending fresh waves of nausea through me. The crowd has gone quiet, that eerie hush that falls when an injury looks serious. I hate being the center of this kind of attention. Hate the weakness.
“You’ll be okay, Brick,” Jax says, skating alongside as they begin moving me off the ice. His voice remains steady, but there’s an undercurrent I can’t place. “We’re not leaving you.”
