Page 4 of Puck'N Enemy
My helmet slams against the ice, the sudden impact blurring my vision. The roar of the crowd sounds horribly muffled like I’m underwater. Pain radiates down my left knee, leaving me gasping for breath.
I’ve taken a lot of hits playing hockey but this one’s among the worst of them. Lying on my back, I bite my bottom lip as the pain grows in intensity.
I try to sit up but the smallest movement leaves me panting and gasping.
Shit. How the hell am I going to play for the rest of the game?
Whistles ring out in the distance. Fans and people on the ice scream for something, but I can’t make out anything.
A referee shoves Reece away and kneels before me.
“Johnson, are you okay?”
A groan escapes me as I try to lift my head and focus on him.
“Don’t move,” the man says in a grim tone. “We’ll get someone to look at you immediately.”
My teammates gather around me, looking anxious. I want to tell them to focus on the game and not lose the momentum we’ve gained so far but all I can do is lie on the ice, gasping and groaning.
A group of paramedics soon rushes to my side.
Shit. This is bad.
There’s no way I’m going to be allowed to stay in the game in this condition. Desperation and disappointment cut through the haze of pain, making me realize the horrible truth.
A brace is being clasped around my neck while hands grab me and place me on a stretcher. Through the pain and chaos raging all around me, my eyes find him.
Dylan.
He’s standing away from the Bears and staring at me with a frozen look. His stick lies at his feet as he watches the paramedics carry me off.
Something about his horrified expression shakes something loose inside me.
Why does Dylan look like his world is falling apart around him?
He betrayed me and hurt me like no one ever could. He broke every promise he made me and disappeared from my life.
Dylan isn’t supposed to care about me. I mean nothing to him. So, why the hell does he look like he’s the one bleeding while I’m the one being carried away on a stretcher?
2
Dylan
I neither hear the whistles nor the referees’ yelling.
While everyone was still engaged in the chaos of chasing the puck, I saw Logan going down like he’d been shot.
One second, he was hovering by the net, and the next, he was lying on the ice.
Coach shouts my name but I seem to have lost the ability to respond to anyone. All my focus is on Logan, who’s lying by the net, his left leg spread out at an odd angle.
Logan’s helmet has shifted, giving me a glimpse of his pale face and sweat-soaked dark hair. An expression of intense pain is etched on his face, reminding me of a memory that’s haunted me all these years.
I’d run so I’d never have to see this same look on Logan’s face again.
But the moment I cross paths with him again, he gets hurt.
Something breaks inside me at the sight of him barely moving.
