Page 3 of Down to Puck

This is so much more than that.

Emerson kisses me like he needs it to survive. His lips are soft against mine, his tongue eager as it teases and licks at my mouth. Heat and need thrum inside of me, drowning out every ounce of common sense I have left.

“I love you, Angel,” Emerson whispers fiercely against my lips. “I’ve been looking for you my whole life.”

Then he passes out.

2

Emerson

One Week Later

Head injuries suck.

Hockey is blood on ice. I’ve always trained hard and made myself fast enough to avoid getting hit. But even without getting checked into the boards every night, just playing the game strains you. I’ve put my body through the ringer.

But I’ll take any number of broken bones over this.

Every day this week, I’ve woken up in a haze. My brain is full of fog, and every step takes effort. Even my thoughts are sluggish. The simplest things take twice as long as they should.

My day starts like it always does. Up before the sun and jog to the ice for a warm-up. The early fall weather is still warm and humid in Houston.

Hell might actually freeze over before Houston has a dry day.

I like getting to the rink before anyone else. There’s a simple joy in being the first to touch the ice. It’s like drawing on a fresh piece of paper, painting on a blank canvas.

I set up cones and start puck handling.

I’ve always felt a connection to the ice, to the puck, that I lack with other people in my life. Regular hockey players have a life outside the game. Even our defenseman Kai— the most devoted and hard-headed bastard in the league— has recently started dating the new assistant manager.

The ice is the only place I’m graceful. Talking to women or going through the motions of online dating feels hollow and awkward to me. Any time I’ve been interested in someone, I’ve put my skate in my mouth.

And my Angel is no exception.

The puck slips from my stick for the first time that I can remember. I push myself hard, catching up to it as I weave back and forth between the cones. For a moment, I’m worried the lingering dizziness might sweep over me, but my vision clears quickly.

I kissed her.

I don’t remember much, but I’ll never forget the feeling of her lips on mine. The softness, the sweetness. The way she leaned in, her tongue sliding across mine. There was a passion in her kiss.

Why can’t I remember her name?

There are snippets and images tucked away in my mind. Dark hair, mahogany eyes, skin as soft as a peach.

Somewhere in the middle of the battery of tests, my Angel slipped away from me, and I haven’t seen her since. She must be on the staff, and that means I’ll find her. I’ll do whatever it takes to hear that sweet voice again.

I’m beginning to think I imagined her. That she was simply the result of the Miami Rays’ percussive therapy on my skull with a stick.

The puck slips again. Maybe there’s something wrong with the ice? My laces are loose. I must have forgotten to tighten them. My thoughts take a while to surface from the quicksand of my head.

“I’ve never seen you have so much trouble, Emerson,” Sawyer calls out from the stands as I bend to tighten the laces on my skate.

Sawyer Lawson, team captain. He’s always the second guy to arrive at practice, after me. He’s a natural leader — the kind of man who makes all of us want to be better.

He’d be annoying if he wasn’t so charismatic.

“Forgot to tighten my laces. Rookie mistake. Must have gotten hit harder than I thought,” I joke.

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