PROLOGUE
On the first day of the rest of her life, Kara Thrace woke up smiling.
This was an unfamiliar and surprising occurrence, as she had never been one of those dreaded "morning people." But then again, today was no ordinary day. Today was the day she would embrace her destiny.
Today, she would skate the best goddamned game that Olympic women's ice hockey had ever seen.
Kara could already hear the roar of the crowd in her head. Her eyes opened, vision sharpening as her consciousness swam to the surface and focused on the bright red digits on the strangely silent alarm cl—
"It's one o'clock." She gasped and bolted upright in the hotel bed, rapidly blinking eyes already skipping frantically to her watch for confirmation. "It's one o'clock in the afternoon!"
Kara jumped out of bed, barely skimming a glance over the guy she'd picked up in the hotel bar the previous night. Dark hair, good hands, well-muscled. Some second-stringer, she thought as she darted around scooping up clothing from the floor. She couldn't remember from where. Hell, it's not like she'd been in it for the conversation.
"What the hell happened to the alarm?" She snarled, panic setting in. "I got a game!" Warm ups had begun approximately 30 minutes prior for the final matchup between Team USA and Team West Germany. Her entire future was riding on this.
The guy groaned and levered up onto his elbows, squinting at her as she rushed around the room. Kara flicked another glance his way. He was clearly unruffled by her predicament and a hot wave of irritation coursed through her.
"I'm supposed to be on the ice…" she groped for a name, her still-addled brain tossing out something that didn't sound quite right, "Stan."
"Stan?"
She hopped on one leg, pulling her jeans up frantically then scooping up her sports bra, badge and jersey. Jersey. Kara had a quick flash of a dark material and bright letters in her mind's eye. Anderson? Was he Swedish? She hadn't heard an accent…
"This is great. Just great. Late for the Olympics." She blew out a breath and raked a hand through her spiky hair. "I'm just about four hours late here, Sven."
"Sven?" the guy snorted, both eyebrows rising into his hairline. "You're kind of a bitch in the morning, eh?"
Okay. Canadian, not Swedish then. Kara yanked the rest of her clothes on and grabbed her duffel bag and her boots, sweeping them up and reaching for the doorknob, still barefoot. Fuck it. She could dress as she ran. If she got there before the team took the ice in…she flicked a glance down at her wrist—crap, twenty minutes—Kara knew Coach would forgive her. Hell, she was their star player. They needed her to win.
She was just about to bolt out of the room when she realized the guy was still looking at her with a piqued expression. Kara stifled a sigh. It wasn't his fault really; he was just an easy ride for the night. She shouldn't have done that fifth round of shots. She racked her brain for a final peace offering. "Sean?"
The guy frowned and slumped back on the bed, dragging a pillow over his face. From beneath its fluffy down depths came a muffled and definitely exasperated, "Sam. My name is Sam."
Kara shrugged a shoulder and ran out the door, already forgetting everything except the way to the arena.
Thirty minutes later, she planted her skate on the ice, cheers of the crowd roaring in her ears and Kara took a deep breath. The familiar scents of leather and sweat, the lingering fumes from the Zamboni and sharp tang of chlorination rushed in, filling her nose and lungs, and Kara smiled. She was home.
The game was a nail-biter. It was deep in the third quarter and Kara was fidgeting, trapped behind the glass of the penalty box as she waited out the two-minute fine for high-sticking. As her eyes tracked the movements on the rink, she was dimly aware of the announcers' banter emanating from the radio someone had propped in the corner of the box.
"…Kara Thrace, the phenom from Boston, Massachusetts. What a super story, Bud! Here's a junior from UBoston who… well, talk about being on the fast track! The Women's Hockey League is keeping an eye on this one! You know, they've been talking about what it will take to really be a contender with the NHL and Thrace might just be the secret weapon they need to do it."
"I believe it, Al. Thrace is one of the finest skaters in amateur hockey today. She's got the speed, the stick, and she's sure got that aggressive edge. But unlike a lot of players, she's proven she's got the strategy too. Thrace's out-of-the-box thinking has gotten Team USA out of some tight spots this series."
"It sure has, Bud. And boy, those retina-detaching moves of hers are something else! She's got the kind of firepower you don't see every day. I tell you, Kara Thrace is the real deal. Mark my words, we're seeing a star on the rise!"
The voices droned on, but the buzzer sounded finally and she pushed her way out and off down the ice, blades digging hard. Kara skidded to a stop in the center of the rink. She narrowed her eyes and took in her competition, the hulking German forward across from her was sneering, looking not that different from a pit bull eyeing dinner. Kara smirked, setting her shoulders. This was supposed to intimidate her? Ha.Bring it, Helga.
The ref skated over and she dropped her gaze, focus narrowing on the small black disc he tossed onto the ice with a blow of his whistle. She shoulder-checked Helga a little bit harder than necessary, and took off, leaving the forward to choke on her ice dust.
Kara felt her instincts take hold, the stick became an extension of her hand, her feet pushing faster and faster. Deftly, she danced in and out between the opposing teammates, weaving and dodging, spinning to protect the puck until she finally got a clear shot at the net. Helga was still breathing down her neck and the rail loomed close ahead, but Kara didn't care. All that mattered was making this shot. She pitched forward hard, her body twisting awkwardly as she slapped the puck and sent it sprawling through the air. Even as she was falling into the safety glass, her eyes tracked the disc's trajectory, as it slipped just over the goalie's glove and sailed into the netting.
The crowd's roar rang in her ears as Kara's head hit the glass and heavy bodies slammed her from all sides. Her skull bounced hard into the thick plexiglass barrier and her helmet strap snapped suddenly, the headgear popping off and spinning on the pitted surface of the rink. Pain bloomed behind her right eye, sharp enough to make everything else fade, and Kara gasped and slithered down to the ice. Her last sight before she lost consciousness was the scoreboard clock running down to zero.
This had to be a joke.
Dr. Saul Tigh was not a man given to joking about business though, despite the twinkly eyes and bushy mustache that made it hard for Kara to take him seriously normally. In fact, she often had an odd feeling when she looked at the team doctor, like his easy smile was out of place somehow. He'd never so much as raised his voice around Kara, but somehow she frequently found herself imagining him with a bit of a snarl. She shook her head suddenly, trying to focus on what he was telling her.
"—posterior vitreous detachment caused a small tear in the retina, which allowed fluid to seep through and peel it away. It's actually not that different from when you get a bubble in wallpaper."
She frowned. "You're kidding me, right? I thought that was just, like, a figure of speech or something?"
"Oh, no. Retinal detachment is a very real and serious injury, sometimes with grave consequences." He tilted his head, mouth turning downwards, and Kara's back stiffened. "And I'm afraid in your condition, it's resulted in a long-term loss of peripheral vision. Eighteen degrees in your right eye, to be specific." He paused, his voice solemn. "For most people, this would be an inconvenience, but for a hockey player…"
Her mouth went dry, not so much from the words, but the look in his eyes. Fucking pity. Kara felt a chill travel down her spine and she pushed it aside. "Okay, okay. So how long before it comes back? Two months? Three?" He was already shaking his head and she swallowed and tried not to panic.
"You've had extreme trauma to your occipital lobe—"
"Six?" Six was way too long. It was half a goddamn season and her time was now. Sponsors and the pro teams weren't going to wait around. In six months they'd have some other hotshot they were circling.
"You've got a blind side, Kara." He sighed. "It's a permanent condition."
She gaped at him for a second. No. There was no way. There had to be some way to fix this. She protested, her voice growing more desperate each time he repeated that there was no cure.
"Somebody, somewhere, down in Mexico City they shoot shark piss up your nose and make you sit in traction for—"
"I'm sorry," Dr. Tigh cut her off, not unkindly. "I don't see professional hockey in your future."
Kara froze, hearing the words echo in her mind, and a flame kindled, her temper igniting. What the fuck did he know? Who was this superior asshole sitting here and telling her what she could and couldn't do? She flexed a fist, feeling a strong urge to lay him flat.
He spoke up again. "Kara, I understand how you feel, but trust me, you can still have a full life."
"With all due respect, Doc, how the hell could you understand how I feel?" she snarled.
"I was a POW for a few months back in 'Nam." He lifted a finger tapping the cheekbone under his left eye. "This one's made of glass."
She stared at him and her fist slowly unfurled. Crap. She couldn't hit a fucking POW.Some of the fury drained out of her and her shoulders slumped. No more hockey. Her whole life over. Just like that.
What the hell was she going to do now?