by Lili Valente
She is my woman, and I’m her man.
I will never belong to anyone the way I belong to Hailey, and the thought of her moving on without me, of her sharing her body and her heart—that beautiful, brave heart that no man could ever treasure the way I do—makes me physically fucking ill. Even as I play as hard as I can be expected to play against such subpar opponents, my stomach is roiling, threatening to bring up my chicken and rice for a second showing on national television.
And that’s before I see a Kansas City defenseman taking a run at Nowicki as he heads to the bench. My teammate’s back is turned, and he has no idea that two-hundred and thirty pounds of sore loser is about to slam him into the boards. I take off fast, moving first and thinking somewhere between center ice and the bench that I should have probably eaten more protein. I’m one hundred and eighty-five pounds on a good week, when I haven’t been fucking when I should be carbo-loading. Back when Hailey and I were a couple, I was so grounded in her, in us, that I never forgot to take care of myself. But these past few days without her, I’ve slipped.
I haven’t slept, I’ve barely eaten, I’m low on energy, and when I try to slip between Nowicki and the bastard with his stick clutched in both hands, ready to crosscheck my friend, I’m two seconds too late.
I don’t make it in time. I watch in slow motion as Nowicki takes the stick hard to the shoulder and goes tumbling head first into the bench, no chance to break the fall he never saw coming.
There’s no time for me to slow down, either.
Bright arena lights reflect off of something in motion, but before my mind can process what it is, the blade of Nowicki’s skate is already slicing across my throat.
Mostly I feel pressure sharp in soft skin. Then heat. More heat. Flowing under my shoulder pads making sweat-slick skin even stickier. The pain hits a good five seconds later, at the same time our trainer jumps over the boards with a towel he presses urgently to my throat.
I’m confused for a moment, and then I realize that I’m bleeding. Badly. Not long after, before I can decide whether to crawl over the boards to the bench or to sit down where I am on the ice, I start to feel cold. Really cold. And dizzy, despite the fact that I’m not bothered by blood.
I’m a gallon donor. And I grew up playing pond hockey. Bloody noses and split lips were a daily occurrence. Also, I’m not a fucking wimp; I’m a grown man who plays hockey for a living. I do not get weak in the knees because I have an owie.
But that’s what happens. My knees go weak, the lights of the arena blur and spin above me as I go down hard, the trainer following me down with his towel. It’s wet now and heavy. Hot and heavy. Something has really fucked up that towel.
Something that smells like metal and meat.
And me.
It’s blood. A lot of blood.
Shit.
That’s my last upright thought—shit. And then I’m flat on the ice in a puddle of my own blood. As the world goes dark, I wonder if I’m going to be the second ever on-ice death in the NHL, and I hope that Hailey isn’t watching. No one should have to watch the person they love die on national television.
She still loves me, even if we didn’t work out. I know that much, and it’s enough to give me some cold comfort as I go black.
Chapter 22
Hailey
It happens so fast that by the time I realize Will’s bleeding, he’s going down, a bright red towel pressed to his neck. But it’s not the towel that’s red. It’s his blood, soaking the fibers then spreading out on the ice, turning the choppy, mid-game surface crimson.
I stand up fast, bolting up from the couch where Bree and I have been vegging all evening only to freeze as the announcer’s voice cuts in, muting the hushed murmurs of concern filling the sold-out arena. “Medics are on the ice, players standing back to give them access. Looks like this is the most serious injury we’ve seen this season, Jim.”
The second commentator responds, “That’s the worst injury I’ve seen in my fifteen years broadcasting pro hockey, Dan. Will Saunders taking what appears to be a skate deep to the throat. Yikes.” He sucks in a breath through his teeth, a sound that makes my already tight jaw clench even tighter. “Here’s hoping they can get him help ASAP. We’ll keep you updated as soon as we have more information, folks, but certainly all the fans out in Badgerland are sending hopes and prayers to Will and his family tonight, wishing him a swift recovery.”
The station goes to commercial just as two medics are loading Will onto a stretcher, with a jarring cut to a close up of a garishly thick burger oozing with melted cheese. My hand flies to my mouth, covering my lips as the stir-fry I had for dinner rises in my throat.
“Oh my God,” Bree murmurs, muting the television then tossing the remote on the couch and rising to stand beside me. “Hailey, it’s going to be okay. He’s going to be okay. He’s Will. He’s so strong, you know that.”
I shake my head, my hand still clamped over my mouth, my thoughts racing too fast to pick any words out of the swirling chaos in my head.
All I can seem to think about is skin—how thin it is. How delicate. How this fragile barrier is all that stands between whole and broken, between life and death.
Death…
He could die. Will could die.
If he loses enough blood, if the medics can’t get it stopped in time, if his heart can’t take the stress.
His heart…
His precious, perfect, irreplaceable heart…
He might never know how much it means to me, how much he means to me. He might be leaving me tonight, and he’s going to go out thinking I don’t care, at least not enough, and from this minute to my last minute I will regret that more than words can express.
I still have no words, but finally my thoughts jumpstart my body into action.
I have to go to him.
Now.
Right fucking now.
I bolt for the door, grabbing my phone from the kitchen table as I pass and shoving it into my purse as I jam my feet into my tennis shoes, pushing hard to fit my fluffy bedtime socks inside. There isn’t time to change my socks or my clothes, and I couldn’t care less if everyone at the arena sees me in my pajamas.
There isn’t a second to waste. Not one single second.
I’m dimly aware of Bree following me across the room, of her hands pulling my hair from under my collar as I shrug on my coat and her voice murmuring something about driving safe, but it’s all a blur.
The world is melting and nothing is in focus except the fear, sharp and gleaming.
I may never see the man I love again.
Never. Again.
Those two words make everything that’s happened the past few days seem so small and stupid, and the Hailey who thought she could shut off the parts of her heart that weren’t fitting neatly into the approved boxes seem pitiably naïve. Some things are bigger than boxes and rules. Things like the kind of primal, soul-deep, bone-deep love I feel for Will.
It’s bigger than the rules. Bigger than a bruise on my wrist or the panic that said losing control in the bedroom meant I was losing control of my life.
Will and I are stronger than fear, and he’s right—what happened to Bree has nothing to do with us. The way we choose to love each other has nothing to do with the way a man chose to hate my sister. The bruises on her wrist might mirror the bruises on mine, but they’re no more alike than art hanging in a museum and the crude scrawl of gang graffiti under a crumbling bridge.
Now that the fear has cut all the bullshit away and left me standing with my heart throbbing fitfully in my hands and a voice deep inside crying out Will’s name, it’s so clear. It’s so clear that it’s all I can hear, all I can see.
I don’t remember riding the elevator down to the garage or starting the car or pulling up the ramp toward the exit. My body is on autopilot, and my soul already miles away with Will, begging him to fight, to hold on, to wait until I get there and somehow I will make this better. I will find a way.
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br /> I will open my veins, I will hold his delicate skin together with my bare hands, I will fight off Death using every dirty trick in the book. I will hit below the belt, jab my keys into Death’s throat, scratch out his eyes, whatever it takes to keep Will here with me where he belongs.
I’m so focused, so consumed by the need to get across town as quickly as humanly possible, that it takes a long moment for me to realize the high-pitched hum filling the car isn’t coming from inside my own head. By the time I acknowledge that my phone is ringing, the call has already clicked over to voicemail.
At the next red light, I tug it out of my purse as a text message from Laura, the Badger’s PR manager and the team captain’s wife, pops through—They’re taking Will to the Good Samaritan ER on 22nd Street. I don’t know if you were watching the game, but he was injured pretty badly and is on his way to get sewn up. Don’t worry, I’m sure he’s going to be fine, but I thought you should know.
Hands shaking, I type back a quick—Thank you. On my way there now—and toss the phone back into my purse as the light turns green.
Fifteen minutes later, I’ve parked outside the ER and run inside only to be told that Will is already in surgery. I scan the waiting room, but I don’t recognize anyone from the team. Everyone else must still be at the game. The show goes on. The game has rules that must be followed, even when one of the players might be dying.
It’s macabre. Twisted. Wrong.
The game should have stopped. The world should have stopped, its rotation put on pause until we know for sure that Will is going to be all right.
But it doesn’t stop and an hour later familiar faces begin to trickle into the ER—Brendan and a very pregnant Laura first, followed quickly by Petrov, Shane, Cruise and his sweet wife Libby, and a couple of new players I don’t recognize. Shane makes the introductions, but I forget the names as soon as I hear them.
I’m in shock, so numbed by fear that I don’t realize how hot the coffee cup Laura presses into my hands is until I scald my tongue on my first sip.
The next hour passes slower than any in memory, each minute dragging miserably into the next until the doctor finally pushes through the double doors and strides toward our corner of the waiting room, wiping his hands on a paper towel as he moves. “Will is out of surgery, and his vitals are good, but he lost a lot of blood. We’re going to be monitoring him in the recovery room for the next several hours, and he’ll need his rest after. I recommend you all go home and get some rest, too, and check back in the morning. It’s going to be a while before he’s ready for visitors.”
After a brief discussion in which Laura promises to keep everyone updated on Will’s condition, the rest of the team says their good nights and heads for the door.
Soon Shane and I are the only people left in our corner. We sit in silence for a long time, watching the seemingly endless stream of people flowing into the ER. The storm is certainly claiming its share of victims. Despite the abundance of wet stuff that falls on Rose City each year, the people of Portland aren’t great on the road in a normal rain, let alone a monster storm like this one.
The thought’s barely through my head when thunder booms loud enough to vibrate the wall behind me.
I shiver, pulling my coat tighter around me as I say, “It feels like the world’s trying to end, doesn’t it?”
“Nah, the sky’s just having a fit,” Shane says. “The world is going to be okay. And so is Will. He’s tough, Hailey. It’s going to take more than a skate in the neck and a little blood loss to take him down.”
I nod, but the ache in my chest doesn’t subside. “I just wish I could see him. Even if he’s asleep, if I could just see his face…”
“Soon. And I’ll stay with you until you can go back,” Shane says, making me smile.
“You’re sweet. Thank you.”
He shakes his head. “No, I’m not sweet. I suck. I heard what happened to Bree. I should have tried harder to get through to her about Creedence. I should have worried more about keeping her safe than whether she thought I had a silly crush. If I had…”
I lay a hand on his strong arm, giving it a gentle squeeze. “No way. That isn’t your fault. Not even a little bit.”
Shane sniffs. “Yeah, well, it feels like it’s my fault.”
“I know what you mean,” I say softly. “It felt like my fault, too, but it’s not. The only one to blame is the man who lifted his hands to her.”
It’s true. No one else is to blame. Not Shane, not me, not Will, and not the consensual things we did in private out of love for each other. I can’t wait to tell him that, to see his face, to kiss his forehead and promise that I’ll never let myself get so confused again. Or at the very least that I’ll talk things through with him and not just push him away.
I just hope he’ll still want to hear that from me.
I hope he hasn’t given up on me. On us.
Sometime during the night, I must have nodded off because I wake with a start, jerking my head from Shane’s shoulder, cheeks heating as I see the small spot of drool I’ve left on his jean jacket. “I’m so sorry.”
He glances down at the saliva spot with a shrug. “No worries. But I think they’re ready for us.” He motions toward the double doors leading into the bowels of the hospital, where a dark-haired nurse is waiting expectantly.
I stand so fast, the world spins, and I’m grateful for the hand Shane places on my back when I stumble before finding my footing.
“No rush, honey,” the nurse says with a tired smile. “He’s not going anywhere, though he sure would like to be. We may have to strap that one to the bed to convince him to stay put long enough to heal.”
I thread my fingers together, squeezing them into a fist. “Oh good. I mean, not good, but it’s good to hear that he’s feeling okay.”
“He insisted he was ready to be discharged,” she says with a laugh as she leads the way down the long hall and through another set of doors to an elevator. “But we convinced him to stay with us a little longer. He’s in a private room on the third floor, but I know the shortcut.”
Heart beating faster, I step into the elevator between the nurse and Shane. I’m so close. In just a few more minutes, I’ll be able to see Will’s face, look into his eyes, and know that he’s really okay. To know if we’re okay.
Out of the elevator and down another hall and my pulse is racing in my throat and my heart is there, too, lodged fast. And then I follow the nurse through the door and see Will, propped up in bed, pale and with a bandage wrapped around his throat, but whole and okay and mine.
Still mine.
The second our gazes connect, and relief and love soften his features, I know it’s not too late. Tears stinging into my eyes, I cross the room and take his hand, squeezing tight. “Hey there. Good to see you in one piece.”
Will’s lips curve as he grips my hand just as tightly. “Good to see you, too,” he says, his voice soft and rough, but still strong, still Will’s. “And I love you. I promised myself that would be the first thing I’d say if I got to see you again.”
I press my lips together, fighting back tears. “I love you, too. I’m so glad you’re okay. And I’m so sorry I’ve been a confused pain in the ass.”
“You are never a pain in the ass. You’re my favorite person,” Will says, gaze shifting to focus over my shoulder. “Thanks for staying with her last night.”
“My pleasure,” Shane says from behind me, clearing his throat. “But now that you’re awake I’m going to go. Don’t want to be a third wheel. Just wanted you to know we’re all here for you, the whole team, anything you need while you’re laid up, just let us know.”
“Thanks, man, I appreciate it,” Will says as I turn and lift a hand to Shane, echoing my thanks with a grateful smile.
And then he’s gone, and Will and I are alone in the small hospital room, where the morning sky is just beginning to peek through the clouds outside the window, and I feel hopeful again. And grateful. But also a l
ittle ashamed of myself for needing something like this to pull my head out of my ass.
“I’m sorry,” I say, perching carefully on the edge of the bed. “It shouldn’t have taken thinking you were going to die for me to realize I couldn’t live without you.”
Will holds my gaze as he shakes his head. “Don’t apologize. I get it, baby. And I don’t blame you. We’ve been exploring some emotionally intense new territory, and then your sister was attacked. It’s okay that you were confused about how to reconcile everything you were feeling. Just promise me, the next time something like this happens, you won’t shut me out.”
“No more shutting you out or pushing you away,” I promise before adding in a stern voice, “But nothing like this is allowed to happen for a long, long time. No more attacks on people I love, not from assholes or skates or anything else.”
His lips quirk on one side. “Amen, woman. I could stand for this to be the last injury I see for a while. I’ve decided that I really prefer having my head attached to my body.”
I cup his cheek gently in my hand. “I prefer that, too. And I prefer you to be you. You don’t have to give up anything for me. You were right, the way we enjoy loving each other has nothing to do with the things that are wrong with the world.”
“Are you sure?” His brow furrows as he rests his hand on my waist, even that simple touch enough to make me feel safe, loved, and like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. “Because I meant every word I sent in that email this morning, Hailey. There is nothing in the world as important to me as you are. As long as you’re mine, I could give up being part of the scene forever and not regret it for a single fucking second. I swear it.”