Risking the Shot (Stick Side #4) - Amy Aislin Page 0,86
passed to Lacroix. A Montreal player by the name of Kogan, bigger than Ashton Yager even, checked him into the boards, stole the puck, and sailed down the rink. Ahead of him, one of his teammates tripped Dean—who’d been standing between Kogan and Desie—from behind.
“Oh, fuck,” Stanton muttered, quitting his stick tapping.
If asked later, Tay would swear it happened in slow motion. Dean fell, his stick tangling in Kogan’s teammate’s skates. He too fell, on top of Dean. Kogan wasn’t able to avoid them both; his skate hooked into his teammate’s stick and he skipped over the ice to regain his balance, plowing into Desie before he was able to stop.
Tay’s goalie went down, bringing the net with him, Kogan on top of him.
“Oh, fuck,” Stanton shouted.
Desie’s knee was at the wrong angle.
“Desie!” The crowd had silenced to a murmur, Dean’s shout echoing throughout the arena. He shoved the Montreal player off him and crawled to Desie.
Before he’d thought it through, Tay was over the boards and at Desie’s side. Dean had already thrown Kogan off him with a muttered “Jesus Christ” when he got a look at Desie’s leg.
“Hey.” Sitting at Desie’s head, Tay tore his gloves off and cupped Desie’s face. Desie’s teeth were gritted, a muscle jumping in his jaw, whimpers escaping lips pressed together, eyes squeezed tight in pain. “You’re okay.”
A crowd had gathered behind them, Montreal and Toronto players alike. Grey kneeled on Desie’s left to grab his hand, Dean on his right. Lacroix and Collet hovered in Tay’s periphery, and beyond them was most of the rest of the team.
“Shit,” Kogan said, regaining his feet. “Shit, is he okay?”
Growling, Collet shoved him.
Ignoring it all, Tay held onto Desie and talked to him, keeping his voice steady and calm, until their medical team arrived with a stretcher.
They won the game, but there was no celebration afterward. The mood in the locker room was somber, the air thick as they sat after their showers, talking quietly or responding to social media messages while they waited for Coach.
On Tay’s far left, Grey fawned over his husband. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Promise.” Dean squeezed his hand. “Just bruised.” He rubbed a palm over his bearded jaw. “I should’ve done more.”
“This isn’t your fault.” The fierceness in Grey’s tone had several guys glancing over. “You couldn’t have known that asshole was going to trip you from behind.”
“He’s right,” Lacroix said on Dean’s right. “This isn’t any of our faults.”
Tay sat next to Stanton, dug out the puzzle piece that was obviously not a good luck charm, and called Dakota.
“You okay?” Dakota’s voice was smooth and concerned in his ear.
Running a thumb over the puzzle piece, Tay blew out a breath. “That sucked.”
“How is he?”
“We’re still waiting for word.”
“How are you?”
“I’m fine.” He dug a nail into the edge of the puzzle piece. “I wasn’t even on the ice.”
“Mentally, I mean. You kept your head out there.”
“Yeah.” It’d occurred to him while he showered that two years of paramedicine training had kicked in, instinct had taken over, and he hadn’t panicked. Something to think about later. “I can’t bring myself to be happy about it, though. Not like this. Andy didn’t see, did he?”
“No, he’s been asleep for a couple of hours.”
Sighing, Tay’s eyes drifted closed. “Good. I’ll let you get to bed too. I just wanted to hear your voice.”
“Come over?”
Tay’s eyes popped open and he smiled at his toes. “If you want.”
“I want. I always want. I’ll wait up for you.”
“’Kay,” Tay whispered. “Love you.” Stanton was smiling at him when he hung up. “What?”
“Nothing.” Stanton popped a Sour Patch Kid in his mouth. Something else that clearly wasn’t good luck. “Just glad things worked out between you and your guy.” There was a wistful quality to his voice Tay had never heard before.
Across from him, Xappa was staring at Stanton with the softest expression Tay had ever seen on his face, all droopy-eyed and openmouthed. He caught Tay staring and frowned at him, brows bunching, before going back to his phone. A moment later, a croony ballad played over the speaker system.
Tay squinted, running the voice against the database of musicians in his head.
“Is that Tenor Jones?” Stanton said.
Ah. That was why Tay recognized the voice. “I don’t know this song.”
“It’s his upcoming single,” Xappa said.
“How’d you get it?”
Elbows on his knees, Xappa smirked. “We’ve been best friends since elementary school. I get all of his new stuff first.”