Declan glides into position at the blue line, his stance powerful and controlled. Even from this distance, I can see the determination in his body language—shoulders set, stick perfectly positioned. It’s what my father calls “defensive presence,” that ability to own your space on the ice.

The Coyotes player shows no sign of slowing down. If anything, he accelerates, clearly planning to either blow past Declan or go right through him.

It happens so fast I can barely process it.

One second, Declan is braced for impact, and the next, there’s a sickening collision as the opposing player slams into him at full speed. The sound echoes through the arena—that horrible crack of bodies and equipment violently connecting.

Declan crashes to the ice with devastating force. His helmet flies off as he goes down, the other player landing on top of him before rolling away.

And then he doesn’t move.

The arena goes silent in an instant. I’m on my feet before I realize what I’m doing, my hands pressed against my mouth and my heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my fingertips. The crowd collectively holds its breath as medical staff rush onto the ice.

“Oh my god,” my mother whispers beside me, but her voice sounds distant and muffled, like I’m underwater.

I can’t tear my eyes away from Declan’s motionless form as the medics kneel beside him. His face is so still, so pale against the white ice. As if I’m trapped in some sort of slow-motion dream, I watch as the medics check his vitals and try to stir him back to consciousness. But it doesn’t work, so they signal to some of the other medics, and a few moments later they’re hoisting him up onto a stretcher.

As the medics carry him toward the tunnel, the only thought pounding through my head is that I need to be with him. Now.

The second they disappear from sight, something snaps inside me. I break out of my trance and burst into motion, racing down the steps as quickly as I can. My mother shouts after me, but I barely hear her. The only thing I care about is closing the distance between me and Declan.

I race through the corridor toward the medical area, my knowledge of the arena’s layout proving invaluable. Being Coach Dunaway’s daughter has its perks—I know exactly which service hallway to cut through to bypass the main security checkpoint. A few staff members glance my way, but nobody stops me. I’ve been wandering these halls since I was a teenager, and tonight, that familiarity is my ally.