Prologue
Maddox
“Wheels, wheels, wheels!” oneof my teammates shouted from behind me. Translation: skate fucking fast.
My chest heaved as I pushed my legs to the limit, racing to the corner where the puck slid free. It was Game 5 of the Eastern Conference Finals, and my hockey team, the Indianapolis Speed, was competing against the Charlotte Crusaders. The winner of this series would go on to play for a league championship. As their captain, it was up to me to set the tone, which was why I was busting my ass on the forecheck to beat the defender for the Crusaders, Hartley, to the puck. I had total trust in my wingers that they would be perfectly positioned for a quick pass and, hopefully, a go-ahead goal that would put us one step closer to advancing.
Each breath I took burned, my thigh muscles screaming with the effort, but I got there first. Stick down hard on the ice, I turned my body to survey where my teammates were placed. My eyes locked on Jenner Knight in front of the net, but before I could flick my wrist for the pass, Hartley slammed me between his hard body and the unyielding boards.
The air was forced from my lungs as my right knee twisted awkwardly against the boards with the force and angle of the impact. I could havesworn I heard a pop, a split-second before white-hot pain exploded deep within the tissue of the joint. With the weight of Hartley gone as he skated away, I dropped like a rock, the agony spreading rapidly up my leg.
I knew instantly that I was fucked.
I was thirty-four and had played this game a long time. I’d dealt with more than my fair share of injuries during my fourteen-year professional career. My knee was trashed, and even if I hadn’t torn something—which I was pretty sure I had—there was no way I would be taking the ice again this postseason.
The roar of the home crowd in Indy quieted, and medical personnel rushed onto the ice as fast as they could in their street shoes.
As I writhed, clutching my knee, one of the trainer’s hands unbuckled my helmet.
“Talk to me, Maddox.” The lead trainer, Sam, was assessing the damage. Even though it was obvious where my injury lay, he had to ask.
“My knee,” I forced out through gritted teeth. “Heard a pop. Hurts like a bitch.”
“Give me a number from one to ten. How bad is the pain?”
“Nine.” My answer had Sam grimacing.
Hockey players were tough. We played through injuries—including broken bones—all the time, especially at this point in the season with a championship on the line. It took a lot to admit the pain level was that high, but I knew there was nothing to be gained by sugar-coating it. This was bad, and it was best to wrap my head around it now.
“All right, let’s get you up.” Sam peered over his shoulder, motioning to players who must’ve been hovering close by to help me sit up.
Jenner and my other winger, Asher Lawson, looped their elbows under my armpits and hoisted me into a sitting position.
With his free hand, Jenner, one of my closest friends on the team for years, patted my shoulder. “How you holding up?”
“Been better,” I huffed out.
“Good thing we have vacation time coming up,” he teased.
I barked out a pained laugh. “Not too soon, I hope. We have unfinished business.”
“Damn straight,” Asher said from my other side.
Sam crouched so he was at eye level with me. “You good for them to lift you up?” When I nodded, he instructed, “Keep your right skate off the ice.”
Jenner and Asher heaved me off the ice into a standing position, only my left skate blade touching the slick surface beneath me. Fully upright, I wobbled, the pain darkening the edges of my vision.
I will not pass out. I will not pass out.
I am motherfucking Maddox Sterling. I have no business being out on the ice if I can’t handle a little pain.
Slowly, my wingers dragged me from behind our opponents’ net to the open door to the Speed’s designated bench that led to a hallway beneath the arena. They passed me off to the waiting training staff, and I was forced to hop down the tunnel on one foot until we reached the X-ray room.
As soon as my ass hit the bench of the medical table, I let out a sigh of relief. While the trainers removed my skates, I ripped off my jersey and the top half of my gear. My base layer was plastered to my skin, soaked with sweat, as we’d been in the middle of the third period of the game when I was injured. I silently prayed that my boys could break the tie in our favor before the buzzer sounded. Overtime was sudden death in the playoffs, and if we lost tonight, the team would be forced to travel to Charlotte for a Game 6. If we won, we would secure our spot in the championship series.
Even knowing I was done for the season before medical tests were performed to confirm that fact, I wanted the Speed to play—and win—a championship so badly I could taste it.
Our divisional rivals, the Connecticut Comets, had done it the prior year after beating us in seven games during the second round. As irony would have it, that series had come down to a Game 7 overtime.
