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She’s trying to make the line change, but #28 is breathing down her neck, not letting her get off. Fucking asshole. I understand wanting to put pressure on your opponent, but come on. There’s still honor amongst hockey players.
Two new forwards pop on, one of them coming to Gigi’s aid against the boards. The Briar player wins the battle for the puck and careens off while Gigi gets in position in the slot. She’s shouting something. The puck snaps out and lands on her stick at the same time she collides with #28.
It’s a total accident. Even I, who now has a personal blood feud against #28, can tell she didn’t mean to do it. Her stick breaks, knocking her off balance. And the abrupt shift in body weight sends her slamming into Gigi’s back.
We all watch in horror as Gigi flies forward. My panicked eyes track the blurry streak of #44 as Gigi slams headfirst into the boards, helmet flying off.
She goes sprawling onto her stomach, one hand still gripping her stick, the other one outstretched on the ice near her discarded helmet. We’re all on our feet. At first, the crowd continues screaming because they don’t realize what’s going on. Then the entire rink goes deathly silent when the fans realize she’s not getting back up.
My heart stops. Just quits beating in my chest, a useless, motionless mass of pure fear.
“She’s just winded,” Wyatt says, his green eyes glued to the ice. He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself. “She’s fine—”
Before he even finishes speaking, I’m racing down the aisle. Pushing through people without excusing myself, Gigi’s dad hot on my heels.
We practically vault over the wall below to the walkway between the bleachers and the plexiglass.
“Let me through,” Garrett snaps at the staff member in front of the door to the bench. “That’s my daughter.”
I’m frantically peering at the ice, my heart still not beating because she’s still not moving. There’s a ref bent over her, as well as Coach Adley and some of her teammates. Finally, I’ve had enough of the man at the door. I step forward and attempt to shove him to the side. I think it’s one of the Briar assistant coaches, but I don’t give a shit about being polite.
“You can’t go out there,” he insists, getting in my face again.
A fucking stampede wouldn’t be able to stop me from getting to Gigi.
“Like hell I can’t,” I growl. And then I give him another firm shove, forcibly moving him out of my way. “That’s my wife out there.”
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
GIGI
We got married
“SO. UM. YEAH. WE GOT MARRIED.”
You can hear a pin drop in the women’s locker room. The team doctor and EMTs just left, satisfied I’m in no danger of a concussion. Despite what it looked like to the crowd, I didn’t actually hit my head out there—the helmet came off after I already landed on the ice. But the wind was completely knocked out of me. Lying face down, ears ringing and lungs seized, I forgot how to breathe for a moment there.
Now, Ryder sits beside me on the bench, while my parents and brother stand in front of us. Speechless. Now that the doctors are gone, the bomb Ryder dropped before I went down can finally be addressed. There’s no defusing it—that thing went boom the moment he broke the news to my parents. But I’m hoping the fallout of the explosion won’t be too devastating.
I bite my lip in trepidation, waiting for someone to speak.
“G, I love you. You’re my sister. But that’s the most cliché thing I’ve ever heard in my life. I got married in Vegas. That’s so generic I wouldn’t even write a song about it.”
“Wyatt,” Mom warns.
Dad still hasn’t uttered a single word. He’s completely expressionless. Not even anger on his face. Nothing. It’s like staring at a brick wall, a cardboard box, some inanimate object that’s incapable of telling you how it feels.
“Look, I know this is unexpected,” I tell them.
Because it was. Totally and undeniably unexpected.
But not thoughtless.
Despite what my brother thinks, we didn’t do the predictably tacky Vegas elopement. We weren’t married by a jovial Elvis, spurred by alcohol in our veins. We were stone-cold sober. We applied for an after-hours license because, well, that’s possible in Vegas. And then we had an entire night to think about it. To change our minds. We didn’t have to go back to the courthouse the next morning, but we did.
Ryder’s still hovering over me, running an agitated hand over my forehead because he doesn’t believe I didn’t hit my head. It’s cute. I touch his cheek in reassurance, and the moment my fingers connect with his skin, the anxiety leaves his eyes. I have that power over him, and he has the same power over me.
