Page 35 of Puck Happens

And I was being plenty ballsy already.

After I found out her full name I did a social media deep dive. Every news article, every Instagram photo I could find.

The basics were easy. She was twenty-six and grew up in Seattle. Started competing by age eleven. She and her partner, Brian Sampson, also her ex-boyfriend –put a pin in that– had won gold at World’s four years ago and were the favorites for gold in the last Olympics when she had heraccident.

There were hundreds of videos that would show me what happened, but I had no interest in watching her get hurt. I didn’t need to see it when the headlines were bad enough.

Brian Sampson Drops Partner During Complicated Lift.

Olivia Tyler-Branch Hospitalized After Gruesome Fall On Ice.

Olivia Tyler-Branch’s Career Ending Crash.

Yeah, I didn’t need to watch it happen. But it made me want to know more about her partner. This Brian asshole. It also made me wonder how safe it was for her to be skating around hockey players.

It didn’t come from a place of misogyny, rather real concern. If one of the guys ran into her at top speed, it could be trouble.

From her Instagram feed I knew she was a Swiftie. Her cat, Max, of fifteen years, had passed away last summer. Her parents were alive and they seemed pretty tight. And she clearly adored her younger brother, who was a stud on the Junior National hockey team. I went back further and there was a real long break, and then it was nothing but her life as a world class athlete.

I mean world class.

I ate every stupid joke I ever made about figure skaters.

I remembered our first encounter at the rink in Calico Cove and how she thoughtIshould have recognizedher.The only figure skating I’d ever watched was waiting for them to clear off the ice at various rinks I’d gone to when I was younger, but if she’d said her name was Olivia Tyler-Branch, something would have clicked.

Her crash had kicked off another round of debate about the impact of serious head trauma for all teenage athletes. Restrictions on lifts, speed and jumps had all been considered.

Then rejected.

All athletes understood the risks. At least that’s what we told ourselves.

Myself included.

Until we all got together at award ceremonies with former NHL players. Then you were confronted with what really happened to a hockey player’s body ten, twenty, thirty years after they stopped playing.

Some guys maintained a good shape. However, some were on walkers or used canes. Their hands shaking with early onset Parkinson’s disease. Some of them were way worse. Hockey wasn’t as bad as football, but head trauma was real. And it was serious.

As serious as Liv’s career had been shaping up to be.

The side door opened up and she stepped out, the wind picking up her hair and blowing it across her face. She’d ditched the business suits and the Bruisers’ training gear for jeans and a plain white t-shirt, that skimmed her breasts and her thin waist. She had her gear bag over her shoulder and was digging through that familiar little purse for keys.

God. She knocked me out.

She was practically in front of me when she finally looked up, saw me and screeched.

“What the hell, Dillon? You scared the crap out of me!”

I frowned. “I shouldn’t have. You’re a woman alone in an empty parking lot, you should pay better attention.”

“Thanks, Dad. Is there something you need?”

Yeah. You up against this car. In my arms. Licking my skin like you did that night. I need that full body shimmy and I need it right fucking now.

“I can tell you, you need a new car.”

“Don’t speak ill of Tonya.”

“Tonya? You named your car after…”

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