Fangs On Ice

CHAPTER ONE: The Hit The sound a body makes when it breaks is something you never forget. I was already moving before Dominic hit the ice, my medical bag banging against my hip as I pushed past the assistant coach. The referee's whistle was still screaming, but I could barely hear it over the roar of the crowd and the pounding of my own pulse. Twenty thousand people had just watched the Ashford Wolves' captain drive our enforcer headfirst into the boards at full speed. The kind of hit that ends careers. The kind that ends lives. "Maren, wait for the stretcher," someone yelled behind me. I did not wait. Dominic was crumpled against the boards like a puppet with cut strings, his helmet cracked, his neck at an angle that made my stomach lurch. I dropped to my knees beside him and reached for his pulse, already running through protocols. Stabilize the spine. Do not move him. Call for the trauma team. His hand shot up and grabbed my wrist. I nearly screamed. His grip was iron, his eyes open and focused, and he was looking at me with an expression I had never seen on his face. Not pain. Not confusion. Something closer to warning. "I am fine," he said, his voice was too steady for someone that just took a life-threatening hit. "Help me up." "You are not fine. You just took a hit that should have…" "Maren." The way he said my name stopped me cold. "Help me up. Now." Against every instinct I had, against three years of training and seven years of medical school, I helped him stand. The crowd gasped, then erupted into cheers as Dominic Varga rose to his feet like nothing had happened. He skated to the bench under his own power, waving off the trainer who rushed toward him, and I was left kneeling on the ice with my heart trying to crack through my ribs. That hit should have killed him. I had seen the replay on the arena screen. I had seen his head snap back, seen the way his body went limp. No one walks away from that. No one skates away. But Dominic did. I gathered my bag and made my way back to the bench on legs that felt like rubber. Coach Thorne was screaming at the referees about the no-call. I looked at the opposing coach, who had an evil smile plastered on his face. That smile made my skin crawl. Like he was not sorry at all. Like he had done exactly what he meant to d "Cole." Coach Thorne's bark cut through my thoughts. "Is he playing?" I looked at Dominic, who was sitting on the bench with his helmet off, running a gloved hand through his dark hair. He met my eyes and gave me a single small nod. "I need to examine him first," I said. "Do it fast. We are down by two and I need my enforcer." I grabbed Dominic's arm and pulled him toward the tunnel, ignoring the curious looks from the other players. He came without resistance, which surprised me. Dominic Varga did not take orders from anyone, least of all the training staff. The medical room was quiet after the roar of the arena. I shut the door and pointed at the exam table. "Sit." He sat. I pulled on fresh gloves and started my assessment, checking his pupils, his reflexes, the range of motion in his neck. Everything was normal. Better than normal. "This doesn't make sense," I muttered. "What doesn't?" "You. All of this." I stepped back and stared at him. "I watched you take a hit that should have broken your neck. Your head snapped back at an angle that... I saw it, Dominic. I know what I saw." His jaw tightened. "You saw me fall down and get back up." "I saw you almost die." "But I didn't." The silence stretched between us, heavy and strange. His grey eyes were unreadable, and something about the way he was sitting, perfectly still, made me think of a predator waiting to see which way its prey would run. "I am going to recommend you sit out the rest of the game," I said finally. "Protocol for any head impact is…" "I am playing." "Excuse me…" "I said I am playing." He stood, and suddenly the room felt much smaller. He was six foot four and built like he was designed to hurt people, and for the first time in three years, I felt genuinely intimidated by him. "Clear me." "I can't clear you if you might have a brain injury." "I don't have a brain injury." "You don't know that." His eyes flashed, and I swear to God, just for a second, they looked gold. Not grey. Gold. Like an animal's eyes caught in headlights. I blinked and they were normal again, and I was suddenly very aware that we were alone in a room with the door closed. "Maren." His voice was softer now, almost gentle. "Trust me. I am fine. I need to get back out there." I should have argued. I should have called Dr. Park for a second opinion. Instead, I found myself nodding. "One more hit to the head and you are done for the night. Non-negotiable." "Agreed." He was already moving toward the door, but he paused with his hand on the handle. "Thank you. For getting to me so fast." Then he was gone, and I was left standing in the medical room with too many questions and no answers. The Reapers won that game in overtime. Dominic scored the winning goal. And I spent the whole night after lying awake in bed, replaying that moment when his eyes changed color and trying to convince myself I had just imagined it. I had not imagined it. Something was very wrong with Dominic Varga. And I was going to find out what.