"I don't know. Maybe Mr. Murphy really wants to take an interest now. I mean, we got the ice fixed. And we don't have to drive around in that death-trap anymore, worrying about suffocating to death on exhaust fumes."
"Yeah. That's something, I guess. Still don't understand why they decided to come with us, though."
Dani pushed between them. "Maybe he wants to act like a real owner. You know, like the pros. I heard lots of the owners travel with their teams."
"I guess."
Taylor grabbed the door and held it open for the other two. "Stop worrying about it. Them being here doesn't mean anything. I mean, we still need to just focus on the game."
"But that's the problem. I couldn't do my thing on the bus with them there. They're fucking up my mojo."
"Your mojo is fine." Dani pushed Shannon through the door with a laugh. "And nobody was stopping you from doing anything so stop being so freaking weird."
"Hey. I'm not weird. I just have a routine. And I get antsy when anyone messes with it."
"Nobody was messing with anything."
They filed into the locker room with everyone else, the noise level automatically increasing as their voices bounced off the cracked and faded concrete walls and floors. The odor of musty water and stale, sweaty gear made Taylor wrinkle her nose, but only for a minute. This was a smell she was accustomed to, one she had been smelling for more than half her life. It was usually just the first whiff that caught her off-guard.
Usually. This odor was a bit stronger than normal, though.
"Oh God." Dani pinched her nose, her face scrunched up in distaste. "When's the last time they aired this room out?"
"Probably never." Taylor tossed her bag on the bench and started pulling gear out, arranging everything into a neat pile. Sammie appeared next to her and dropped to the bench, a frown marring her face.
"I should have used the bathroom on the bus."
"That bad, huh?"
"Yeah. Worse, even. I'm seriously thinking of skipping a shower after the game."
"It's really that bad?"
"Oh yeah. Makes me appreciate what we have back home, you know?"
Taylor nodded in silent agreement. Just over a month ago, she would have disagreed. She would have argued and said that what they had was next-to-nothing, that it didn't come close to what the pro teams—or even the semi-pro teams—had. But that was a month ago and things had changed. Her own attitude had changed. She wasn't afraid to hope anymore, wasn't afraid to think that maybe this whole new league might actually lead to something.
That it might actually become something.
They still had a long way to go and there were still a million and one obstacles to overcome, but it was a start. And it was definitely better than nothing. So maybe, just maybe, things would work.
Maybe.
She pushed the thoughts from her mind and focused on getting dressed, slipping into her pre-game zone so she'd be ready to hit the ice when the game started. The rest of the team was doing the same, following whatever small rituals they had established over time.
Dani, sitting in a corner, her legs crossed as she listened to music while she meditated.
Sammie, staring at the picture of Clare tucked inside her helmet, her lips moving soundlessly.
Jordyn, wrapping her stick with bright tape in an intricate pattern that meant something only to her.
Even Rachel and Amanda, coming out of the bathroom with their arms around each other's shoulders, their heads close together in quiet conversation. Taylor frowned. Maybe that wasn't so much a ritual as them just being themselves. She looked closer, frowning, wondering why it looked like Rachel was propping Amanda up.
Taylor didn't have time to dwell on it, not when it was time to line up and head out to the ice. Probably just her imagination, anyway.
Her mind turned elsewhere, focusing on stretching her muscles as they warmed up. Then the ice was cleaned and it was time to line up for the anthem and start the game. She glanced around at the nearly nonexistent crowd, told herself not to worry about it, then took her spot at center ice, falling into position beside Dani for the puck drop. Knees bent, back limber, stick held at the ready in three, two, one—
Dani won the face off and shot the puck behind her, toward Jordyn. She took off down the ice, her stride long and easy, then passed the puck to Taylor. Back and forth, gaining speed, only to lose the puck and have to chase it down the ice again.
The first period flew by, only minutes left with no score on the board. Taylor was back on the ice again, along with Dani and Rachel.
Sweat coated Taylor's face, her legs burning as she raced toward their own net. One of the players from New York took a wild shot. Shannon deflected the puck with her stick, sending it flying to the side.
Taylor raced for it, crashing into the boards and nearly falling. She righted herself and spun around, digging into the corner for the puck, her jaw clenched in determination. She got a piece of it, broke free from the tangle of players, and looked behind her a split-second before shooting it toward Amanda.
The puck slapped against the blade of Amanda's stick and bounced up, hitting her in the chest. Amanda brushed it away, knocking it back to the ice, then cradled it with her stick and headed away from their net. Taylor and Rachel followed, getting ahead of her, fighting to get open so Amanda could pass it to one of them.
Amanda looked up, her eyes narrowed behind the cage of her helmet, then pulled back on her stick. But instead of passing the puck, she kept falling backward, an odd vacant expression on her face. Taylor watched as she hit the ice and lay there, not moving.
Play continued, the other team racing in for the loose puck. Taylor dropped her stick and called to the ref, signaling for a stop in play as she hurried over to Amanda's prone body. Rachel and Dani slid to their knees behind Taylor, the echo of their breathing harsh in the sudden silence surrounding them.
"Amanda. Amanda, can you hear me?" Taylor leaned closer, her hands shaking as she ripped off her gloves and reached for Amanda. She didn't touch her, she was afraid to, had no idea what was wrong with her. She was just lying there, her eyes partially rolled back behind half-opened lids. Her face was pale, her lips tinged an odd gray, her chest barely moving.
Shouts echoed around them as more people joined them on the ice. Coach Reynolds. Two of the refs. The coach from the New York team. Two paramedics, dressed in blue jumpsuits, shuffled out to the ice, heavy equipment bags in their hands.
Someone reached for Taylor, pulling her out of the way, helping her to her feet as the paramedics knelt beside Amanda.
"What is it? What's wrong?"
Coach Reynolds eased them away, her face a grim mask. "Blades, all of you. Back to the bench. Take a knee."
"What's wrong with Amanda? What happened?"
"You!" Rachel grabbed Taylor's arm, her grip hard and bruising. "This is your fault."
"What? I didn't—"
"Ladies, I said back to the bench. Now."
"It's your fault, LeBlanc." Rachel kept talking, her face twisted in anger and agony. "You hit her with the puck. This is your fault."
"No. It wasn't—" Taylor stopped, fear gripping her, chilling her. She looked back at Amanda, her body still and unresponsive as the paramedics worked on her.
Was this her fault? Had Amanda been hurt because of her? No, it couldn't be. Taylor hadn't hit her with the puck. The shot wasn't that hard. It had just bounced up. A fluke. Something that happened all the time.
But if it wasn't her fault, then what had happened? Why was Amanda just lying there, not moving? It had been her fault. There was no other reason. None.
Taylor pulled her arm from Rachel's grip and dropped to her knees, her legs no longer able to support her weight as one of the paramedics started chest compressions on Amanda's limp body.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The crack at her feet seemed to grow, the small line expanding, stretching, getting bigger and bigger as she watched. A drop of water fell
onto it, spreading out until it disappeared into the blackness.
Taylor kept focusing on that crack, urging it to open up, to swallow her whole and take her away from the noise and lights that threatened to send her over the edge.
Another drop fell onto the crack, then another, disappearing the way the first one had. Her vision swam and blurred as the chill slammed into her. Her legs started shaking, then her arms and hands, the chill growing colder, claiming her until her entire body shook. Until her teeth started chattering, the sound of enamel grating against enamel loud in her ears.
She felt something touch her, a small warmth on her shoulder that made no sense at first. Words, quiet and strained, were lost in the surrounding noise. Her chest tightened, invisible steel bands squeezing until she had to fight to breathe.
She didn't want to fight. She just wanted to fall into the crack. To disappear into the blackness. To pretend none of this was happening, that it was nothing more than a bad dream.
But it wasn't. Taylor knew, somewhere deep in the back of her mind where reason fought to surface, that she wouldn't be able to wake from this. There would be no second of startled breath, no moment when she launched herself out of bed only to realize the nightmare was behind her. That the horror was nothing more than her imagination.
This was real. Too real.
Someone grabbed her hand and folded her fingers around something warm. Unwelcome heat seeped into the flesh of her palm, pulling her attention away from that dark crack at her feet.
"Taylor. You need to drink this. Please."
The words reached her through a foggy haze of numbness, pulling more of her attention away from the crack that beckoned and called. Taylor blinked, her vision clearing, then slowly straightened in the hard, plastic chair. She noticed the cardboard cup of black coffee in her hand, noticed a smaller hand cradling hers, helping her hold the cup so she wouldn't drop it.
Sammie. Sammie was sitting next to her, brown eyes wide with worry, the fragile skin beneath them dark with smudges. Taylor nodded, thinking that was what Sammie wanted her to do, then raised the cup to her mouth and took a small sip.
Liquid scalded her tongue, her throat. It should hurt, she knew that on some level, but she didn't feel it. She couldn't feel anything but the cold that held her in its grip.
"It's not your fault, Taylor. Do you hear me? It's not your fault." Sammie repeated the words, her voice rough and urgent, like she was intent on making Taylor believe.
Taylor shook her head, knowing Sammie was lying. It was her fault. All of it.
They were gathered in the waiting room at the hospital, had been there for what seemed like hours. All of them: the entire team, the coaching staff. Even the owners and Chuckie. They were huddled together, talking quietly.
Everyone except Taylor. She was seated across the room, in a corner by herself, needing to be alone. Knowing this was her fault. They wouldn't be here—Amanda wouldn't be here—if it hadn't been for her.
It was her fault and she needed to be alone, needed to think about what happened, needed to figure out what she'd done while they waited to hear about Amanda.
But Sammie wouldn't leave her alone. She kept talking to Taylor, rambling words that made no sense. Couldn't Sammie tell she needed to be alone? She needed to tell her that. Needed to tell her she should go over with the rest of the team, to sit with them as everyone stared at her, whispered about her. Talked about how she'd hurt Amanda.
But she couldn't get the words out, couldn't even form them in her head. Everything was too thick, too hazy and foggy.
"It's not your fault, Taylor."
Taylor nodded, trying to tell Sammie once more that it was, but she still wouldn't listen. She tightened her hand around Taylor's and guided the cup back to her mouth, forcing her to take another sip.
"No, I don't want—"
"Taylor, please. Just drink it."
"I said no." Taylor pushed the cup away, ignoring the dark liquid that sloshed over the rim and landed on her jersey. She heard Sammie's ragged sigh, felt loneliness wrap itself around her when Sammie finally got up and left.
Taylor wrapped her arms around her middle and leaned forward, her gaze seeking the crack under her feet, wishing once more that she could just disappear into its depths. A shadow darkened the floor in front of her but Taylor didn't look up. She didn't want to look up, she wanted to be left alone.
The shadow moved to the side, out of her line of vision. The chair next to her creaked and groaned as someone sat down. Then an arm draped around her shoulders and tugged, pulling her toward a solid wall of comforting heat.
Taylor squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. She wanted to scream, to say she wanted to be left alone, but she couldn't force the words through her clogged throat.
Strong arms closed around her, holding her tight. Hands, large and gentle, rubbed soothing circles against her back. A voice, deep and warm, whispered words of comfort in her ear. Chuckie's voice. Chuckie's arms, solid and reassuring. Taylor fisted one hand in his shirt and buried her face in his shoulder, tears burning her eyes and throat. How long did she sit there, crying, unaware of the noise and stares and whispers?
She didn't know. Wasn't even aware of them until the air shifted around her. Until the noise drifted off, fading into an oppressive silence laced with anxious expectancy.
Taylor lifted her head, her bleary gaze drifting around the room until it came to a stop at the small group gathered by the metal door leading back to the emergency room. An older man dressed in scrubs, his face lined with weariness, stood next to Mr. Murphy and Coach Reynolds, talking quietly. Relief flashed across Coach Reynolds' face, the emotion quickly replaced by concern and something that looked like anger.
The coach's gaze darted to Taylor then snapped away, landing on Rachel Woodhouse. The coach nodded, said something to Mr. Murphy, then headed toward Taylor, her steps strong and filled with purpose.
Taylor's breath hitched in her chest, her lungs burning. Chuckie's arms tightened around her as the coach stopped in front of them, brows pulled low over her pinched eyes.
"Beall's going to be fine."
Relief surged through Taylor, releasing the steel bands that had been constricting her lungs. She sucked in a deep breath, her head swimming. "Really? She's okay?"
"She will be. And this had nothing to do with you, LeBlanc. Absolutely nothing."
"But the puck—"
"It wasn't that. Not even close."
"Then…I don't understand. What happened? What was it?"
Coach's mouth pursed into a thin line, like she didn't want to say. Her gaze drifted to Chuckie, settling on him for a long minute. Then she sighed and looked back at Taylor, resignation and regret reflected in her eyes. "An overdose."
She turned on her heel and stormed across the room, heading straight for Rachel. The other woman's face drained of all color as she backed away, her gaze scanning the room as if she was looking for a way to escape. Her eyes landed on Taylor, the expression of fear and hatred startling her. Coach Reynolds stepped in front of Rachel, said something in a low voice, then led her out of the room.
Taylor sagged against Chuckie, her body limp and drained as confusion swirled through her mind. "Overdose? Did she really say that?"
"Yeah."
Taylor turned toward him. "But how? Why?"
Chuckie shook his head then leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss against her forehead. His arms tightened around her for a brief second then he released her and stood up. He motioned toward Sammie, who hurried over to them.
"I have no idea but I need to talk to Murph, find out what's going on."
Sammie lowered herself into the empty chair with a heavy sigh. "She's going to be okay?"
"Yeah. Sounds like it."
"What happened? Did Coach say?"
Taylor hesitated, not sure if she should say anything. She decided against it, even if everyone would find out the truth eventually. "Not really, no. Just that it wasn't my fault."
>
Sammie flashed a quick smile at her, one filled with weary relief. "Well I already knew that. So now what?"
"I don't know." And she didn't. What did they do now? Just go on like nothing happened?
Taylor pulled in another shaky breath and focused on the two men standing off to the side, their heads bent together in deep conversation. She didn't have to look close to see the tension in Chuckie's shoulders, or the angry determination on Mr. Murphy's face.
And she couldn't shake the feeling that something was about to change—for all of them.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Something was going on. Taylor didn't know what, but the sickening knot in her stomach told her it wasn't good. It was obvious that her teammates felt it, too. Everyone was off tonight, worse even than they'd been Tuesday night.
Taylor skated over to the bench and leaned over to grab a bottle of water. Not because she was thirsty—she hadn't been working hard enough to break more than the smallest of sweats—but because it gave her a chance to look around the ice and watch everyone without being obvious.
It also gave her a chance to get closer to where the big meeting was happening off to the side. Mr. Murphy was there, along with a few of the other co-owners, and the entire coaching staff. Taylor couldn't tell what they were talking about, they were too far away. But she could read their body language, see the anger on Mr. Murphy's face and the abrupt motions Coach Reynolds kept making with her hands.
Definitely not good.
She raised the bottle to her mouth and took a long swallow then shifted her body at an angle that gave her a view of both the ice and the meeting. The other players were watching as well, only making the smallest pretense of practicing.
And they needed the practice, not just so they could start coming together again as a team. They needed it to take their minds off what had happened at Saturday's game in New York and the news they had learned at Tuesday night's practice.
Amanda Beall had overdosed on a cocktail of recreational drugs she had been taking for a while. Mr. Murphy and the coaching staff may have wanted to keep that a secret, but it had been blasted all over the media by Sunday. And on Tuesday, the team learned that Amanda was no longer part of the Blades. She'd been kicked off the team, her contract terminated, no questions asked. Taylor wasn't sure how she felt about that—about any of it.
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