Page 60 of Offside Angel

Grant knew it, too.

The second the puck is in my possession, a wall of muscle slams into me from my blind spot. Both Firebirds defensemen drive me into the plexiglass, and I fucking crumple.

As I crunch against the boards, the only thing I can think is what Aiden must be thinking. I know he and Mira are watching the game at home.

Is he scared?

As soon as the defensemen give me the space, I stand up, though pain is scorching through every inch of me. But fuck the pain—I don’t want Aiden to see me lying on the ice. I don’t want him to worry for even a second that something bad might happen to me.

The world isn’t on its usual axis and my legs are wobbly, but I’m fine.

My ears are ringing and there’s no other feeling quite like having your lungs crushed like Whoopee Cushions, but… I’m fine.

Grant, however, is dead.

Before I can do what I should have done earlier and elbow Grant in the jaw, Reeves is in front of me. “Sit down, man. You got wrecked.”

I brush him off. “I’m fine.”

“No, you just got checked by two of the biggest defensemen in the league. Sit. The fuck. Down.” Reeves waves an arm over his head and the medical team is already skating towards us.

“It was a fucking suicide pass,” I grit out. “He knew I was going to get rocked. Grant knew.”

I may have a concussion, but I also know it wasn’t all Grant’s idea. Carson put him up to it.

Carson is also the reason half the guys on the squad think I’m planning to cut and run to another team.

I’m fine to walk, but I sling my arms over the shoulders of the med team, anyway. They’re trying to do their jobs, and I’m not going to make it harder for them.

I drop onto the bench and lights flash in my eyes, checking my pupil dilation. They’re asking me questions, but I barely register my own answers. Carson is buzzing around, watching the action like his career depends on it.

Probably because it does.

“Is he good to go?” Coach asks.

Before the med team can answer, Carson growls, “He needs a sub. I’ll go in.”

At the start of this game, I would’ve held my tongue. Now, I’m just pissed off enough to be a little stupid.

“This is the only way you can get any ice time. Is someone gonna hobble me in the parking lot at the next game?”

“I didn’t do a fucking thing. I was on the bench while you handed the game away,” he spits.

Cindy zips the first-aid bag and gives me an apologetic smile. “He should sit the rest of the game out. I don’t see signs of a concussion, but just to be safe.”

“Deluth.” Coach tips his head towards the ice. “You’re in.”

Carson might as well shoot off party poppers as he skates onto the ice. He looks every bit as proud of himself as I know he is.

Reeves adjusts his helmet. “I should let that asshole get checked and see how he takes it. Fifty bucks says he cries.”

“Don’t.” As much as I want to see Carson get exactly what he has coming for him, I won’t do it at the expense of the team. “Carson and Grant work well together, but don’t expect Grant to watch your back. Get the puck to Carson when you can. He’s an asshole, but he’s a good shot.”

Reeves gives me a two-finger salute and I slump on the bench.

Coach is standing next to me, arms crossed, eyes on the ice. “You’re a bigger man than I am, Whitaker.”

“You’d let Carson get checked?”

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