Marked by the Puck: Icebound Hearts

forty seven seconds left on the clock an

efore the

The momentum. The way a man's center of gravity shifts just before something goes wrong. So while the Seattle Storm faithful a

ust check Marcus W

rase

nel mouth. Webb's helmet snaps back. His knees buckle wrong, that terrifying, boneless way that turns every j

ready

t, grabbing my medical kit from the

nto the surface itself, fifteen years of muscle memory keeping me upright even as I crouch beside Marcus. He's conscious, tha

" I snap twice in front of h

luggish, b

urts,"

Don't m

them furious and loud and in my way. I'm aware of them the way you're aware of weather, a distant, ir

tact. I press carefully along his left knee, the one that

iner appearing at my shoulder. "Poss

es from behind me. Low. Ce

e in my bac

weeks, but I already know that voice the way you know a

owly and t

his helmet. He's watching me with those unsettling gray eyes, not light gray, not soft gray, but the gray of storm clouds th

e me?"

Marcus. "Webb's taken harde

wing a whistle. None of that exists. There is only this enormous, arroga

with considerable effort. "But thank you for your medical opinion, Mr. Kane. Do you w

e surprise, more like the involuntary re

overre

on my patient." I h

tanding, closer than he needs to be, close enough that I can see the small scar through his left ey

teps

e the whole time, like the concession cost

on't let myself exhale unti

ain and a concussion protocol that will keep him off the ice for two weeks minimum. His knee got lucky. His head got luckier. I

everythi

olutely

ion until my pulse does something reasonable. Twenty six years old. One year out of residency. Youngest team physician in Storm history and only the

e a hockey player explain injur

shake

lms flat agai

ys the guy you put on ice when you need to change the game's emotional temperature, but his file tells a more complicated story. Older injuries managed with unusual self discipline. Pain tolerance that bord

's the part that bother

t a mistake. I

nd step back out into the corrid

tches me by

sweat and the particular shar

. V

d out of his gear, dark jeans, a gray henley pushed to the elbows, hair still damp from a shower. Without the pads he's somehow s

and also because it's true. The gash on his cheekbone has been bleedin

kno

eds st

kno

ion on his face. Not quite sheepish, I don't think Jax Kane does sheepish, but somethi

d," he says. "Night sta

act, closed. The night trainer locked up forty minutes ag

le

in my office,"

shifts

lly furnished with a desk and a medical recliner, but it has good lighting and everyt

ssion booth, requiring extensive coaxing before they'll actually use it. He sits with his elbows on his knees and h

eed a loca

ip

ook

e says. "It'll take long

ravado worth arguing with. His expression tells me it is

. "Tell me if you

cut is clean, two centimeters, just below the cheekbone, the kind of thing that opens easily in a fight and closes just as easily with three n

youth hock

r half a second.

ing," I say.

weren't just being careful.

on't answer it, which is

track?"

econd suture. "

" A pause. "Wh

where down the corr

compressed version of a story I don't tell, and something in my tone

ad is, "I'm not so

third suture. His

you to be," I

angry ab

." I hold the needle steady. "I'm not asking you to feel guilty, Mr. Kane. I'm asking you to unde

face. Brief. Complicated.

t one. "Keep it dry for forty eight hours.

him for the tape when his

Just there. Warm. A quest

mpletel

e," he says. He sounds

uld

aded with something darker at the edges, like cloud cover before a storm breaks. Close enough that the logical, professional part of my brain

e is not read

ceptibly, across the inside of my wrist, just the ghost

cliner. Moves toward the door with that particular eco

My voice is level

, and for a moment he's just a silhouette, e

ay," he

lea

ng moment, looking at nothing, my wri

, and write the most clinically detached