Boldly by Elise Faber
Prologue
Oliver, Nine Months Before
The score was tied.
He was exhausted.
It was double-overtime, game seven of the Stanley Cup Finals, and his legs were dead—and not just his legs, everyone on both teams’ legs were dead—and that meant plays were getting sloppy, turnovers were happening left and right, and collisions were getting gnarly. It also probably meant that the game-winning goal would be some garbage shot that ricocheted off a trio of players—and someone’s ass—before creeping home.
But for whose side, he didn’t know.
Oliver hoped it would be for them, of course, but truly, it could go either way.
Marcel banked the puck off the boards, and Oliver could see it wasn’t going to clear the blue line, so he hauled ass to pick it up, to clear it out.
He managed to get it over that line, to give his team a little breathing room, to get it deep enough to get fresh players on the ice.
But he paid the price, taking a hard slash on the wrists, pain lancing up his arms.
He nearly dropped his stick, his hands going numb for a brief moment, but he powered through it, held tight, and continued driving forward.
Even though he took another hit, this one to the back.
Not that the refs were going to call anything.
Double-overtime in the final game of the playoffs? Yeah, no. Nothing outside of the most egregious of hits was going to be called.
But, fuck, he’d appreciate it if Mark Goddamned Shelby would stop trying to pound his spine into his body. Former teammate and all-around asshole, Shelby had been unceremoniously traded to the Kings, and he had made it his personal mission to make every Breaker pay for the insult.
So much so that Oliver knew he’d be black and blue tomorrow.
Totally worth it, though, if he was able to hoist the Cup. Especially if him doing so meant that Shelby wasn’t.
Still, risk of bruises or not, Oliver battled along the boards, gaining a few inches.
But when he glanced over his shoulder, saw Mark was winding up again, Oliver let his instincts take over.
He kicked the puck forward, dodged to the right.
Shelby missed the crosscheck and stumbled.
Oliver saw the empty lane ahead, the chance to advance. A sudden surge of adrenaline had him bursting forward on tired legs to retrieve the puck, to pick it up on his stick and streak toward the Kings’ net.
He had space. He had opportunity.
He was going to end this.
Fifty feet from the net. Thirty. Ten.
Just him and the goalie…and a glimpse of an opening on the short side.
He held his breath. Fuck, maybe he even closed his eyes when he shot that puck. Maybe that was why he didn’t see it.
But whether it was a mere blink or an unconscious close of his eyelids, they snapped open at the sound.
Thunk.
Not the ping of a crossbar or post being hit, the puck deflecting out without crossing the goal line, but the solid thunk of the biscuit colliding with the wrapped metal support…at the back of the net.
The buzzer went.
The red goal light flicked on.
The crowd erupted.
And in all that joy and cacophony and chaos, he didn’t see Shelby coming.
Just felt the heavy impact.
Saw the ice coming up fast.
Then pain, so much pain…and the world went black.
