Center Ice (Boston Rebels Book 1)

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Coach Wilcott yells while I go skidding across the ice on my stomach. I have no excuse to give him. We’re doing our game-day practice skate, and I just reached for a fast-moving puck that should have been an easy grab, and instead I’m splayed out, ass up on the rink.

I finally come to a stop in the neutral zone, with the red laces of my coach’s skates staring me in the face. I try to stand up, but my limbs don’t seem to want to cooperate. I manage to push up to my hands and knees, and then I sit back on my heels.

This has been coming on gradually. We barely won our second pre-season game two nights ago, and I didn’t play as well as I did in the first game. Then, when I woke up yesterday morning, I felt off. I chalked it up to the late-night flight after our game the night before. I got through practice yesterday, but I wasn’t at my best, so I went to bed early thinking I just needed to sleep it off. Today, I woke up feeling like absolute ass.

“Something wrong?” Coach barks out. “Or did you just forget how to play hockey?”

My brain screams at me to get up and fucking do the job they’re paying me millions to do. But my body just laughs at the idea that I could play hockey right now.

“Pretty sure something’s wrong,” I say, resting my hands on my knees. Several of my new teammates are now congregated around me, looks of concern on their faces. I was part of the starting lineup again tonight.

“You going to tell us what, or do we need to become fucking mind readers?” McCabe spits out.

“The other night I helped a friend who was sick with strep. I probably caught it from her.”

Six pairs of skates glide backward, away from me.

“I’m not going to fucking kiss you,” I mutter. “It’s not like you’re going to catch it.”

“Ohhhh, lover boy here got strep kissing a girl,” Colt says, his voice obnoxiously sing-song. “And now he’s fucking up his career and our chances tonight because of it.”

“I wasn’t kissing her,” I clarify. “I just gave her a ride to go get a strep test.”

“So you shared space in a car with her, and since then, we’ve shared locker rooms, meals, and a plane with you. So fucking pardon us for thinking you might get us sick.” I don’t even know who says this, because I’m so focused on how I’m kneeling on the ice but still feel like I’m burning up.

I rise to my feet slowly.

“Go see the team doctor, Jenkins,” Coach says.

I nod and push off toward the wall, letting myself glide along slowly until I get there, then I step through the doorway and walk down the hall to find the doctor.

It’s getting dark when I wake up, disoriented about where I am and why I hear banging nearby. But as the room comes into focus, I realize the banging is at my hotel room door.

I roll out of bed and shuffle over to the entrance, thinking about how all I want to do is sleep. I’m still pissed off about missing the game, and annoyed at how the doctor actually laughed in my face when I said it couldn’t be strep because I didn’t have tonsils.

“Why would you think that meant you couldn’t get strep?” she asked.

“The whole reason I got my tonsils out was because I got strep so frequently as a kid. And I haven’t gotten it since. Why would they take my tonsils out if it wasn’t to stop me from getting sick?”

“It greatly decreases the likelihood of you getting it, and it sounds like it worked. But if you sleep in the same bed and share the same pillow as someone who has it,” she said, making me wish I hadn’t told her that part, “of course you’re going to get it.”

I’d let out an annoyed growl when she told me I needed to wait another fifteen minutes for the result. As soon as the test showed I was positive, she made me take some painkillers, gave me some throat lozenges and antibiotics, and told me to isolate myself in my hotel room.

Now, as I swing open the door, I’m moderately surprised to find her standing there. She’s not in the scrubs she was wearing earlier at practice, but is instead in slacks and a sweater, with a Rebels staff jacket hanging open. She must have just come from the game.

“Did we win?” I ask, using the heels of my palms to rub my eyes.

“The game doesn’t start for another two hours,” she says. “Just thought I’d check on you before I headed back to the arena.”

I shake my head, hating how out of it I feel. “Oh, it’s dark out, I thought…”

“Have you been asleep since you left practice earlier?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Good.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out two bottles of electrolyte water and hands them to me. “Drink these, and then go back to bed. Your body needs as much sleep as possible.”

“God, you’re bossy.” I don’t like being told what to do, and I’m too sick to consider that it’s probably out of line for me to say this to the team doctor.

She lets out a laugh that’s practically a snort. “You’ve heard of the phrase doctor’s orders, right? It’s almost like I spent seven years in med school and training to make sure I know what I’m talking about⁠—”

“I wasn’t questioning your knowledge. Sorry, I just feel shitty…”

“Go back to sleep, Jenkins. If you feel well enough in the morning, you can fly home with the team. Just wear one of the masks I gave you so you don’t get anyone else sick.”

“If I don’t feel well enough?” I ask.

“Just catch a flight home as soon as you do.”

The thought of having to coordinate my own travel is more than my mind can handle right now. So before I crash back into my bed, I set an alarm for five in the morning, determined to make that flight.