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Four minutes left in the second period, Connor goes down to a bad hit. Head-collision-against-the-boards down. Not-getting-off-the-ice down. Blue-blood-pouring-out-his-nose down.
It’s when he’s shakily on his own skates, each arm slung over his teammates’ shoulders, that he thinks to look up and see the source of all the sudden noise. Something twists in his gut, something that has absolutely nothing to do with the injuries from that nasty hit.
It’s Hank. Of course it’s Hank.
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Bookmark Notes:
Read, fantastically written
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