Scoring with the Wrong Twin (Ice Chronicles Hockey #2)

29. Blaze

29

Blaze

The setting sun paints the sky in fierce oranges and deep purples. As I guide Wildfire toward the stables, something makes the hair on my neck stand up.

Through the dimming light, a truck idles where it shouldn't be—on our land, near the north pasture. My grip tightens on the reins, leather creaking beneath my fingers.

"Easy, boy," I murmur when Wildfire's ears prick forward, his muscles tensing beneath me. He senses it too—something's wrong.

"What the hell?" I mutter, Wildfire's ears twitching at my voice.

The figures near the truck move with purpose, their shadows long and distorted in the fading light. They're shuffling around with what look like containers, their movements quick and furtive. Gas cans? My heart pounds against my ribs as I lean forward, squinting through the dust-filled air. The acrid smell hits me before I fully process what I'm seeing—they're pouring something on the ground, and it sure as hell isn't water.

"Hey!" My voice cracks through the evening air like a whip.

One of them looks up, and my blood runs cold. Even in the dim light, that profile is unmistakable—the sharp jaw, the cocky tilt of the head. Dane Davidson. Rage burns in my chest, hot and fierce.

He shouts something to the driver, his voice carried away by the wind. They scramble into the truck like scared rabbits, metal doors slamming with echoing finality. The engine roars to life, diesel fumes mixing with the mountain air.

"Not on my watch, you sons of bitches," I mutter, my teeth clenched. I dig my heels into Wildfire's flanks, and he responds instantly, powerful muscles bunching beneath me as we surge forward.

The terrain fights us with every stride—drought-hardened earth pockmarked with holes and scattered rocks. Wildfire's hooves thunder against the ground, matching the frantic beating of my heart. I lean low over his neck, the reins wrapped tight around my knuckles, the wind whipping tears from my eyes.

The truck bounces ahead on the dirt road, its taillights bleeding red through the settling dust. Just a little closer. I need that plate number, need proof of what Davidson's doing. The ranch my father built, the legacy he left me—I'll die before I let them destroy it.

The truck swerves suddenly, its tires throwing a spray of gravel like shotgun pellets. Time slows as Wildfire's front hoof catches a hidden hole. His stride breaks. I feel his body pitch forward, my world tilting sideways. The ground rushes up to meet me.

The impact drives the air from my lungs. Pain explodes through my ribs, bright spots dancing across my vision as my head cracks against the hard earth. The taste of copper fills my mouth. I try to move, to push myself up, but my body won't respond. My limbs feel distant, disconnected.

Through blurring vision, I watch the truck's taillights fade into the gathering darkness, taking with them my chance at proof. A groan escapes my lips as consciousness starts to slip away, the pain in my skull pulsing in time with my heartbeat.

The last thing I hear is Wildfire's worried nicker somewhere above me before the darkness claims me completely, pulling me under into its cold embrace.

***

The steady beeping of machines drags me back to consciousness, each electronic pulse hammering against my skull. The antiseptic smell burns my nostrils—hospitals always reek of false cleanliness and barely concealed fear. My ribs scream with every shallow breath, and my ankle throbs like it's caught in a bear trap. When I try to shift position, white-hot pain lances through my side, freezing me mid-movement.

"Blaze?"

Emma's voice cracks on my name, thick with tears. Her face swims into focus above me, mascara streaked down her cheeks, her blue eyes—so much like Mom's—wide with worry. She clutches my hand in both of hers, her fingers ice-cold against my skin. Her grip is desperate, like I might slip away if she lets go.

"Don't scare us like that again, okay?" She tries for a smile, but it trembles at the edges. "Sean found you first. He thought—" She cuts herself off, fresh tears welling up.

"I'm fine," I rasp, though the stabbing pain in my chest screams liar. My throat feels like I've swallowed sandpaper, and the fluorescent lights above pierce straight through my skull.

"Fine?" Dad's voice cuts through the haze from the other side of the bed, sharp as a whip. "You're in a hospital bed, son." His heavy footsteps approach, and I turn my head slowly to face him. His expression is carved from granite, but I know that look in his eyes—it's the same one he wore when Jake broke his arm falling from the hayloft, when Emma got kicked by that spooked horse. He was scared.

I try to push myself up, wanting to prove I'm not as bad off as they think. Big mistake. Pain rips through my ribs like lightning, forcing a groan past my clenched teeth as I collapse back onto the pillow.

"Easy, son." Dad's hand lands on my shoulder, gentle but firm. "You must have taken quite a fall."

"What happened?" The words taste like copper in my mouth.

"You tell us," Dad says, his thumb absently rubbing my shoulder like he used to do when I was sick as a kid. "We found you near the north pasture, knocked out cold. Your brothers hauled you out of there."

The memories hit me in jagged fragments—dark figures by the truck, the glint of metal gas cans in the fading light, the desperate chase. "There was a truck," I say, each word an effort. "Red, beat-up, missing a taillight. Two guys were unloading gas cans. They were up to something."

Dad's eyes narrow, his jaw tightening. "Davidsons?"

I manage a small nod, instantly regretting the movement as pain spikes through my skull. "I think one of them was Dane Davidson. They bolted when I called out. I followed them to get a plate. The terrain got rough, and Wildfire stumbled." I glance at Emma, who's gone pale. "Next thing I know, I'm here."

Dad's expression hardens, years of frustration etching deeper lines around his mouth. "Damn, those Davidsons will stop at nothing to get this ranch so they can build that damn casino. Bribes, lawsuits—it's always something. But this?" He shakes his head, his hand tightening on my shoulder. "This is too much."

"Well, this time I caught them," I mutter, frustration burning in my chest hotter than the pain. "But what about next time? We can't watch every inch of the property all the time."

The door swings open before Dad can respond, and a doctor strides in, her white coat pristine, clipboard clutched professionally in one hand. "Good to see you awake, Mr. Ice," she says briskly, dark eyes scanning the monitors surrounding my bed. "Let's talk about your injuries."

She makes a few quick notes, the scratch of her pen against paper oddly loud in the quiet room. "You have a bruised rib, a mild concussion, and a sprained ankle. The rib will make certain movements painful—bending, lifting, twisting, even eating comfortably. The ankle is minor but will need support to avoid further strain." She pauses, her expression softening slightly. "You'll need help with everyday tasks—getting dressed, carrying things, even preparing meals. Rest will be critical."

Dad doesn't miss a beat. "You're staying here tonight. No arguments."

"I'm fine to leave," I protest, though every inch of my body screams otherwise. Savannah's face flashes through my mind—I've already missed her presence too long. Every hour feels like another chance slipping away.

"You'll stay," Dad replies, using that tone that ended arguments before they began when we were kids. "You're not walking out of here until the doctor clears you. We'll handle things at the ranch."

The doctor nods approvingly. "We'll monitor you overnight and reassess tomorrow. But you must avoid overexerting yourself. If you push too hard, you risk aggravating the rib injury, which will only set you back further. So, for now, complete bed rest."

Emma leans down and hugs me gently, her hair tickling my face. She smells like hay and that strawberry shampoo she's used since she was twelve. "Promise me you'll stop doing reckless stuff," she whispers. "I can't lose you too."

The unspoken words hang heavy in the air—like we lost Mom. My throat tightens.

"I'll try, kid," I manage, forcing a weak smirk.

Dad claps a hand on my shoulder, firm but reassuring. His eyes, though still worried, hold a glimmer of his usual humor. "Rest, Blaze. The Davidsons won't win this. But you need to use your head." His lips twitch into a small smile as he adds, "Preferably not as a landing pad next time."

The familiar warmth of their love wraps around me like a blanket. But beneath it all, anger simmers—at the Davidsons, at myself for failing to catch them, at this whole mess.

As the door closes behind them, the ache in my chest sharpens. It has nothing to do with my ribs, and everything to do with Savannah. Her face flickers in my mind—bright, clear, and just out of reach. Her silence stretches between us like an endless void, each day making the distance feel more permanent.

The doctor's words echo in my head: Avoid overexerting yourself. Complete rest.

I let out a slow breath, my jaw tightening despite the pain it causes. Rest? I don't have time for that.

I stare at the sterile white ceiling, my thoughts churning like storm clouds. The steady beep of monitors counts down the minutes I'm losing. Maybe I'll stay tonight, be the good son they expect me to be.

Maybe I won't.