All of My Soul (23 page)

“I’m not asking you to. It’s not a big deal.”
I didn’t mind that he had been with other women. Well, except
Mackenzie, of course. Her I minded. I hated that she ever weaseled
her way into his life. But the other women? I couldn’t hold it
against him that he had had sex with them.

“Jillian, I wish I had known you when I was
fifteen. You would have been my first and only, I promise you
that.” I smiled, and he kissed my forehead. “But if you want to
talk firsts…”

“Yeah?” I asked eagerly.

“I’ve never had sex in this room.”

I squealed and tackled him, taking him to the
floor as he laughed, and in the thirty-some minutes we had before
Carter arrived we christened his parents’ library.

Chapter
Seventeen

The rest of May flew by as I polished off my
thesis. Unfortunately, Lincoln had been right about the tabloids.
Carter wasn’t able to do anything to stop them from writing lies
about me. The tabloids had decided that since I was seeing a
therapist, I must be bipolar and the pictures they took of me
outside Dr. Raussman’s office proved it as far as they were
concerned. They had done their homework and discovered the fire and
my dad’s death, which only added fuel to the idea that I was crazy.
But they hadn’t reported anything about my scars nor had they
printed Mackenzie’s picture of me, so I stuck with what I had told
Lincoln. I didn’t care what they printed as long as the people I
loved knew the truth.

Eventually the vultures found other gossip to
write about, and my story was forgotten. Things were starting to
look up, and for the first time in a long time I felt like I could
relax a little. My nightmares were still haunting me, and none of
the places I had e-mailed my résumé to had replied, but my advisor
had enthusiastically endorsed my thesis, and Lincoln and his
teammates were kicking butt in the playoffs.

It was mindblowing to me how well they were
doing. I knew they were professional athletes trained by the best,
but watching them play was like watching a precision instrument.
They never failed to amaze me with how exact and fine-tuned their
movements were. It seemed like they instinctually knew which
teammate was backing them up and whether to pass to the left or the
right without even looking.

Brody, Kennedy, and I had made the trip to
Los Angeles to watch the seventh game of the finals. If the Hawks
won this game against the Kings, they would go against Montreal for
the Stanley Cup. I wondered if Kennedy thought Lincoln was the best
one out there like I did or if she was more realistic. I knew I was
biased, but to me it seemed like he dominated over all the other
players, and it was a beautiful thing to watch. He was a massive
block of muscle, but when he was on the ice he could effortlessly
change direction with just a twist of his skate. Despite his size
and speed, he could look so graceful, but then within a fraction of
a second he would be charging an opponent, bracing to check him
brutally into the boards. He made it seem so easy and instinctual,
and watching him left me breathless.

The Kings were up by one point. One lousy
point stood in the Hawks’ way for a chance to battle for the
Stanley Cup. Time and time again, our boys charged down the ice to
the net with the puck only to have it deflected at the last moment.
The Kings’ goalie was simply too good. He owned his crease and
wasn’t allowing anyone or anything near it. It was so frustrating
to watch.

As the clock on the giant overhead scoreboard
counted down the remaining time in the game, it was obvious our
boys were becoming more and more desperate to score. There were
ninety seconds left on the clock when I saw our goalie make a mad
dash to the bench, leaving his goal unprotected.

“What is he doing?!” I exclaimed as I grabbed
Kennedy’s arm in panic.

“Coach is pulling the goalie. They can only
have so many players on the ice, but if they pull the goalie, they
can add an attacker and have a better chance of making a goal.”

“But what if the Kings get the puck? Now we
don’t have a goalie!”

“Does it matter? We’re already losing.
Doesn’t matter if we lose by one or fifty.”

“Oh,” I replied, feeling stupid. This was the
final minute and a half of the final game. If we didn’t score we
were done for anyway. It was time for drastic measures.

Our goalie quickly made his way off the ice,
and Lincoln’s teammate Milo Olofsson exploded off the bench and
into action. He frantically skated toward the attack zone in an
attempt to save his team from elimination. Weaving in and out of
the players, he grabbed the puck with his stick. Kennedy and I
clutched at each other, and I held my breath as Olofsson passed the
black disc to Lincoln. Lincoln smoothly took it behind the goal in
an attempt to confuse the goalie. As he rounded the net, I could
tell that he was quickly analyzing the scene on the ice. Deacon was
blocked and of no help. Matt was across the rink, and Olofsson had
just been checked into the boards. It was up to Lincoln to make
this shot. He charged the net from behind, hooking his stick around
to make a backhanded shot when he collided with a black and white
monster that came out of nowhere.

When the Kings’ defenseman who had just put
Olofsson into the boards had seen who had possession of the puck,
he bolted to the front of the crease to intercept Lincoln. The two
of them collided a split second before Lincoln could make the shot,
and the force of the impact could be heard throughout the
arena.

The sound of plastic pads and helmets hitting
each other in a giant crunch reverberated across the ice and up
into the stands. Lincoln’s skates came out from under him, and he
crumpled to the ice like a rag doll, losing the puck in the
process.

I can honestly say I had no idea what
happened to the puck after that. My eyes were fixed on Lincoln,
looking for some sign that he was all right. But from where Kennedy
and I were sitting, it was impossible to tell if he was even
conscious. Whistles blew and play stopped with forty seconds on the
clock. Lincoln’s teammates crowded around him as he lay on the ice,
blocking my view.

“Kennedy… ” I whimpered quietly.

Despite being filled with energetic and
potentially drunk Kings fans, everyone in the stadium was silent as
we watched the Hawks’ trainer run across the ice. No one spoke or
applauded. Everyone seemed to know how serious this looked.

“He’ll be all right. He’ll be all right,”
Kennedy chanted as she grabbed my hand and squeezed it. I covered
my mouth with my other hand and waited.

Eventually the trainer waved to someone and a
hidden door in the boards opened. Three men pushing a yellow
ambulance stretcher carefully made their way onto the ice. I
whimpered against my hand.

Oh God.
This was more than just
getting the wind knocked out of him.

“Come on,” Kennedy said and pulled at my
hand. “Excuse us. Excuse us,” she said as we shuffled down the row
to get to the stairs. People murmured and shifted in their seats to
let us pass. Once we made it to the aisle, we quickly descended the
stairs with Brody on our heels. The seats Lincoln had gotten us
were in the lower level, so it didn’t take long for us to be rink
side. We paused at the bottom of the steps, and I pushed against
the glass that held me back from running to my man’s side. I was
desperate to see anything that would tell me he was okay.

It seemed like it had been forever since he
went down, but Lincoln’s teammates started to slowly back away, and
I could see the stretcher had been lowered to the ice and he was
sitting up on it.

Someone had removed his helmet, and relief
coursed through me when I saw he was awake and alert. His left arm
was wrapped up in a brown stretchy band, and it was splinted
against his chest. The oxygen mask on his face concerned me, but I
had been imagining the worst, so seeing him awake sent a wave of
relief through me.

Players for both teams began tapping the
blades of their sticks on the ice in respect as the paramedics and
the team trainer pushed the stretcher with Lincoln on it toward the
door in the sideboards. Deacon stayed by Lincoln’s side until they
reached the edge of the ice. He backed away, and Lincoln gave him a
thumbs-up and then held it up for everyone in the arena to see. The
fans applauded as Lincoln disappeared off the ice.

“Come on!” Kennedy yelled and pulled on my
hand. We ran around the edge of the rink with Brody following us
until we couldn’t go any farther. A wall of Plexiglas stopped us
from following down the hallway where Lincoln had been taken.
Although there were arena employees on the other side watching the
game that had resumed, they weren’t paying any attention to us.

Kennedy banged on the Plexiglas, and when a
startled, overweight, middle-aged security guard turned to look at
us, she held her all-access pass up to the glass. The security
guard shook his head and cracked the door open enough so we could
hear him.

“That might say all-access, sweetheart, but
you still can’t come through here. Staff only.” He started closing
the door, but I threw my hand up to stop him.

“Please, sir. The man they just took off the
ice is my boyfriend. I need to know if he’s all right.”

His eyes raked over me. “Yeah, right,
princess. Do you know how many times I’ve heard that?”

His offhanded use of Lincoln’s nickname for
me made my skin crawl and my blood boil. I pushed on the door with
both hands, forcing it open enough to wedge my body through so I
could scream at the man. “Listen here! You let us through!
Now!”

The security guard grabbed my arm, and his
eyes lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. Clearly he got off on
the miniscule amount of power he’d been given when they assigned
him to watch this door.

“No. You listen here—” the asshole security
guard started to say as he gave me a little shake.

Instantly Brody was at my side. “Unhand her.
Immediately.” Brody had pushed his way through the Plexiglas door
to help me. He was dressed all in black and loomed over us, showing
the pathetic security guard what real power looked like.

The man released my arm immediately as his
jaw gaped. Kennedy pulled me back behind Brody as another security
guard appeared next to the first one.

“Is there a problem here?” he asked, looking
at Brody’s bulging muscles, sizing him up.

Kennedy peeked out from behind our wall of
muscles and held out her pass. “He won’t let us through.”

The second security guard took one look at
the pass and pushed his coworker to the side. “Kevin. You idiot!
What is wrong with you? Let them through.”

I wanted to hug the second security guard,
but Kennedy was already running down the hallway where Lincoln had
been taken. “Thank you!” I shouted back as Brody and I darted after
my friend.

We made it to the visitor’s locker room, only
to find it empty. There was no one in the medical office, nor was
anyone in the coach’s office. They must have decided to immediately
load him in the ambulance to take him to the hospital.

Fear returned. He must have been hurt badly
enough to need immediate medical care. “What do we do?” I asked
Kennedy, hoping she would magically have a solution.

She shook her head in defeat. “We’re just
going to have to wait.”

Just then, Blackhawks players and staff
swarmed into the locker room, all looking downhearted and defeated.
Clearly, they had lost the game. The season was over. Most of them
ignored Brody, Kennedy, and me, but when Deacon walked in, I ran up
to him.

“Deacon! Deacon, tell me he’s okay,” I
demanded as I pulled on his jersey. The equipment manager took his
stick and gloves, and Deacon pulled his helmet off. He was drenched
in sweat, but I didn’t care.

“Jillian, I’m sorry. I don’t know anything.
Let’s find someone who does.” He looked around the room, but I
pulled on his jersey again.

“But he was talking, right? He was
conscious.”

“Yeah, but he said he couldn’t breathe.”

My eyes went wide with fear, and Kennedy
gasped. Deacon must have realized he wasn’t helping the
situation.

“He’ll be all right. I’m sure.” He looked
around the room again. “Yang!” he shouted, and a small Asian man
turned to look at us. “Where’s the doc?”

The man eyed Kennedy, Brody, and me, and it
was clear he was wondering who we were.

“What’s up with Monaghan?” Deacon asked.

A hush fell over the room, and everyone
turned to hear this man’s answer. “Doc went with the ambulance.
Pretty sure Monaghan’s got a broken arm. Possibly some broken
ribs.”

Okay. That didn’t sound too bad. “Why
couldn’t he breathe?” I asked, not caring if I wasn’t supposed to
be here. I needed to know.

Yang looked at me funny but answered my
question. “Might be the broken ribs. They took him to Saint
Sebastian’s Hospital to check him out.”

I turned to Brody. “Do you know where that
is?”

“No. But we’ll find it,” he answered with
certainty, and the three of us ran out of the locker room with
Deacon shouting after us.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can!”

“I’ll text you if we hear anything!” Kennedy
shouted back as we disappeared down a long hallway to one of the
rear exits of the Staples Center.

Even with Brody following the directions on
the GPS, it took us forty-five minutes to get to Saint Sebastian’s.
Traffic was terrible. I didn’t know if that’s just how life was in
LA or if it was because the whole city was celebrating their Kings
going to the Stanley Cup finals. Either way, it was hell being in
standstill traffic and not knowing or hearing anything about
Lincoln. Brody tried to avoid the freeway, but the surface streets
were just as bad. Traffic could be terrible in Chicago, but this
was ridiculous.