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Vegas extended the lead to 3-1 early, but we were pushing hard and finally starting to control possession. Dante forced a turnover behind their net and got the puck to Baelor, who sent it across to me before the defense could reset.

I shot, and their goalie got enough of his glove on it to send the puck wide, but it was the cleanest chance I'd had all night.

By the time we changed, I finally felt as though I'd managed to shove everything else far enough into the background to concentrate. I dropped onto the bench beside Dante, breathing hard as Max's line went over the boards, and for once, I wasn't thinking about my father or the phone waiting in my locker.

Then Max got hit.

It wasn't dirty. I knew that even as every muscle in my body tightened.

The Vegas defenseman caught him cleanly against the boards, hard enough to rattle the glass, and I was halfway to my feet before Max pushed away and continued after the puck as though nothing had happened.

He was fine.

I could see that perfectly well, but apparently my body hadn't received the message because my heart was still hammering when Dante nudged my shoulder.

“Sit down before Kinkaid decides you've developed ambitions to coach from the bench. Max is fine, and we're up next.”

I sat, but my attention followed Max for the rest of his shift anyway. Every time somebody came near him, my stomach tightened, which was fucking ridiculous considering he was a professional hockey player who'd been taking hits most of his life.

Except my father had spent the last two days making Max feel like something I needed to protect.

That feeling didn't disappear simply because the threat waiting for him wasn't currently wearing skates.

Max's line changed, and Dante was already moving beside me.

I went over the boards with him and Baelor, telling myself to forget Max, forget my father, and play the fucking game, and for the first few seconds, I did.

Vegas recovered the puck deep in their own zone and started the breakout. Baelor pressured the puck carrier while Dante moved to cut off the passing lane, and I turned to pick up the defenseman joining the rush.

My eyes flicked toward the bench for Max.

The hit caught me high across the shoulder and sent me sideways into the boards.

My ribs took the worst of it, pain tearing through my side sharply enough to steal my breath before the side of my head struck hard enough that the arena lights flashed white.

For several seconds, everything seemed to happen somewhere else. The crowd disappeared beneath a strange rushing sound in my ears, and although I knew I should move, moving seemed considerably less important than figuring out why the ice felt so wonderfully still against my cheek.

Someone told me not to move.

Cinder.

I recognized his voice a second before his face came into focus above me, the calm concentration of the team medic.

“Stay where you are for me, Ash. Don't try to sit up yet. Tell me where it hurts.”

“My ribs. Shoulder.” I swallowed, trying to work out whether the arena had always been quite that bright. “Head a little.”

Cinder's attention sharpened. “Okay. Keep looking at me while I check you over, and don't worry about anything else right now.”

That was easier said than done.

Because over his shoulder, several feet away, Max was standing on the ice.

I had no idea exactly when he'd gotten there, but play was dead, and he looked as though the officials were the only thing stopping him from coming closer. His face had lost most of its color, and even from where I was lying, I could see the fear he'd made absolutely no attempt to hide.

Our eyes met.

Something in Max's expression changed immediately.