Taking His Shot

his teammates. The memory surfaced of the last time he'd scored a goal, which had been the last moments in the last game he'd played. He'd high-fived his teammates as he glided the length of the bench and then had been slammed into from behind by an opposing player hell-bent on knocking him out of the game. The impact had been like a train crashing into him. He didn't have a memory of the rest of that night. Everything was hazy, like a dream. But standing in the exact spot where he'd sustained that second concussion, a chill crept over his skin.

He reached the end of the bench and met Blair's gaze. She smiled gently, as though she understood.

His trepidation eased. No matter what happened, he had people looking out for him. He didn't doubt for one moment that if she saw a cheap shot like that again, she'd jump over the boards and rush to defend him, just like any other Bedlam player.

Tampa Bay responded with the lone goal of the second period.

In the middle of the third period, he battled in the corner for the puck. The glass reflected a flash of movement, and a Tampa Bay winger barreled into his back. His chest hit the glass and his face pressed against the cool surface. His breath knocked out of his lungs and he lost control of the puck. But quickly regained his balance. The hit had been hard, delivered with the same intensity that Dylan himself always gave. He was fine, and glad to have gotten it out of the way. He rejoined the play. Leo followed the Tampa Bay player's trail, and knocked into the winger at the blue line, freeing up the puck for Vince to swoop in. He rushed down the ice, flying toward Dylan, and one-timed at shot from the blue line. It flew past the goalie's side and smashed into the back of the net.

The horn sounded for the end of the game and filled him with a sense of relief. He'd made it through one game. Nothing bad had happened. His body didn't feel off or funny. He was going to be okay. Best of all, they'd earned the win. Dylan congratulated his teammates and followed them down the tunnel.

Kelsey stopped him outside the locker room. His sister worked in fan outreach and did videos with player interviews for the Bedlam website, in addition to doing segments for the national network. Microphone in hand, she smiled at the camera. "We're here with Bedlam captain Dylan Fraser. Dylan, your recovery took six weeks. What's it like to be back in the lineup?"

"It's awesome. I missed being out on the ice with the boys. I missed playing in front of our fans. I'm really glad to be back."

"You took that hit in the third period. How are you feeling?"

His mind replayed being checked into the boards. "I feel great. I'm one hundred percent healed. The most important thing is that we managed to walk away with the win. The guys all worked hard tonight. It was a team effort."

"There you have it, Bedlam fans. The inside scoop from the captain. That's it for this edition of Kelsey's Corner. See you next time." Kelsey signed off and then lowered her microphone. With the camera gone, her wide celebratory smile faded and concern filled her gaze. "It's just me now. How are you really? Mentally, physically, emotionally?"

"I'm good. I swear. Being out there was a little rough, but I settled in."

"Good." She leaned up to hug him. "You're all sweaty. Go shower."

"Thanks." He entered the locker room and pulled off his jersey. More media interviews awaited him. Then his own post-game routine. Throughout, he was attuned to Blair's presence. But she had duties—handling treatments and injury assessments, talking with the coaches—and didn't need him getting in her way. Instead, he watched her work. The graceful lines of her body reminded him of a dancer. She moved from one player to the next, offering advice and dispensing care with a confident tilt of her shoulders and chin, and a smile that warmed his heart every time.

She wound her way to him when he eased himself into the cold tub. "You looked good out there. How are you feeling? Any symptoms coming back?"

The anxiousness in her gaze needed to be soothed. He knew that she drew parallels between her dad's concussions and his—she'd mentioned the symptoms often enough. If she worried too much, she might not give him a chance.

So he smiled and hoped pain-free came through in his expression. "I feel like a broken record, telling everyone that I feel fine tonight. My sister, the media, the guys, the coaches, the equipment manager, Peter, and now you. I'm good."

Her eyes narrowed, forming a line between her brows, and her scrutiny intensified like she was assessing an injury. "Are you really?"

"I swear. I'll never lie to you. You'll be the first to know if anything feels off."

The lines faded and her expression eased. "All right then. We have a deal. I trust you."

"You can, you know." He held her gaze for a long moment, willing her to believe him.

She glanced behind her at the players who still needed attention, then turned back to him. "I'm happy you had a good game. I know how badly you wanted to get back on the ice."

"Yeah. One game down. I'll be able to relax a little more now. Well, as much as a player can relax in the playoffs." He laughed as he let his gaze roam her body. Her Bedlam shirt and tan pants were modest and gave only a hint at her figure. His hands itched to dive under the fabric and feel her. But just as much as he yearned for that, he also wanted the simple things like sharing a meal together, and holding her close while watching a movie, and holding her hand as they walked along the street.

Her fingers met his on the side