Page 24 of In Too Deep

I’m about to make the pass when I see Andres barreling across the ice, his head down and charging at Eli. I’m moving before I know what I’m doing, taking the puck with me as I fly up the diagonal to intercept the check. Eli’s already sore, and a hit like that could take him out of the lineup for the rest of the year. He can’t get hurt, not while I can do something about it.

Andres doesn’t have time to stop before his shoulder digs into my ribs, and I try to brace myself for the hit. But he was going so much faster than I thought, and the impact stuns me, knocking the stick from my grip and the wind out of my lungs. Our combined momentum sends us ricocheting off in different directions, him toward his bench, and me backward toward the net. I cough as I try to stop myself from sliding, but I’m moving too fast, and I can’t get my skates to catch onto anything.

I shout in pain as my back hits the steel upright of the net, knocking it off its pegs. I hear Spencer and Eli calling my name, but neither of them can react quick enough. The net hits the back wall first, stopping dead, and my spine connects for a second time. And then a moment later, I’m knocked out cold as the net topples over, the bottom corner catching me in the side of my face.

I’m in the tunnelswhen Oliver takes that insane check, and it’s all I can do not to run out onto the ice with the medical team. My heart beats a thousand times a second, and I’m not sure if I’m doing a good job of hiding my emotions. I’m just lucky no one is looking at me, or I’m sure they would see the tears burning the edges of my eyes and the trembling of my hands as I struggle to breathe. When they wheel the stretcher past me toward the exam rooms, I press myself flat against the wall, willing my feet to remain still.

It occurs to me that this is one of the many reasons I swore off dating hockey players. This is a dangerous sport, and injuries are par for the course. But knowing that doesn’t make the anxiety go away. Or the desire to attach myself to the stretcher and refuse to let go.

After play resumes, I lose my restraint. My heels click loudly on the concrete as I power walk toward the exam room, voicesgrowing louder with each step. I pass one of the assistant athletic trainers as he heads back to the bench, his face grim. Fuck. By the time I hit the carpet in the medical hall, my steps are more like a slow jog. When I see the closed door, a buzzing fills my ears, and I come to a halt just a few paces away. I can’t go in there yet, so I settle on the next best thing: leaning on the wall opposite the door.

I haven’t felt this sort of anxiety since before I was put on meds six years ago. The kind that makes my vision tunnel, my heartbeat like a war drum, and freezes my veins until I’m covered in a cold sweat. And the only thing I can think about is how much of a bitch I’ve been to him over the last forty-eight hours.

I wanted to forgive him, to give him a chance to better explain himself and maybe address some of the lingering concerns I have about forming a pack. I was going to go over to their place later this week, after they got back from their short road trip, when they had a day off for us to really hash out what the hell we’re doing together. But now…

The logical part of me knows he’s not dead. They wouldn’t have gone into an exam room if his injuries were that serious. They would have rushed him to the standby ambulance and taken him to the hospital. But the part of me I recognize as my omega nature is climbing the metaphorical walls, screeching and howling to go to him. That he won’t be okay unless I’m there to ensure he’s getting the best care.

But I can’t.

Because, at best, I’m just a concerned friend. At worst, I’m a co-worker who should only have a professional interest in his condition, as it relates to my job of getting team news to the public.

And I’m the only one to blame for things being the way they are. Because I’ve been so busy looking at all the ways being ina public relationship could harm me that I hadn’t stopped to consider the benefits.

I wouldn’t be trapped outside the room while my boys are being treated. I wouldn’t have to look over my shoulder every time Oli and I share a meal in public, hyper-alert for anyone with a smartphone recognizing us and snapping a picture. I wouldn’t have to park three blocks away from their house any time I drive myself over, on the off chance someone might recognize my car in their driveway. I could wear their jerseys and cheer as loud as I’m always dying to when they score goals.

But I’ve worked so hard to get to where I am in this field. Very few women, and even fewer omegas, have positions like mine within sports organizations. They’re usually corralled into shallow, relatively unserious positions, like being a pretty face on the jumbotron during breaks in the game or something else behind the scenes, where they may interact with the team, but never with the public. And I’ve had to fight against all the assumptions people have made about me for most of my life, because of where I’ve come from and who my dad is. Would agreeing to form a pack undermine the work I’ve done to prove I’m more than a nepo baby omega with a chip on her shoulder?

It seems like an eternity before another athletic trainer slips out of the room, my irritation flaring hot in my chest when he doesn’t open the door wide enough for me to see inside. Catching my eye, he sighs.

“You can post that he’s not going to rejoin the game. We’ve already told Coach,” the beta says, more than a little dismissive.

I narrow my eyes, about to chew him out for assuming I’m here just for content. But I stop myself, a chill coming over my body as I realize that can be the only reason he thinks I’m here. I’m just the social media manager for the New Orleans Mystic. I’m not Oliver’s partner, or pack mate, or bond mate.

“What are we saying is the reason? Upper body?” I rasp, head swimming.

The beta nods, thankfully walking off without saying anything else. As I make the post to the team’s accounts, my fingers seem disconnected from me. My stomach’s like a hollow void, pulling all the warmth from my limbs until I’m trembling. I hug my torso, rubbing my arms. Something in me writhes, my omega nature at war with reality and losing. But this is how it has to be, isn’t it?

No! It doesn’t have to be this way!my instincts wail once more, and it’s hard to argue with them. I have another option. I just have to be brave enough to take the chance.

The door to Oli’s room opens, interrupting my thoughts. Derrick, the head athletic trainer, steps out, not quite closing the door behind him. He sighs, but then jumps as he realizes that I’m standing there.

“Oh, hey, Tori. What’s going on?” he asks, slipping on an affable grin.

“Just wondering how Ace is doing,” I say, glad my voice isn’t as shaking as much as the rest of me.

Derrick sucks his teeth and lets out a heavy exhale. “I won’t lie. It’s not great. He’s out on concussion protocol, for sure, as we found him knocked out on the ice. With everything else, we won’t know more until we get him in for an MRI, but he’s tweaked something in his shoulder, maybe his back, too.”

Setting my face into something I hope looks like professional concern, I swallow my whine. I’ve been around hockey players my whole life, and I’ve seen or heard of more injuries than I care to count. Shoulder injuries aren’t terrible, usually only calling for eight or so weeks off to rehab it, but that’s if there aren’t any torn muscles or ligaments. Back injuries are the dark horse. He could be on the ice in a month, or he could be out for the rest of the season if he needs surgery.

Derrick takes my silence as permission to head back, leaving me with increasingly panicked thoughts. I need to see him, and it’s getting harder and harder to stay still. I’m weighing the risk versus reward of it all, but then the scent of overly sweet raspberries and harsh spices hits my nose and my instincts go nuts. The door is still slightly open, and after a quick glance around the hall, I move.

I find Oli still on the stretcher, his shoulder pads completely unlaced and scattered across the floor. His jersey is cut up the front and across the shoulders, leaving his bare chest exposed and making room for the neck brace. There’s a strap across his hips, the others dangling to either side of the stretcher.

“Tori?”

Oli’s voice is soft, a barely-there whisper, but it sends an electric shock up my spine. I scurry over to the head of the stretcher, leaning over him so he can see my face without moving. His cheeks are squished by the brace, and there’s a rapidly swelling lump on his forehead. But his amber eyes are open and scanning my face.

“You came,” he mutters, his words slightly distorted.

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