A scowl darkened his features. "Then I'm glad you don't have that authority."
Gaping at him, she placed a hand over her stomach. His words gutted her. Didn't her feelings, her fear, matter? Didn't her opinion carry any weight at all? Would it always be this way between them?
She forced her anger to cover the hurt. "But I did call the league's player safety committee during the second intermission to express my disapproval over the wording in the protocol guidelines. If they watch video of your fall, they'll see how hard your head hit the boards. That should be grounds for immediate removal, same as it is for a head hitting the ice."
"You called the league?" Icy fury frosted his gaze. "Reaching the Cup finals is what I've been waiting for my entire life. If you really cared about me, you'd see how much I need this and you'd give me your support, not try to take me away from it."
"You know what I live with, dealing with my dad's post-concussion issues. You know how much it scares and hurts me to see you out there stubbornly putting yourself in danger. If you cared about me, you'd put your health first. There's a lot more to life than playing hockey. You're only thirty-one. You should be thinking about the future, about what happens once your career is over."
His gaze narrowed and his brows drew together. "It sounds like you're giving me an ultimatum: hockey or you."
Breaking inside, she wrapped her arms around her torso. She would put his health first, even if he wouldn't, and even if it costs her a relationship that she was beginning to count on. "I guess I am."
"I don't think that's fair. I do care about you but..." He rubbed his hand over his forehead. "I'm not going to stop playing. I can't."
She nodded, feeling her heart turn to straw in her chest. "Then I guess there's nothing more to say."
Dylan clicked open his seatbelt. His gaze held hers, then roamed over her face. Regret, sadness, want, and defiance swirled in his eyes. He opened the door, and a moment later, he was gone.
Blair started the car and pulled out of the driveway. Deflated and defeated, she headed home.
Writing down her grievances in a letter to the league was a good idea. Sharing it with the world was an even better one. If it was too late to help Dylan, she would make damn well sure that she was able to help someone else.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
AS THE MINUTES COUNTED down to the start of game four, Dylan sat in the locker room, observed his fellow teammates, and tried to get a handle on his thoughts.
The pounding in his head was impossible to ignore. The pain relievers he'd downed hadn't kicked in, and the lights in the room were too damn bright. He needed the series to be over after the game. He wasn't sure if his body could take going through another sixty minutes of play, not the way it felt.
Blair had been right. He knew it. Not that he could tell her. Not that she would listen. He'd ruined things there, and she was nowhere to be found. But the open letter she'd written, a scathing report on concussions and protocol and changes that needed to be made—that had gone viral. Every media outlet and sports site had picked it up, and linked him to it. The team and the doctor had drawn strong criticism and the topic had dominated the series.
He didn't like the extra scrutiny and speculation. He was sure the team and the league didn't either. But again, she'd been right.
Standing, he tucked thoughts of Blair away and prepared to lead his team to victory. He needed to make the win happen. Too many people depended on him. Hell, the entire city was in a frenzy.
And if playing today was going to cost him his shot with Blair, then there damned well better be a win and the Cup at the end of the game.
He walked to the middle of the locker room and waited until the guys quieted down. "I'll keep it simple. Play for each other. This is our time. Our chance. Our Cup. You know your roles. Let's get it done."
He raised his hand in the air. "Bedlam on three. One, two, three..."
"Bedlam!" The combined shout of twenty-two voices made him wince. He forced a smile and strode to the door, tapping each teammate on the shoulder as they exited the room.
Leo, Rod, Vince, and Celek hung back. Rod waited until everyone else had exited the room. "You okay?"
Dylan averted his gaze to the back wall. "Sure."
"Dylan." Leo stepped forward. "You're not okay. You were slower than usual during the warm-ups."
"Just a little headache. Come on, let's get out there."
"What if it's not a little headache?" Rod's voice had grown quiet. "You're wincing at the lights. What if it's another concussion? Just like Blair was worried about. Dylan, you should let Dr. Bisson know that you're not okay. It's dangerous to go out there if you have one."
"I'm getting out on that ice." Anger, frustration, and adrenaline coursed through his veins, heating his blood and firing his muscles in a vicious surge. The worry on his friends' faces loaded him with guilt, making him feel even worse. He rubbed his hand over his chest. "It's so close, guys. So close. I can't not play. I figured if anyone would understand, you would. If we can just win today, and get the sweep... then I won't have to worry about trying to play through a game five, six, or seven."
Leo stepped between them and laid his hands on both Dylan and Rod's shoulders. "All right. Everyone needs to calm down. If Dylan is going to play, then we're going to have his back and help him out."
Celek stepped forward and placed his hand on Dylan's other shoulder. "You've always been
