The One You Fight For (The One, #2)

prologue

Luke

I always tell kids you have two eyes and one mouth. Keep two open and one closed. You never learn anything if you're the one talking.

I have always constructed my approach to professional hockey around the iconic quote of Gordie Howe. Mr. Hockey himself. Ever since I was a young boy, I dreamt about playing in the National Hockey League and following the footsteps of my idols. I wanted the crowd to chant my name. To feel the adrenaline players describe during the playoffs. When the Madden name was synchronous with the term 'legacy,' I wanted to see my jersey hanging in the rafters.

Every ounce of energy I've devoted to hockey has been donated to making myself a force to be reckoned with. I took any piece of criticism from coaches with respect; I kept my mouth shut, soaking up as much knowledge as I could. I used each hockey camp, dry-land session, practice, and season as an advantage. Through development and hard-learned lessons combined with fiery passion, I gave my heart to the game.

By the time I was fifteen, the name Luke Madden had spread across Canada like wildfire.

When I was eighteen, Calgary drafted me.

At nineteen, I played for Canada in the World Juniors. My assistance for the game winning goal against Team USA and the gold medal proved I deserved a debut game in the NHL.

A year after that, I found my permanent position with Calgary.

For six years, Calgary has been my home. Although the winters are tough to weather, breaking franchise records, starting a charity, and winning NHL awards makes up for that. I've created a name for myself and achieved my dreams, with a solid contract creating a tight family dynamic with my team.

But nothing is certain in life.

I've learned that the hard way.

But maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I was oblivious to the obvious signs. Maybe hockey was taken away from me because I ignored warnings. A new player was called up.

He's the instigator and a physical brute, Madden. Stay alert.

Sighing, I rub the heel of my hand against my face. A prominent ache throbs behind my eyes; I'm exhausted. I want to sleep. But the IV in the back of my hand won't allow me to. Nor will the memories.

The arena is bright and loud. Blades scraping against the ice echoes over the rambunctious crowd. It's a ruthless sound that matches the adrenaline pumping through my veins and the electric atmosphere.

I'm on the ice, slapping the blade of my hockey stick against the hard surface and shouting at my teammates. We're tied with Edmonton, thirty seconds left in the third period.

Mason Finley, my fellow teammate, dumps the puck into the offensive zone from the blue line and yells at me to chase it. I do, willing myself to push harder and faster.

Sweat is sliding down my face and my chest heaves with strain as I reach the puck. The noise of the crowd and players echoes in my ears as I look for an outlet, which is probably why I can't hear my teammates shouting at me. Warning me of impending doom.

I slide the puck around the boards, back to my defense. When I turn around, there's no time to prepare myself. A large body collides with me. It knocks me into the boards, and I crumple to the ice with pain radiating through my right knee. Another pain threatens to eradicate my consciousness.

A few seconds pass by. I see Mason and other teammates skating towards me. Then everything turns black.

A hissing noise sends a jolt through me, bringing me back to reality. I retract my hand from the IV and look up. My parents, sister, Mason, and a doctor step through the doors.

For one delirious moment, my hope ignites. Maybe there's a chance I'll be able to play hockey again. Perhaps the healing process won't be excruciating.

But when I see their grim expressions, my hope whittles away.

I dip my head down and hide my face. No one needs to see my tears.

The results from my magnetic resonance image must have been bad. Otherwise, Kate, my sister, wouldn't be staring at her shoes. Mom and Dad wouldn't be on the brink of tears. Mason wouldn't be scratching his jaw. And the doctor's knuckles wouldn't be white from holding the clipboard so tight.

I squeeze my eyes shut and rub my temples.

A concussion I can handle.

A broken wrist heals.

Losing a tooth is nothing.

An injury that could end my career? It has the power to destroy me.

My heart deflates as I try to regain my composure. When I do, I look at them. "I don't want to hear it," I choke.

They startle at the sound of my voice, and I fist the scratchy hospital blanket. It tickles my bare legs, causing a seed of annoyance to blossom in my chest.

It's emphasized when I meet the doctor's hopeless gaze.

Again, I squeeze my eyes shut.

I was certain I would play hockey for the rest of my life. I would have my jersey in the rafters.

But nothing is certain. Life can change within seconds.