The Fake Out (Vancouver Storm, #2)(74)

“Dude, there’re kids around,” Owens mutters to me.

I don’t care. My pulse pounds in my ears as I crouch down to Hazel, looking her over, moving my hands over her limbs.

No blood. Her ankle is still on straight. It doesn’t seem like anything is broken.

“Rory, I’m fine,” she says, but she’s wincing. Hazel is in pain and she’s wincing, and it’s my fault.

I said I wouldn’t let her fall. Fear leaks into my blood, making my chest hurt.

“She needs a stretcher.” My voice sounds different. Tense and sharp and loud.

Hazel puts her hand on my shoulder, and I can feel how wild my eyes are. She puts on a reassuring smile.

“Rory, I don’t need a stretcher,” she says softly. “I’m okay. I just slipped.”

I take her hand, the one she used to break her fall, and inspect it. The heel of her palm is red. My fingers skim over the delicate bones of her wrist but nothing seems amiss. Swelling, but not broken.

“Alright.” The medic crouches beside us. “What hurts?”

“I’m okay—” she starts.

“Her ankle and her wrist,” I answer. “And probably her tailbone. We need to go to the hospital.”

She hit the ice so hard I heard her teeth clack. My mind keeps replaying her eyes going wide as she fell, the way her lips parted with worry, and my chest tightens again.

“She might have a concussion,” I add.

I don’t miss the look she exchanges with the medic. “I don’t have a concussion,” she says, “and I definitely don’t need to go to the hospital.”

“Yes, you do. You could have a fracture.” My throat knots.

Hazel is hurt and it’s because of me.

I can hear myself, I can hear how insane and upset I sound, but right now all I care about is making Hazel feel better. Making sure she’s okay. Protective instincts fire through me.

Fuck.

Behind us, the kids, parents, and players watch me lose my mind. Ward meets my eyes and arches a brow.

I look to Volkov, waiting nearby. “Call Dr. Greene.”

He makes a face. Georgia Greene is one of the team doctors, and Volkov can’t stand her, but I don’t give a shit about that right now.

“Call her,” I snap, and he frowns but pulls his phone out.

“Can you stand?” the medic asks Hazel.

“No, she can’t stand.” I’m already scooping Hazel up with care, clutching her tight to me as I slowly skate to the bench. My brain is stuck in caveman gear—make her feel better, get her safe, get her warm, and make her comfortable. Take her pain away.

“Rory.” Her uninjured hand flattens on my chest, smoothing over me in soothing circles.

She’s my whole world, and I let her fall. My teeth grit.

“We’re going to see Dr. Greene.” Off Hazel’s exasperated expression, I glare down at her. “No arguing.”

Hazel sighs as I step off the ice and head to the medic’s room.





CHAPTER 53





HAZEL





That evening, Rory carries me through the door of the Filthy Flamingo, and everyone cheers.

“You made it.” Pippa grins between us and Streicher raises an eyebrow as Rory gently sets me on the chair beside my sister. Kit, Darcy, Hayden, and Alexei all call out their hellos, crammed into the booth.

It’s the last time everyone will see each other before the holiday break, and most of the players and their partners are here, talking and laughing, crowding the bar. Jordan’s strung Christmas lights up on a small tree in the back corner, and cheap, sparkly, old-school tinsel drapes over the frames and photos.

“We’re only staying for an hour,” Rory mutters before crouching down to inspect my wrapped ankle. “And then I’m taking her home to rest.”

I watch him check the tensor bandage. He did this when Georgia, the doctor, saw me, too, and demanded she get a second opinion to make sure it wasn’t a high sprain. For the past two hours, Rory’s worn a worried frown, and while it’s adorable as hell, my heart hurts because I know he thinks it’s his fault.

My hand lands on his shoulder and I give him a squeeze. “Why don’t you come sit up here with me?”

He glances up at me with hesitation, and I suppress a smile because for a moment, it actually looks like Rory would prefer to sit on the floor beside my ankle, guarding it, but he stands, and after he retrieves a bag of ice from Jordan and places it over my propped-up ankle, he finally takes the seat beside me.

My stomach dips as he loops an arm around my waist, tugging me close.

“Why are you acting like this?” I ask softly, gaze lingering on the lock of hair that’s fallen into his eyes.

They pitch with worry. “I said I wouldn’t let you fall.”

Oh, god. My heart. “It’s not your fault. I don’t blame you. It was just an accident.”

“I hate seeing you hurt.” His throat works and he frowns at my wrist, bandaged up. It aches, but it’s barely noticeable compared to what his pained expression does to me.

“I’m fine, I promise.” I wiggle my fingers to show him. “Did you have fun today?”

“Besides when you took a decade off my life?”