Make It Sweet

Brommy was particularly jovial as we put on our gear. His big hand clamped down on my head and mussed my hair vigorously. “Got a nice head of lettuce growing there, Ozzy. You need some dressing for that?”

In the early days, everyone had called me Ozzy in reference to my last name, Osmond. Then it was shortened to Oz—as in The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. As in I got possession of the puck, and magic happened.

I ignored the white lights that flickered before my eyes and the way Brommy’s rough treatment of my head made the room swirl—momentarily—and slapped his head in return. “Not all of us style our flow, Goldilocks. But then, you need all the beauty help you can get.”

A couple of the guys snorted in good humor. Brommy grinned wide, displaying his grille and the lack of his right lateral incisor. If I’d had a tooth knocked out, I would have had the surgery and gotten that shit fixed. But Brommy liked showing it off. The massive left guard thought it made him look more intimidating.

He also loved to tell women that he’d caught a biscuit in his bracket. The bad idiom made him laugh every time. Women fell for his goofball act, so I wasn’t going to argue with his methods.

“We can’t all be pretty as you, Cap.” He reached for the medal of Saint Sebastian that he wore around his neck, kissed it twice, and then tucked it back under his gear. I couldn’t fault him for the ritual; I taped my sticks. Anyone else did it and . . . well, I wasn’t willing to let anyone else do it. Or touch them before a game. Not an option.

“Please. Linz is the pretty one.” Which was why we called him Ugly. Go figure.

“Linz doesn’t have a gorgeous girl promising to love him forever.” Brommy nudged me with a grin.

I fought my own. “This is true.”

Cassandra, my fiancée, was gorgeous. She loved hockey and had the same taste as I did in everything. We never fought. Being with her was easy. She took care of everything so I didn’t have to worry about anything other than playing the game. Her words. But I appreciated them.

I hadn’t planned on getting married. But Cassandra was so low maintenance that when she asked if we were ever going to make it official, I figured, Why not? It wasn’t as though I’d find anyone more easygoing. Cassandra was the cherry on top of my perfect sundae life.

The guys traded more insults. I taped sticks with Jorgen, listened to Mario’s pregame anthem of “Under Pressure,” and stayed the hell out of the way of our goalie, Hap. You messed with him before a game, and you might as well have dug your own grave.

Mentally, I was ready. Physically, my skills had been honed to perfection. But behind it all was a new whisper, the barest hint of sound that I didn’t want to hear. I’d been ignoring that nagging voice since my last concussion. It sounded a lot like my doctor. I hated that guy.

I knew I wasn’t supposed to hate the people who wanted only to help me. But I did. Because what the fuck did he know? I knew my body better than anyone. My life was perfect. Nothing, and no one, was going to change that.

So I pushed that insidious little voice back into the shadows, where it belonged.

I’d always been good at pushing away things that didn’t matter. Focus on the prize. Focus on the game. That was it. Keep the mind clear and the body strong.

I kept that focus when the game started. I kept it with every play.

It wasn’t until I was on the attack and the puck got caught up in the boards that I heard that voice again. For the first time in my life, I felt true fear. It lit me up. Hyperawareness prickled over my skin. A flicker of time. Barely two seconds between life as I knew it and disaster.

I’d heard that things slowed down in your worst moments. It didn’t for me.

One second, I fought for the puck, my shoulder snug against the boards to protect me. The next? The first hit sent me spinning around. The second hit, a defender coming in at full speed—a six-foot-six, 220-pound wall of muscle—slammed into me.

My head banged against the glass. A bomb went off in my head. And that whisper? It was a full-on scream, saying only one thing:

Game over.

Lights out.

Emma

Life was good. Was I allowed to say that? Sometimes I wasn’t sure I should. As though by acknowledging that I was happy and everything I’d ever wanted was slowly falling into place, I might jinx it. But damn it; life was good.

After years of struggling to make it as an actress—God, that one desperate commercial role I took as the girl with diarrhea; try mentioning that one in casual date conversation and see how it goes—I’d finally landed a starring role in a hit TV series. Dark Castle. Fans were mad for it. And with that role came instant fame.