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He didn’t get up.

“Shit,” Monroe muttered, his clipboard dropping to his side as the players on the bench surged forward, craning their necks to see what was happening. Jimenez swore under his breath beside me, his usual grin wiped clean off his face.

Dalton still wasn’t moving.

My heart thudded painfully in my chest, each beat echoing in my ears. “Get up, Thatcher,” I whispered, my hands gripping the edge of the railing so hard my knuckles turned white.

But he didn’t.

The refs blew their whistles, the game grinding to a halt as trainers hurried onto the ice. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but their hurried movements and the way they gestured for the stretcher made my stomach drop.

He’s fine. He’s fine. He has to be fine.

But my brain didn’t believe the lie. The way he was lying there, so still, sent a cold wave of panic crashing over me.

“Shit, this isn’t good,” Monroe muttered, his usual stoic demeanor cracking as he exchanged a grim look with the assistant coach.

I barely heard him. My thoughts spiraled, every terrifying possibility flashing through my mind. What if it was his spine? His head? What if⁠—

“Ari?” Jimenez’s voice snapped me back to reality. He was looking at me, concern etched into his features. “You okay?”

I wasn’t, but I nodded anyway, unable to tear my eyes away from the ice as the trainers finally reached Dalton. They were speaking to him now, one of them crouched down by his head. I searched for any sign of movement, anything that would tell me he was okay.

And then, finally, he moved. Just a little—his hand flexed, and his head turned slightly as he spoke to the trainers. Relief should’ve washed over me, but it didn’t. Not fully. Not until I knew exactly what was wrong.

“Come on, Dalton,” I whispered again, my voice shaking as they carefully lifted him onto the stretcher. My pulse roared in my ears, and I could feel the sting of unshed tears pricking the backs of my eyes.

I cared for him—more than cared for him. And seeing him like this, vulnerable and hurt, made it impossible not to admit just how much.

As they wheeled him off the ice, the crowd offering a mix of cheers and nervous murmurs, my body moved on autopilot. I turned to Monroe, my voice steadier than I felt. “I’m going with him.”

He didn’t argue. Didn’t even try. He just nodded, giving me a sharp look that said he knew how much this mattered.

“Keep me updated,” Monroe said, his tone softer than usual.

FORTY-SIX

ARIELLA

ARE WE STILL BREATHING? NO? OKAY.

The buzz of fluorescent lights seemed louder than normal as I rushed through the hospital doors, the chaos of the emergency room doing nothing to quell the rising panic in my chest, making it hard to breathe. My feet barely paused as I approached the nurse's station, gripping the edge of the counter. I’d narrowly missed catching the ambulance ride, and then gotten stuck in traffic that had left me in a full panic.

“Dalton Thatcher,” I blurted, my voice trembling. “Or Langley, maybe. I don’t know what last name he’ll be under. He was brought in a little while ago. Please, I need to know how he’s doing.”

The nurse glanced up from her computer, her eyes softening when she took in my frantic expression. “Are you family?” she asked gently.

Fuck.

“Yes. Please, just tell me what’s happening.”

She scanned the screen in front of her. “He’s in surgery,” she said, her tone calm but serious. “A fractured rib punctured his lung, and there was some internal bleeding. The surgical team is working to repair the damage now.”

My stomach churned, the weight of her words pressing down on me. “Is he going to be okay?” I managed to ask, my grip tightening on the counter.

“They believe so,” she said reassuringly. “The surgery is precautionary to stop the bleeding and stabilize him. He’s young, strong, and otherwise healthy. That’s in his favor.”

The words should have calmed me, but the knot in my chest barely loosened. “When will he wake up?”