Page 183 of Make Me Mean It

CHAPTER FOURTY

CONNOR

Theo’s skating when Marcus flicks the puck across to him.

I’m already watching him. I’ve been watching him for most of the fucking game, no matter how many times I drag my attention somewhere else and tell myself to stop. My eyes always find him again.

He turns slightly to catch the pass, his stick barely making contact with the puck before I see the other player coming.

He’s fucking huge.

And Theo doesn’t see him.

My stomach drops.

“Theo.”

It barely leaves my mouth before the guy barrels straight into him.

The hit is brutal.

His shoulder drives into Theo’s side and sends him flying into the boards hard enough that the crack of his body against them seems to shake the entire fucking rink. The sound rips through the stadium, sharp and sickening, and something inside my chest stops with it.

Theo crumples.

Not stumbles. Not drops to one knee before getting straight back up like I’ve watched him do a hundred times.

He fucking folds.

His legs go beneath him awkwardly as he hits the ice, one arm trapped beneath his body, his head turning with the impact.

Then nothing.

He doesn’t move.

The crowd falls silent around me so suddenly it’s almost worse than the hit itself. Thousands of people just stop, all that noise disappearing until there’s nothing left but a dull ringing in my ears and my heartbeat pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.

I stare at him.

Waiting.

He always gets back up.

Theo gets hit all the fucking time. He gets thrown into boards and knocked onto his ass and comes up grinning like the psychopath he is, usually looking for the person who did it so he can return the favour.

So I wait for him to move.

A hand. His head. His fucking skate.

Anything.

The overhead screen changes and suddenly Theo’s body is blown up across the arena, sprawled motionless against the ice.

My stomach turns.

I lean forward without realising I’m moving, the railing digging hard into my palms as I brace my elbows against my knees. My fingers wrap around the metal and squeeze until my knuckles turn white.

“Get up,” I mutter.