"What are you doing up here?" Aimee asked, wide-eyed.

Hearing the confusion in her voice, a group of us turned to see Jack stroll into the suite. The room was packed with friends and family who'd come out to support the team before they made their playoff run, but there was no mistaking him. Jack stood tall and polished, dressed in a navy suit as he eased his way through the hordes of people to the spot a group of us had managed to snag right at the glass.

"I'm no expert," Cameron added, lifting a brow as he gestured towards the rink below, "but shouldn't you be down on the ice?"

From where we sat, we had a bird's-eye view as the light show began and the players rushed out—Jack supposedly one of them.

"Don't worry, I was a healthy scratch. Coach benched a few of us tonight as a precaution," Jack explained, easing the hint of worry that'd crept into Aimee's features as he leaned in for a quick kiss. Pulling back, he wrapped his arms her and turned my way. "But your man got bumped to the starting line because of it."

Henry—who, unfortunately, had decided to fly out and watch the game with us—mumbled a triumphant string of words under his breath as Isla gasped with surprise and Cameron grinned.

Meanwhile, pride swelled in the center of my chest. "Seriously?" I asked, swiveling my gaze back towards the ice.

Sure enough, I immediately caught sight of Seb, in line with the rest of the starters, his helmet off and hair loose as the music died down and the national anthem began. This, I knew, was the chance he'd been waiting for since he'd joined the Knights, and when the last notes of The Star-Spangled Banner filled the arena, anticipation prickled my skin. Applause broke out for the singer, though I was too concentrated on the return of the announcer's voice to join in.

Feeding on the energy of the crowd, he thanked everyone for coming out tonight, as well as supporting the team during the whole of the season before leading into the line-up. "Tonight, starting in net, we have number thirty, Ryan Nyberg!" I brought my hands together, joining in with the fans below. The defensemen were announced, and while I didn't know either of them, I continued to cheer. "At left-wing, number forty-six, Elias Orlov! At right-wing, number twenty-two, Sebastian Brookes!"

I barely acknowledged Wellsley's name, which came next, because I—along with Isla, Cameron, and Aimee—was too busy pushing my lungs to the limit as I screamed in support. I didn't care about or acknowledge the looks of exasperation sent our way from the people in the suite focused more on schmoozing and socializing than the game. It was Seb's night, and I would cheer to my heart's content.

Before I knew it, the players had lined up in their positions, the puck was dropped, and the game begun.

Right off the bat, Wellsley won the face-off and the Knights gained possession, pushing Chicago back into their zone to defend. On the attack, Orlov looked for an open lane, but when it was clear there was none, he launched the puck across the back boards and Seb picked it up. He didn't hold onto it, however, passing it off quickly to Wellsley, who was racing through the defense. Chicago's goalie moved a few inches, readying himself for the anticipated shot, but with Seb sliding in on the other side of net, Wellsley saw the better option.

The goalie did not.

I watched, my heart in my throat, as Wellsley chipped the puck across to Seb, who took the open shot and scored.

The lamp behind the net lit up, signaling a goal, and I sprang to my feet. Beer in hand, my lips stretched into a wide grin as I let out an exultant cheer.

"Yeah, Seb!" Isla cheered, whistling in celebration as Cameron whooped, his gleaming eyes watching proudly as his brother basked in the glory of scoring.

It was almost too outrageous to believe that in the first sixteen seconds of his first major league start, Seb had managed to land a puck in the back of our opponent's net. Yet he had.

"Oh my god," I mumbled, still in disbelief as I returned to my seat. "I can't believe that just happened."

Jack chuckled. "I don't think Chicago believes it either."

My lips curled and my focus was drawn back towards the ice as the same players lined up for another puck drop.

The thrill surrounding the first goal faded fast and the periods passed in a blur. Chicago quickly realized this wouldn't be an easy win for them, despite the key missing players on our roster, and vigorously tore after the puck. But the Knights certainly weren't backing down. Both teams were determined to end their season on a high note, and deep into the third period the score was 2-1 in our favor.

Which meant Chicago was getting desperate as the minutes wound down. And sloppy.

A rushed, miscalculated pass across our blue line was picked off by one of our players before he raced down the center of the ice towards Chicago's net, giving the rest of the Knights an opportunity to change lines. Leaping over the boards, Seb hurried down the ice to assist his teammate. Connecting with a drop pass, he barely got his stick on the puck before two white jerseys swarmed him.

Wellsley rushed passed, picking up the puck before circling the back of the net, only to collide with an opposing player against the boards. Sticks clashed as two more players—one from each team—joined the battle for the puck, and I heard Jack's nervous exhale as it came loose and skidded to an open spot on the ice.

Right where Seb was headed.

I was on the edge of my seat, holding my breath as I watched him come to a sudden stop, but instead of a setting up for a slap shot, he launched the puck through all the Chicago players and passed it off to one of our defensemen hovering inside the blue line.

It was a smart decision. A chance for everyone to get back into position and create a new scoring play, but things didn't quite work out according to plan.

One of the Chicago forwards had been charging towards Seb during the short amount of time he held possession, and there was no stopping him, even after the puck went sailing across the ice.

Seb made a move to skate towards an open area and was blindsided by the player's attack, which sent him sailing straight into the boards.

I cringed, waiting for a Chicago player to touch the puck so the whistle would sound at the blatant boarding penalty, but as the seconds ticked by and we held possession, Seb didn't get up. He didn't move.

A wave of dread washed over me.

"Shit," Cameron said when the Knights finally lost the puck and the whistle blew, looking worried as he tugged a hand through his hair.

"That doesn't look good," Aimee commented, watching the replay of the hit, and as I forced myself to watch, I had to agree.

It wasn't a clean hit. Not in the slightest. With the video rewind slowed down, everyone could see how Seb had first been hit below the knees with the player's stick. He'd then been forced off his feet with a violent push to the neck, and as he collided with the boards, head first, he'd collapsed onto his bent legs.

Enraged fans roared in an arena-wide heckle.

"Come on. Get up," I muttered. My fingers twitched and my leg bounced. "Get up." When my will wasn't enough, I glanced desperately at Henry and Jack, who stood behind me, both tense with their eyes on the ice. "Why isn't he getting up?"

"Shake it off, man," Henry said, ignoring me completely as his hands clenched by his sides. "Shake it off."

But still, Seb didn't move.

The team's medical staff rushed onto the ice while the referees got together for a moment to confirm the call. It was ruled as boarding, and resulted in the offending Chicago player being ejected with a game misconduct.

In that moment though, the fact the player had gotten a deserving penalty didn't matter to me. All that mattered was finding out if Seb would be okay.

Jack's hand came down on my shoulder, though it was with minimal comfort. "Don't stress yet," he said, attempting to be the voice of reason. "You can't know how bad it is until he gets checked out."

I knew he was right, in theory, but that didn't suddenly heal my distress. I was worried. Insanely worried, and when the medics managed to get Seb conscious enough to be carted off the ice—with the assistance of his teammates supporting his body—I only let out a small breath of relief.

Because in my gut I knew that this wouldn't just be an injury he could shake off in a week or two. It was one that could impact his career, and it didn't matter how amazing he'd played throughout the course of the season, or even in this game alone. No. This one stroke of bad luck had the potential to cost him everything.