Page 1 of Glitz & Goals

Prologue

Grady

Sweat trickles down my back beneath the heavy gear, but my focus is sharp. Venom versus Thunder. A hard-fought battle on the ice every time we clash. I see Abbott in my periphery—cool, collected, damn near impossible to rattle.

Normally, the rink is home. The place where time slows down, instincts take over, and nothing else matters but the game. It’s where I belong, where I’m meant to be.

The puck sails toward the crease like a bullet, and I push off hard, determined to get there first. It’s a split-second decision, the kind I’ve made a million times before. I can already see the shot, already envision the move that’ll send the puck past Abbott and into the net. My body surges forward, muscle memory taking over.

He’s a goalie with reflexes like a cat, always in the right spot at the right time.

Until he isn’t.

Abbott moves.

I don’t see him. Not until it’s too late.

We collide. Flesh meets unyielding padding, and then—crack. The sound doesn’t register at first, not over the roar of the crowd or the pounding in my ears. But the pain? The pain hits all at once.

My knee gives out beneath me, twisting in a way it never should. I hit the ice hard, sliding across the surface as the world around me blurs. Abbott’s sprawled on his back, looking as shocked as I feel. No malice, no intent. Just pure, bad luck.

And a life-altering mistake.

An emotionally charged moment that will be forever suspended in time.

I try to push myself up, to stand, but the second I put weight on my leg, the pain shoots through me like a hot knife, jagged and unforgiving. I collapse back down, the cold sting of the ice doing nothing to numb the agony.

“Metcalfe!” The trainers rush toward me. Abbott’s already on his feet, moving my way, his face pale beneath the mask like he knows exactly what’s happened. He drops to one knee beside me, his hands hovering awkwardly, like he wants to help but doesn’t know how.

“Shit... I didn’t see you,” he mutters, his voice tight with regret. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” I manage through gritted teeth as the trainers test my leg. But I already know. The knee’s done. This isn’t something you bounce back from. I’ve been on the ice long enough to know the difference between a minor sprain and a career-ending blow.

And this? This is the latter.

My entire leg is about as useful to me as a wet noodle.

I hear the scrape of skates before I see them. My teammates swarm around me, forming a loose huddle, their faces tight with concern. Dan’s the first to reach me, dropping to one knee.

“Hang in there, Grady,” he mutters, his voice barely masking the worry.

Behind him, the rest of the guys hover, looking helpless, their sticks clutched in tense fists. No one says much, but I see it in their eyes—the fear, the silent prayers that it’s not as bad as it looks.

“Can you put any weight on it at all?” my trainer asks, but I just shake my head, gritting my teeth against another wave of pain. They know the answer before I give it. I’m not getting off this ice on my own.

The guys who’ve been like my brothers stand close, their presence a barrier between me and the crowd, shielding me as the trainers work, as if their sheer willpower can somehow keep this from being as serious as it feels. But deep down, we all know.

As they lift me onto the stretcher, I catch Abbott’s eye as he hangs in the crease. There’s no hate, no anger in my gaze. Just... devastation. The realization that everything I’ve worked for, everything I’ve bled for, is over. And it’s not anyone’s fault. Not really.

But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

The trainers rush me down the tunnel and into the treatment room, the cold air of the arena replaced by the sterile scent of antiseptic and worn leather. The head trainer, Mick, is already there, waiting, along with the team doctor, who stands at the ready with a grim expression. No one’s saying the actual words, but I know. They know. My knee’s a ticking time bomb.

They shift me off the stretcher and onto the exam table with practiced precision. The pain is relentless now, a steady throb that beats in time with my pulse. Dave gets to work bracing my leg while the doctor pokes and prods, testing my range of motion—what little of it I have left. My knee is stiff, swollen, and the second they press on the side, I have to bite down on my tongue to keep from crying out.

“I’m ordering imaging,” the doc says, his tone clipped and professional. “But based on what I’m seeing… this isn’t just an ACL tear, Grady. It’s worse. Likely a full knee dislocation with damage to multiple ligaments—and we need to check for vascular involvement.” He pauses, locking eyes with me. “This is serious. We’re looking at surgery, a long recovery… and even then, getting back on the ice might not be possible.” He meets my eyes, and I see it there. The unspoken truth.

This is probably the end.

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