Someone screamed.
Rusty flinched.Who was that?Some player just got hurt bad. That was obvious from the way everyone on the ice froze.Where’s Cross?
Marie jumped to her feet beside him, eyes on the pile of players getting disentangled. The Rafters’ trainer skidded over in his sneakers, kneeling down, followed more slowly by a woman Rusty didn’t recognize, but who came from the Portland side.A Rafter. Fuck.Refs and players stood in a loose circle, screening the scene and when Rusty flicked his gaze to the Jumbotron, all they were showing was the backs of the players. Through the screening bodies, Rusty saw the trainer wave, and then two guys were bringing a stretcher out.Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Three of the four players who’d been in that pile were on their feet. None of them was Cross.
Fuck.
Marie clutched Rusty’s wrist in a painful grip. “Is it RJ? Can you tell?”
“I think so.” The teams began making their way back to their benches, Fargo clearing the ice, the Rafters lingering by the boards. Tense silence filled the arena.
“He never screams.” Marie’s voice hitched. “He broke his arm when he was nine, and he didn’t make a sound.”
Rusty had no answer for that. He’d broken his own arm at six, jumping off a swing, and he’d made plenty of noise. “Hope it’s just a break.”
“Just?”
“Broken bones heal.” At least that scream meant he wasn’t out cold. Less chance of a head injury. The worst head-trauma happened when you fell and hit the ice with another guy on top of you. Cross was already down on the ice when he got hit. Rusty was scrambling for best-case possibilities.
Beside the crease, the guys set up the stretcher, then eased Cross onto it. Rusty flicked his attention back and forth from the ice to the Jumbotron. They weren’t using a cervical collar. That was good news. They were being super careful with Cross’s lower half, though.
As they lifted the stretcher and carried him off the ice, Cross gave a little wave caught on the Jumbotron, his naked fingers seeming fragile against the expanse of the hockey rink. People cheered as if everything was fine.
“He waved,” Rusty told Marie. Her grip was cutting off his circulation but that was okay. She was Cross’s sister. Whatever she needed. “Waving means he’s conscious, moving. Low risk of head and neck injury. That’s a good thing.”
The gate closed behind the stretcher. The net was put back on its moorings. No blood stained the ice. Players began filing back on as the refs circled into position.
“They’ll take him to a hospital, right?” Marie turned to Rusty, letting go of him to grab her purse. “Where will they take him?”
“Hospital for sure, if he was stretchered. Come on, let’s go ask.” He led her past people’s knees and down toward the boards, squeezing through until he reached the aisle, then back into the arena. Turning left, he headed for the security barrier.
“No spectators beyond this point,” the guard told them.
“She’s not a spectator, she’s Cross’s sister. LaCroix, I mean.” Rusty turned to Marie. “Show him some ID.”
She dug her wallet out of her purse and showed the guard her license.
“Okay, sorry, ma’am, I still can’t let you through. But I’ll find someone from the team to come talk to you.”
“As fast as possible.” Marie’s icy tone suggested she was used to commanding underlings.
“Yes, ma’am.”
They waited in silence, hearing the muffled sounds of play resuming overhead. After a few minutes, a middle-aged woman hurried toward them with the guard behind her. “Miss LaCroix?”
“Yes. I have RJ’s medical power of attorney. Roger’s, that is.”
“May I verify your ID again, please?”
Marie passed over her license. The woman scanned it, looked at Rusty, but didn’t ask for his as she handed the card back. “Thank you. I’m Wendy Unger, Rafters public relations. I’m so sorry your brother was injured. He was awake and talking as they transported him, which is good.”
“Where are they taking him?”
“They’ll go to West Memorial Hospital. They have an excellent trauma center. Do you have transportation? I can find someone to drive you.”
“I’ll do it,” Rusty volunteered immediately. He had no right to follow Cross to the hospital, wasn’t entitled to information, but if he stuck to Marie, he wouldn’t be completely out in the cold. And Cross would want Marie there. “My truck’s parked in the lot.”
