Fast, the boards whizzing by in a blur. Shouts. Metal scraping against ice.

All of it was nothing more than background noise as Ethan raced down the ice, his heart pounding, his hands clenched around the stick. Faster, his lungs heaving with each breath. He bent his knees, leaned forward, reaching for the puck.

Felt it hit his tape, eased back with the stick. Gentle. Cradling. Sliding to the side as his teammates got into position. He spun around, ready to shoot the puck toward JP Larocque. He pulled back at the last minute, twirled, passed the puck behind him.

It was a shitty pass, not enough speed. Derek moved forward, reaching as the puck bounced over his blade.

"Fuck!" Ethan shook his head and took off, chasing the guys from Tampa back to center ice. Sweat poured down his chest and back, soaking his jersey. His lungs burned with each breath and fire scorched his thighs. He'd fucked up. If the pass had been better, cleaner, the Banners would have scored and this extended shift would be over.

But he'd fucked up and now he was chasing the puck into their own zone, racing faster, followed by JP and Derek. He saw Randy and John Murdoch, their d-men, get into position, protecting Brad in the net.

One shot. Two. A wide rebound. Ethan moved in closer, dropped his shoulder and hit the player from Tampa. The impact dropped both of them to their knees. Ethan slid, scrambled for balance, got his feet back under him and moved in closer to the net, swinging his stick from side-to-side on the ice.

Something hit him from behind, low across his back. He clenched his jaw, tasted rubber as he bit down on the mouthpiece. But he didn't turn around, didn't take his eye from the play being set up.

He was hit again, harder this time. His helmet flew off as he spun around and pushed back with his stick. He didn't hear the player's tormenting words above the roar of the crowd. He didn't need to, not when he understood their meaning.

Their purpose.

It worked. The horn sounded, echoing close by. Fuck. Tampa had just scored. Again.

Anger and fury tore through him—at Tampa, for tallying another one. At the player, for distracting him.

At himself, for being distracted and losing focus.

He pushed against the guy from Tampa, a rookie trying to make a name for himself as a menace this season. The push was all it took. Seconds later, they were tangling together, fists flying. Ethan grabbed a handful of jersey, holding the guy as he let loose with his fist. Once, twice. He felt bone and tissue give way under scraped knuckles. His head snapped back as something caught him under the eyes.

Hands grabbed him, trying to pull him away. He tightened his fist in the jersey, pulled it over the rookie's head as they were separated.

"Fucking momma's boy. Not so pretty now, are you?"

Ethan dove forward, reaching for him, but the hands grabbing him were steady, holding him back.

"Let it go."

"Fuck him, he's not worth it."

Ethan shrugged the hands from his arms and rolled his shoulders. JP and Derek were beside him. Randy was holding back another of Tampa's players. Even Brad had inched out of the net, his eyes narrowed as he watched. Waiting. Ready.

Ethan turned his head to the side and shot a stream of spit on the ice, not surprised to see a tinge of pink in it. He ran a hand across the back of his mouth and spit again, then bent down and grabbed his equipment.

Fuck.

The door slammed behind him as he tossed his stick down and dropped to the bench. Self-preservation warred with a sick kind of curiosity—and lost. His gaze slid to the players' bench across the ice, his eyes seeking and finding Coach LeBlanc.

Fuck. The coach was pissed, the long scar flashing red like a neon sign advertising anger. Was he pissed about the fighting, the fact that Ethan had lost his cool and drew a penalty? Maybe.

Or was he pissed about Ethan's shitty play? The fucking pass he'd whiffed that resulted in Tampa scoring again? Yeah, definitely.

Could Ethan blame him? Fuck no. Not when he was pissed at himself. He'd been off. Not just for that one play tonight. If it had been just that—yeah, Coach would probably still be pissed, but not as pissed as he was.

No, it wasn't just the one play. Tonight's bad play was the third tonight, just another in an unusual string for Ethan. He'd done something similar two nights ago when they were playing in Carolina. Those plays hadn't ended in a goal for the other team, but they hadn't helped and the Banners had lost to Carolina by one goal.

And they'd probably lose tonight, too.

He dropped his head and stared at the rubber mat lining the floor of the penalty box. He wasn't really seeing it, though. Just like he wasn't paying any attention to the chirping coming from the other box.

His mind was focused elsewhere: on a pair of deep green eyes, filled with sadness so tangible he could still feel its suffocating effects. His heart squeezed in his chest, the pain sharp and real as helplessness stole over him.

He wanted to be with Cindy. Wanted to hold her and reassure her. Comfort her.

For the first time in almost two decades, he didn't want to be here, on the ice. He didn't want to be playing the game that was as much a part of him as breathing.

And how fucked up was that?

It wasn't, not when he peeled away everything to the bare basics of what mattered the most.

Cindy mattered.

And yeah, that was really fucked up because, as far as he knew, they were still just friends. That was probably all they'd ever be now. He had hoped—had wanted—so much more. Had thought that whatever had started between them on the island would grow into something more. That's what he wanted. That's what he'd always wanted.

Because he was in love with her.

He had been from the night he first met her.

He laughed, the sound harsh and bitter. What the fuck was wrong with him? In love? People didn't fall in love after just meeting someone, not in real life. And they sure as hell didn't fall in love with their friends.

Maybe, if things had been different, they might have been able to have a relationship. To test the waters and see what happened.

But life didn't work out that way.

And now it didn't matter. Cindy would never believe him if he told her. And what made him think she'd ever feel the same way? Especially not now, not with her…

He squeezed his eyes closed and swallowed against the lump in his throat. Her…what? Illness? Set-back? Issues? What the fuck did he even call it?

It didn't matter what he called it, not when she was convinced she was broken. The memory of that night last week was still so clear. The agony in her eyes, the desolation and panic. And lurking just beneath the surface, her certainty that she'd never get better.

That she was permanently broken.

That life stretched ahead of her, bleak and lonely. Hopeless.

He tried to tell her that wasn't the case. That she wasn't alone. She had friends who cared about her. That he was there for her. But she didn't believe him.

She didn't say that out loud but she didn't need to, not when he could see it in her eyes. So he called her every day, just to check on her. To reassure her. To let her know he was there for her.

She'd been hesitant to talk to him at first, her words cautious and her voice strained. But after the first few days, she started to sound almost…normal. Not quite like her old self but better.

Would she ever be her old self again? Vibrant, energetic, full of life? Smiling, laughing, ready to take on any obstacle? He didn't know and neither did she.

Ethan didn't care. She was still Cindy. She was still the woman he'd fallen in love with last year, no matter what else happened.

But he didn't know if he could convince her of that. Didn't know if she even wanted that. And if he told her, would she run away? Or worse, tell him she never wanted to see him again? She might—because she was the kind of person who wouldn't want to feel like she was an obligation to anyone. She wouldn't want to feel like she was holding someone back.

How could he convince her otherwise? What could he do—

He noticed movement out of the corner of his eye and his head jerked up, his gaze automatically going to the screen overhead.

Fuck.

He grabbed his helmet and jammed it on his head, grabbed his stick and pushed to his feet as the clock counted down the seconds. Three. Two. One—

Ethan hit the ice almost running, his gaze moving to the play being set-up yards away. He moved closer, forcing his mind to focus, willing instincts borne from years of playing to kick in.

It was over nine hundred miles away, held in the unknowing grip of a woman with sad green eyes.