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  And that lit a fire in him that nothing else could.

  We’re her family now.

  The reminder of the Pit’s claim on his daughter settled him just enough to let sanity return.

  Hope saw him and waved, tugging Mara’s hand and pointing. Mara looked, and he could barely see her grin. She blew him a subtle kiss, then turned to go into the seats, but Hope kept her attention on Zane.

  He stared right back, swallowing hard. He tapped his helmet once, then his heart, then his head again, before putting his fingers to his mouth.

  Her smile could have lit the arena all by itself.

  He would play for her tonight. Avenge her wrongs, if it could be done by proxy, and protect her from any and all threats. Suddenly, every opponent on the ice was on the side of his ex-wife and saw Hope as nothing more than an inconvenience.

  Returning his focus to the ice, Zane exhaled slowly through his nose, a quiet fire simmering in his gut. He followed his teammates off the ice, barely hearing their pep talk, barely aware of skating back out when he was introduced, and barely seeing the puck drop in the faceoff.

  But the moment that puck hit the ice, he was on.

  He checked a Cyclones winger into the boards in the first minute of the game, the hit clean, and the puck safely swept to his own line.

  Shadowing his forwards, Zane hovered, his eyes catching every flick of the puck and position of the orange-jersey-wearing Cyclones. He got a cleared puck and sent it to Boomer for safety before blocking a winger from getting closer to it. Janny fumbled a charge to the goal, and Zane retreated to the goal with a muffled curse as the Cyclones turned the tables on them.

  “Hot! Hot! Hot!” he bellowed, though his wingers were already scrambling to get back to him.

  Zane swept to his left, engaging the puck carrier head on, when the puck moved to his right, just as Zane hoped it would. He charged towards the forward, picking up speed as he did so, and crushed him hard into the boards, only belatedly going after the puck at his feet. He barely got it free enough for Janny to break away with it.

  Zane followed, leaving the beleaguered Cyclones winger behind, then turned and flattened another coming behind Janny.

  The whistle blew, and Zane rolled his eyes.

  “Interference,” the ref called. “Two minutes.”

  “Really?” Zane barked at him. “Really?”

  The ref pointed at the box, and Zane waved a dismissive arm at him, shaking his head as he skated to the box.

  The crowd booed their agreement.

  Zane sat moodily and watched the clock tick down. His left knee bounced with agitation, his eyes tracking every play and movement of the puck. He rose to his feet frequently, calling out to his teammates, who were doing a decent job of containing the powerplay. But that couldn’t last forever.

  He needed to be out there.

  The penalty finally wound down, and Zane was released, charging out of the box headlong and making a beeline for the right winger, currently carrying the puck towards the Hounds goal.

  Their collision was a thing of beauty and without any possible penalty call as Zane slammed into him. The action knocked him off course and off his feet, sending the puck harmlessly to Pike, who swept it around the goal to Boomer so he could take it safely up ice.

  The Hounds line took the puck from him, and with a quick succession of great puck movements, a goal was scored.

  Zane exhaled in relief and swept back around to his starting position. The crowd was amped up, and usually he would have encouraged them with gestures to bring it up or with fist pumps. This time, he only nodded at them all.

  It seemed to do the trick well enough, and the noise went up another notch.

  The music leaking through the speakers of the arena added to the energy, the beat pounding hard in Zane’s ears. It drowned out all possible distraction and returned his focus to center ice.

  The Hounds won the faceoff and fiddled around in the Cyclones’ zone without making much progress. Zane and Boomer switched off the ice and cheered on their team until the buzzer signaled the end of the first period. Zane headed off the ice with his teammates, wishing the next seventeen minutes would fly by.

  Thankfully, his wish was granted, and it seemed like only moments later that he was switching back out onto the ice, shortly after the Hounds had scored another goal. He had a couple of great hits, ones that lit the crowd up, and none that had him sent to the penalty box.

  Then one of the wingers took a cheap shot at Kelso that wasn’t called, and Zane felt his less sportsmanlike attitude come out. He swept around, hovering as he waited for the next opportunity, and found himself grinning slowly as the Cyclones were making another press for goal. Zane pushed forward as they shuttled the puck among themselves, and he lowered his shoulder to ram into the offending Cyclones winger from behind, sending the smaller player flying to the ice.

  Two Cyclones players rushed at him in revenge, but Zane avoided any and all intention of fighting with them. One penalty would be enough, and as far as he was concerned, the score was settled.

  The ref called the penalty for crosschecking, and this time Zane made no attempt to fight it. He knew full well what his penalty was, and he was fine with it. This time he did give the crowd behind the penalty box a cocky grin, and they roared their approval. He sat in the box with more of his usual swagger and attitude, though he wouldn’t commit fully to it. He wasn’t drumming up penalties for his own amusement this time.

  This was his version of coping and therapy.

  Very cathartic.

  Five minutes in the box felt much longer than seventeen minutes in the locker room at intermission had, but at least he felt better about it.

  A good hit was worth appreciating.

  The powerplay finally ended, and he was free to return to the ice. The front line switched out for a new shift, and Zane hovered protectively on his side of center ice, forcing him to cool off just enough to keep from wasting game time. His hits were hard, and he would have a few more before the night was out, but there was no sense in using them all up before the third period started. Something needed to be a finale.

  Besides, he was more than just a great hitter.

  He met a Cyclones player at the boards, scuffling for the puck and tapping it away before chasing after it, falling back when one of his own players took it forward. He moved up the further the play moved and kept the puck in play when the Cyclones attempted to clear it. A brazen charge by the Cyclones center, playing on fresh legs, caught them all off guard and sent Zane backpedaling almost frantically to get in a better position.

  Boomer suddenly streaked across his field of vision, crashing hard into the center with enough force that the cracking sound of it made a general moan rise up from the crowd. Ramsey dropped back to carry the puck up the boards, racing it out of danger, and Boomer, whooping at the lack of call, followed him as shadow as far as he could.

  “That was close,” Zane muttered to himself, hunching over as he inched forward, his eyes tracking the play. He glanced over his left shoulder at Pike, who tapped his helmet with his stick in an almost salute.

  Zane nodded back, then looked at the play again. He counted quickly, frowning, then heard a commotion to his right.

  The Cyclones player Boomer had hit still lay on the ice, not moving. The fans near him had only just noticed and were beginning to call out about it.

  Zane swore and raced over to him. “Hey!” he bellowed, waving at the refs. “Hey! Hey!”

  He heard a whistle blow as he reached the player, scrambling in his mind for the name as he dropped to his knees. “Breckin. Breckin, can you hear me?”

  The player lay there, eyes open, staring up at nothing, though he seemed to be breathing.

  “Breckin,” Zane said again, knowing better than to touch him as Breckin’s teammates started to come to them. “Hang on, buddy. Medics are headed out.” He turned and waved frantically, grunting with approval as Kelso ushered the athletic trainer out to th
em and Boomer had their doc.

  Zane scooted out of the way when they arrived, and he skated over to Pike at the goal, who had straightened fully and pushed back his mask. “I didn’t even see him,” Pike muttered, squirting the water from his water bottle into his mouth.

  “No one did,” Zane reminded him. “Killer hit, and the play moved so fast.” He shook his head, then gestured for water, which Pike squirted into his mouth for him. “It’s not good, Pike. The kid isn’t responsive.”

  Pike hissed as he grimaced. “That sucks. He’s gonna be all-star good in about two years if this isn’t it.”

  Zane nodded, watching as the medics brought the stretcher out on the ice. Some of the Cyclones in the box had their heads lowered, and even some of the Hounds were doing the same. No matter who the player was, no matter whom he played for, no one wanted to see this.

  The medical staff seemed to have some trouble figuring out how to lift Breckin onto the stretcher on the ice with the numbers they had. Without thinking, Zane skated over.

  “Can I help?” he offered, putting a hand on the shoulder of the nearest Cyclones player, who had also come forward.

  The player turned to him, a C on his jersey, a relieved smile on his face. “That’d be great, Z.”

  Zane nodded and patted his shoulder, then looked at the doctor. “Where do you need me, doc?”

  The doctor gave them all clear instructions, and they carefully lifted Breckin onto the stretcher. Zane was glad to see the kid responding now, though his words were slurred and he wasn’t making much sense. The medical team strapped him down, then hurried him off the ice to the applause of the crowd.

  Zane skated over to center ice, where the captain and another player watched their teammate leave the ice. “You guys good?”

  They nodded, one of them shrugging. “Doesn’t look great, but it’s out of our hands. We’ll play our hearts out for him.”

  Boomer skated over to them, looking a little shaken. “Hey, I told Breckin on his way out, but I’m not sure he’ll remember it. I didn’t mean to hit him that hard, definitely didn’t mean to hurt him. I’m really sorry, guys.”

  The captain reached over and patted Boomer’s back twice. “No sweat, Boomer. We’re good. Any of my guys that aren’t good, they’ll hear it from me.”

  Boomer nodded, then he and Zane skated back to their position, a little quieter than they had been earlier. “I hate when that happens,” Boomer muttered.

  “Agreed.” Zane cleared his throat and turned to face center ice again. “Like he said, though. Out of our hands now. Let’s light ’em up.”

  At what point did the shaking of one’s hands become something to worry about?

  It had been five days, and both of Mara’s hands still trembled at the memory of the hockey player that had been carted off of the ice. She had dreamed about it every night since, only the face she saw on the player each time belonged to Zane. Waking up had brought relief and panic in equal measure, but it was the two times she hadn’t woken up immediately that scared her most.

  Dramatic medical procedural shows hadn’t done her any favors in her life, if the turn of those two particular dreams was anything to go by.

  She hadn’t told Zane about the dreams yet, given that he’d been away with the team and played games three out of the five nights he’d been gone.

  Tonight they were going out, though he wouldn’t tell her where and had only said to meet him at the park. Waiting there now, Mara was afraid she’d put a strange spin on things if she flung herself on Zane and refused to let go. She needed to see him alive, well, and whole. She had watched every single minute of every single game and texted him immediately after each one, breathlessly waiting for him to respond.

  He always did, and as far as she could tell, he hadn’t suspected her panic.

  Her fear over his potential and completely hypothetical injury startled her—particularly the depth of that fear. It consumed her thoughts, her emotions, and, as evidenced by her current tremors, her hands.

  She couldn’t lose Zane. Couldn’t see him hurt. Couldn’t bear the thought of either.

  The intensity of those feelings terrified her. It was so fast, so soon, and so much . . . so much. Way more than she’d ever felt for any other guy in her life. But was that because she was afraid, or was the fear evidence of her feelings?

  Seeing Zane would tell her that. She would know how she felt and what to do moving forward where they were concerned.

  Spending time with Hope while Zane had been gone had been good for her, mostly because she knew Hope had been just as afraid about the injury they had witnessed as Mara had been. She’d turned to her with wide eyes and asked if her daddy was going to get hurt like that too. Mara had been able to convince her that it wouldn’t happen, that her dad played hockey every day and never got hurt like that, but the question hadn’t left Mara’s mind since then.

  She doubted that Andrew Breckin had been hurt like that before or that anyone would think he’d have to be carted off the ice like that. He would have had years of experience of not being seriously injured to go off of, just like Zane did. His family would have lived some version of Mara’s dream, though she had heard that he would make a full recovery, despite his season being done.

  She needed to see Zane. She needed to hold Zane, and she needed Zane to hold her.

  She wouldn’t be okay until he did.

  “Hello, beautiful.”

  The low, warm purr rippled across her skin like rays of sunshine, and Mara turned towards it, a sob and gasp combining in her throat. “Zane!”

  His crooked grin was there, and he eyed her up and down with the sort of heated surveyance every woman had ever dreamed of. “I don’t know how you did it, but somehow you became more perfect while I was gone.”

  The flattery caught her square in the chest, and she felt her eyes begin to burn with tears. She reached for his face and crushed her lips to his, arching into him with a feverous energy suddenly screeching through her. How had five days felt so much longer?

  Zane’s arms were instantly around her, though he wasn’t matching her in the almost frantic way she was attacking him. At all. He seemed to be trying to slow things down, draw things out, maybe even rein her in, yet he wasn’t stopping anything. One of his hands ran up and down her back in a slow, steady cadence, and Mara could feel herself relaxing into him.

  “Baby,” he murmured as he finally broke away. He smoothed his thumb over her cheek, meeting her eyes and somehow seeing everything. “Not that I didn’t love that, surprising as it was, but that was intense, even for us. What’s going on? You okay?”

  How had he known so soon? Mara was a terrible liar, it was true, but she hadn’t said anything at all.

  “I missed you,” she whispered, leaning into him, her brow touching his chin. “And I’m sorry.”

  His arms wrapped around her again, holding her snuggly against him. “Sorry for missing me? Sweetheart, I missed you too, there’s nothing to be sorry about.”

  Her heart fluttered at his admission. “No,” she murmured as she swallowed, needing to get this out. “I’m sorry that I took Hope to a game where someone was seriously hurt. It’s all she talked about that night, and she brings it up every time I see her now.” Tears welled in Mara’s eyes, even behind her closed lids, and she slid her hands down from Zane’s neck, gripping his shirt. “I’m so sorry. Your daughter is afraid of your job because of me.”

  “Mara,” Zane soothed gently, his hands moving along her spine again. “That is not your fault. Injuries happen in hockey. They happen all the time. Not always that bad, but they do happen. Hope was going to see a bad one sooner or later.”

  Mara shook her head against him. “But it had to be the one I took her to. It feels like my fault. It’s my fault she’s scared to have you play hockey now.”

  Zane sighed a laugh, pressing his lips against her hairline. “Baby, last week she was scared of bedbugs because she learned what they are. It’s fine.”
<
br />   She reared back, frowning at him. “Bedbugs and getting carted off the ice on a stretcher are not the same thing!”

  “No,” he agreed slowly, “they’re not. Sounds like Hope isn’t the only one scared of my job.”

  Mara exhaled shakily, gripping his shirt in her hands as the memories rushed back in. “I thought I was going to be sick the entire time I watched the medical staff work on him. I know just enough to scare myself with that stuff, if that makes sense. I wasn’t seeing Andrew Breckin on that stretcher, I saw you, and that . . .” She shuddered, which prompted Zane to pull her in closer.

  She let him, resting her head on him and sliding her arms around him. “I could barely make it through any of your other games after that. I did, but barely. Every time you got hit, or you hit someone, I expected you to be badly hurt. I feel like an idiot; I told Hope you play hockey all the time and never get hurt, but the reality is . . . you could. You really could, and even though I know you probably won’t, I can’t let go of that fear.”

  “Sweetheart . . .” Zane’s voice rumbled in his chest, reverberating against her and sending warm shivers through her. “Would you like to know how many season-ending injuries I have had in my career?”

  “None?” she offered dryly, though she really didn’t want to know.

  “Five,” he said simply.

  Mara looked up at him in confusion. “Five? Really?”

  He nodded, giving her a soft, crooked smile. “Two in peewee, two in high school, one my rookie season. I bounced back. You’re in medicine, babe, you know how recovery works. They fix us up, we work hard, and we get back to it. It’s not fun, but it’s part of the job. My buddy Clint was in the Marines for a few years, and now he plays for St. Louis. Do you think his job now is as dangerous as his job then?”

  “The comparison doesn’t matter,” Mara insisted. “It’s just . . .” She swallowed hard. “I don’t want to lose you.”

  Zane’s eyes widened, and he brought one hand to Mara’s jaw. “You aren’t going to lose me. Ever. Not on the ice, not in real life, not anywhere. I’m healthy, I’m strong, and I’m safe. I’m not going anywhere, okay?”