Take a Shot Read online

  Take A Shot

  Samantha Wayland

  Also by Samantha Wayland

  With Grace

  Destiny Calls

  Fair Play (Hat Trick #1)

  Two Man Advantage (Hat Trick #2)

  End Game (Hat Trick #3)

  Crashing the Net

  Home & Away

  Out of Her League

  Checking It Twice

  Take a Shot

  A Merry Little (Hat Trick) Christmas (Hat Trick #4)

  Take A Shot

  Copyright © 2017 Samantha Wayland

  Published by Loch Awe Press

  P.O. Box 5481

  Wayland, MA 01778

  978-1-940839-20-2

  Edited by Meghan Miller

  Cover Art by Caitlin Fry

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are a product of the author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Loch Awe Press, PO Box 5481, Wayland, MA 01778.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Dedication

  For my Hearties. I can’t begin to thank you enough for everything.

  Acknowledgements

  I must thank Stephanie Kay, whose superpower appears to be coming up with far better titles for my books than I ever could.

  Chapter One

  When Tim told the story later, far more often than he cared to, people would comment on how he had such a detailed memory of something that had actually taken a matter of seconds from start to finish. It was as if they thought he couldn’t hear the surprise in their tone, or guess the reason for it.

  Contrary to popular belief, Tim Robineau was not an idiot. He was perfectly aware he came across as a bit of a doofus sometimes, but it was just because he was super laid back. And liked hanging out with the boys and being stupid.

  That didn’t mean he was actually stupid.

  People made a lot of assumptions about hockey players, but more often than not, those assumptions were dead wrong. Everyone admired the quarterback in football, because a good one, a smart one, could look out over the field, and the chaos of bodies moving with and against each other, and make the right play.

  What people didn’t seem to understand was that a hockey team had twenty-two of those guys.

  So, maybe that was why Tim remembered exactly how the ice felt under his blades as he swung around behind the net, waiting for the puck. His best friend and roommate, Chris Kimball, was trying to dig the damn thing out of a scrum of players to send it along the boards to Tim. He tapped his stick on the ice, making sure Chris knew he was there, and scanned to see where the rest of the Ice Cats were positioned, looking for whatever the next play would be once he got the puck.

  He didn’t think anything of the defenseman barreling toward the knot of players hacking at the puck lost among their skate blades and sticks. It wasn’t until said defenseman hit the guy on the end—his own teammate—that time switched to slow motion.

  Every athlete, professional or otherwise, knew the risks. They studied them, learned how to avoid the worst of it and accepted that, if things went sideways, there was only so much they could control. So Tim knew, as he watched all four guys—not one of them less than six feet tall or under a hundred and eighty pounds—topple onto the ice with their legs and sticks tangled, that it wasn’t going to end well. He just didn’t know who or what would break—or how badly.

  The series of noises that followed was crystal clear, in spite of the roar of the crowd that echoed in the rafters: a helmet hitting the ice, a composite stick cracking apart, the dull thud of bodies and pads crashing into each other and the boards. These were familiar. But there was another sound, too. One that Tim had never heard before, but knew was bad even before Chris screamed.

  Later, he would learn it was the sound of a healthy twenty-four-year-old man’s tibia and fibula being snapped into three pieces. Each.

  But even without that knowledge, bile surged into Tim’s throat and his feet started moving. He couldn’t think of anything, couldn’t do anything, except obey his gut-deep, visceral need to make Chris stop hurting. It felt like panic and anguish and the Noro virus all at once.

  Mike Erdo, the defenseman he’d been planning to pass the puck up to, caught his arm and yanked him to a halt before Tim could grab the player on top of the pile and haul his ass off Chris.

  “Think,” Mike said sternly, letting go of Tim to drop his stick and shake off his gloves.

  Tim did the same and shed his helmet, too, his equipment flying behind him. He was distantly aware of the cold air on his bare fingers and the sweat on the back of his neck. He forgot that though, forgot everything, when his eyes locked with Chris’s. He went suddenly numb except for the ache in his chest.

  Chris was trapped in the middle of the pile, a man pinned beneath him and another two on top. He stared at Tim, ghost-pale and wide-eyed, his mouth hanging open as if he’d forgotten to close it after he’d screamed.

  Teammates shouted for the trainer and gathered around. More gloves and sticks littered the ice, the sounds of them landing more pronounced for how the crowd had gone eerily silent. The player least entangled with the pile rolled away and was summarily dragged clear.

  Hands reached to lift the player on top of the pile. Tim thought vaguely that he should help, that it was what he was going to do, but instead he fell to his knees and yanked off Chris’s glove, grabbing hold of his hand. Chris was still staring at him, silent, his expression full of pain and questions. Like Tim could possibly have any answers.

  His eyes scanned Chris’s body, just for an instant, and he swallowed back another, more violent urge to puke when he saw how Chris’s leg was bent.

  That was very bad. Very, very bad.

  But not as bad as the sound Chris made when they lifted the guy off him.

  Chris’s face drained of what little color it had left, even his lips going pale. Tears filled his eyes. They looked amazingly blue, his pupils narrowed down to pinpricks, almost swallowed by his irises as he groaned in agony and made a decent bid at breaking Tim’s fingers.

  It turned out Tim’s hand wasn’t all that numb after all—not that he cared. He was more concerned by the fact that he was shaking. That they both were. He slid his fingers over Chris’s pulse and felt how it galloped under the thin skin of his wrist.

  Trainers from both teams fell to their knees, one at Chris’s head, the other at his legs, both shouting out orders. They asked Chris questions about being able to move and feel, and all Tim could think was, how was there any doubt that Chris could feel?

  Whatever answers they derived from Chris’s short nods and one head shake were enough. They told Tim to put his free hand under Chris’s neck and he did it automatically, without taking his eyes from Chris’s. It wasn’t until Chris groaned in agony that Tim realized this was the part where they had to lift him off the poor guy who was still pinned bene
ath him, and straighten that damn leg.

  The bones in Tim’s hand ground together under Chris’s grip, but he held on. Squeezed back. A backboard appeared through the haze of tears now clouding his eyes. Then a doctor and a gurney. And finally they tried pulling Tim away. Chris held on tighter.

  “Let them take care of you. It’s going to be okay,” Tim said.

  Chris’s grip didn’t ease in the slightest. “No.”

  Tim felt so profoundly relieved to still have Chris’s hand in his, he almost smiled.

  “Come on,” snapped one of the trainers. “If he won’t let go, then you’re coming with us.”

  Tim nodded dumbly and skated along beside the gurney. He had the sense to look up at his coach when they got to the mouth of the tunnel that would take them back to the trainer’s room.

  “Go ahead,” Coach said with a grimace. “That was your last shift this period. But be in the locker room in five minutes.”

  Tim opened his mouth to tell his coach where he could shove it, but a tug on his hand drew him back from the brink of insanity. He looked down at Chris and realized staying to argue would just slow things down. It made the decision easy.

  As it turned out, there was little he could do anyway. They didn’t even bother going to the trainer’s room, rolling straight toward the door being help open by an EMT, the red flashing lights on the ambulance bouncing off the corridor dizzyingly.

  Chris closed his eyes and swallowed heavily. When they got to the end of the rubber matting, Tim automatically jerked to a stop before his skate blades could touch concrete.

  “Hold up, guys.”

  “You’ve got ten seconds,” the EMT muttered while he strapped Chris down for travel. A trainer started cutting the laces of Chris’s skates. Chris screwed his eyes closed and hissed.

  Tim hovered above the gurney and pressed his free hand to Chris’s cheek. His friend’s eyes snapped open and a tear escaped.

  “This is my stop,” Tim said, trying to sound calm, but undermined by the croak in his voice. He swept Chris’s tear away with his thumb.

  Chris blinked up at him. “Come with me?”

  “Coach will have my ass if I try it. And I’m pretty sure these guys aren’t going to let me into the ambulance with my skates on.” As if to prove his point, the trainer thrust Chris’s skates into Tim’s arms. “I’ll come to the hospital as soon as I can,” he promised.

  Chris’s weak smile made the ache in Tim’s chest worse.

  “It’s going to be okay,” Tim said with as much conviction as he could muster.

  Chris nodded and finally let go of his hand, but Tim could see he didn’t believe it. Not as they took him through the door to the waiting ambulance, and not as he looked back from inside it through the little window.

  Tim walked back to the locker room on wooden legs, grateful when he pushed through the door and found it still empty. How had the period not ended? It felt like hours had passed since he’d seen Chris go down on the ice.

  He recalled that sound—the one he would never forget—and was especially glad the room was clear as he emptied his stomach into the nearest trashcan.

  It wasn’t just about breaking bones and the kind of pain Tim had never experienced and couldn’t imagine. What would happen if Chris couldn’t play anymore? Sure, the Moncton Ice Cats were minor league, and Tim and Chris didn’t expect to take their hockey careers much further than this, but it was all they had. All they knew. Their friends, their jobs. They’d been in it together since they were practically just kids—eighteen years old and sure they’d died and gone to the heaven where people actually paid them to do what they loved.

  Tim wasn’t sure how long he stood there, braced against the wall, his head hanging from his shoulders. A warm hand on his neck was the only clue that he was no longer alone. Alexei, their goalie, didn’t say anything, just guided him to his seat in front of his locker. After six seasons with the team, this was the quietest intermission Tim could ever remember. No one said anything, not even to ask after Chris, or see how bad Tim thought it was. That alone told him that they all knew exactly how bad it was, too.

  For all that Tim would be able to remember every detail of the incident on the ice, he would never be able to recall one damn minute of the third period that followed. He must not have fucked up too badly, since he didn’t get his ass chewed out on the bench or afterwards in the locker room as he raced through his shower and getting dressed.

  He was just shrugging on his jacket and grabbing his car keys, nodding as guys shouted out messages to be passed along to Chris, when Mike blocked his exit.

  Tim was surprised to see Mike was dressed and ready to go. He plucked the car keys from Tim’s hand. “You are in no condition to drive.”

  The hell of it was, Mike was right. Tim wondered distantly how he’d managed to play hockey with his hands shaking like this.

  Still, he hesitated. “I’m planning on stopping at the apartment to get some stuff, then staying at the hospital. I won’t be able to bring you back here for your car,” he told Mike. He had no intention of leaving Chris until he was forced to or could bring him home.

  “Alexei will come get me,” Mike assured him, putting a hand on Tim’s arm. “Come on.”

  Tim’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah, okay. You should drive, then.” Another thought occurred to him and he looked up, surprised to find most of the team watching them. “If any of you see Michelle at Smitty’s tonight, can you let her know what happened?”

  A bunch of the guys nodded, though it was obvious they didn’t relish being the ones to tell his girlfriend he was blowing her off. She’d give him one hell of a piece of her mind later, but that was just par for the course. It wouldn’t even be the first time she’d accuse him of putting Chris before her and Tim couldn’t deal with that shit right now, particularly since she would be right.

  Chris woke up, the first time, flat on his back with his head spinning and a complete stranger smiling down at him. He would have cringed if he had control over his body, but he didn’t. Somehow, that was less alarming than it should have been.

  “Welcome back,” the nurse said, smile still in place.

  If she said anything after that, he didn’t remember it.

  When he woke a second time, he was propped up, his head on a nice soft pillow that was doing nothing to help with his pounding headache. He didn’t dare open his eyes. He just knew that would make it worse. He wished, fervently, to go right back to sleep. But holy shit, it tasted like something had died in his mouth—possibly a small, furry animal. Or maybe he’d swallowed a particularly ripe, unwashed hockey sock.

  He swallowed and let out a pathetic noise. A warm hand immediately stroked his cheek and fingers curled around his neck. Something—maybe someone’s thumb?—traced over the hinge of his jaw a moment before familiar plastic brushed his lips.

  He wanted a sip from that straw, so much, but he was teammates with Alexei Belov, so there was no way in hell he was risking it without looking first. Not that Alexei would hit a man while he was down, but most of the team had been conditioned, at this point to the level of Pavlovian instinct, to be cautious.

  At first, all Chris could see was dim lights and blobs of darker things. He blinked furiously and the image resolved to Tim hovering over him, his eyes searching Chris’s face, brows pinched with concern. That thumb stroked again and Chris had to blink some more, just to be sure he wasn’t dreaming.

  Had Tim ever touched him like this?

  “Here, take a sip. It’s water,” Tim said, his voice rough and deep and washing over Chris.

  Chris tried to do as Tim suggested, fumbling with the straw until Tim held the damn thing in place, his fingers brushing Chris’s lips.

  If Chris hadn’t felt as though he’d just been run over by a Mack truck pulling two trailers full of cement, he might have shivered. All he could manage, though, was a single skipped heartbeat and a sigh of relief as the cold water slid down his throat.

  He whin
ed pitifully when Tim took the straw away.

  Tim grinned. “You look like a wet cat when you make that face.”

  Chris scowled at his supposed friend, which only made Tim’s grin wider, his handsome face lighting up for a moment.

  “The nurse said you could only have a little to start, since the anesthesia might make you feel sick,” Tim explained as he set the cup aside on the little tray by the bed. His thick, dark brown hair was standing straight on end. All of it. He looked like a damned hedgehog, which Chris wished his sluggish brain had noticed when he’d been compared to a wet cat. He also looked tired. His full pink lips and thick, arched eyebrows were pulled down in a frown. His eyes, so dark blue people often assumed they were brown, intently focused on the contents of the bedside tray while he arranged it all just so.

  Then he turned back to Chris and fussed with the sheets, pulling them higher and smoothing them over his chest.

  Chris blinked again, wondering if they’d given him the good shit and he was hallucinating. They’d definitely given him something, since he felt distinctly…detached, and he couldn’t feel his leg at all. He wasn’t looking forward to when the drugs wore off and that last part changed.

  Or the part where Tim, his friend, his buddy—and nothing more, sadly—was fussing over him. He hadn’t even known Tim was capable of such…tenderness. If Chris hadn’t been as high as a kite, it might have pissed him off to discover something else to love about the guy. It had already been bad enough before Tim had apparently stood sentry at his bedside for…hours?

  Darting a gaze to the window, he tried to orient himself. It was pitch dark outside.

  “What time is it?”

  Tim glanced at his watch. “Almost midnight.”

  “Where am I?”

  Tim froze. “You don’t know where you are?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.