PROLOGUE: SHAY
The only thing I’ve ever wanted my entire life is to be a professional hockey player, and here I am, right now, doing just that.
The biggest exhale I’ve ever felt deflates my lungs and chest as I feel the puck secured beneath my glove on the ice.
“Yes, thank God,” I whisper against the frozen surface as a few people from the dogpile above me start to peel away.
The damn Los Angeles Lions have been peppering me nonstop for the last few minutes.
I was worried number twenty-seven was going to beat me and score. She already had once this game.
But not this time.
My heart thumps in my ears, drowning out the packed arena—a sound I yearned to hear for two decades while getting to this moment.
I still can’t believe I’ve been lucky enough to play professionally for the last five years on the New York Mavericks Professional Women’s Hockey League team. I’m living my damn dream.
I’ve felt sort of emotional all day about how rare it is to find such success at only twenty-five years old. Maybe it’s becauseit’s my five-year anniversary of signing to the PWHL. Maybe it’s because I saw a little girl wearing my jersey in the crowd. Or maybe it’s because someway, somehow, my subconscious was aware of what would happen next.
“Oh God!” someone shrieks above me—not the excited kind at my incredible save, but one chock-full of horror.
More shouts echo the first, voices growing louder and more concerned, but I can’t make out a single word. It’s all jumbled together. The noise becomes unbearable, rippling through the crowd like a dangerous wave.
My hearing fails me, the chaos fading away as the sound of my heart pounding in my ears takes over. The repetitive thump keeps time in my head as the seconds drone on.What the hell is happening?
The rest of the players untangle themselves from me, and I finally lift my head. A mere inch further from the ground, I see it … the cause of all the mayhem.
The ice is speckled and painted red beneath me, and the puddle’s getting bigger by the second.
The crook of my neck and shoulder immediately light on fire, as if my brain only acknowledged the pain after I spotted the blood.
“Oh God. Oh God. OH GOD!” I cry out, tears welling in my eyes, both from the pain and the fear.
This can’t be real. This can’t be fucking real!
Planting my hands on the ice, I try to push myself up, but I fall, crashing down. I try again, falling harder this time, my helmet bouncing off of the ice.
“Rooney!” A voice cuts through the drowning noise. Our goalie coach, Andy, rushes to my side. He rolls me over, and the lights above me seem so much brighter than I’ve ever noticed before. “I’ve got you. It’s going to be okay.”
I’ve known Andy for most of my adult life. He was an assistant coach on my college team and transitioned to pro coaching the same time I started for the Mavericks. He’s seen me at my worst and my best and cheered me on all the same.
I would like to believe him, but as he kneels down beside me, blocking out the light, I finally see the tears streaming down his face. He lifts his other hand up, cradling it beneath his chin, placing a gentle kiss on the knuckles, but something’s off about this image.
That’s not right … not unless he has the same micro goalie mask tattoo on the inside of his wrist that I do … and the same jersey on.
He squeezes the hand, and my blood runs colder than the floor beneath me. He’s not squeezing his hand, is he?
His dark blue eyes widen as he registers the realization dawning on me. His stare follows mine as I look down to the intertwined hands, panic settling deep into my bones.
“Squeeze my hand.”
I do as he said, and both of us watch my limp fingers fail to follow the direction.
Oh God … nothing’s happening.
I can’t feel anything.
Not in my hand … or my arm. Everything’s frozen and numb. It’s all happening so fast and yet painstakingly slow, and I don’t know whether to shut down or scream.
