Hazard

Sometimes life and death come down to a split-second decision.

This particular decision hung over an impossible, improbable accident that would kill the rookie skidding across the ice on his back. He was already passed out and concussed. Boneless in that sickening rag doll way that made it hard to watch.

He was also about to be slammed in the side of the head by his own teammate who hadn’t seen him fall, hadn’t seen him slide. Taking a direct shot from a man who could knock a ninety-mile-an-hour puck into the net and slam full grown men into the boards on the regular, was brutal.

If the rookie didn’t move, he’d never stand up again.

Get up, get up, I silently chanted.

He did not even twitch. Which meant that guy on the ice, my teammate—though I wasn’t even sure how to pronounce his last name—was about to die.

No one could stop this shit show. It was possible no one had put two and too much together and even noticed what was about to happen.

Life and death moments, the few I’d seen—one bike vs. car and one hiker vs. edge of cliff—that stuff always played out in super-slow motion for me.

Maybe it was because I was observant.

Maybe it was because I was a wizard.

Some days I swore the only reason shit happened when I was around was because magic didn’t like me hiding what I was. Didn’t like me hiding that I had magic.

Magic—that non-sentient, chaotic force that had been cracked up out of the earth by drilling, fracking, earthquakes or whatever conspiracy of the week. That thing that had gotten into our air, our water, and for some of us, got into our blood and irrevocably changed us—wanted me to use it.

Magic wanted me to bend, to break. To give in to it like it was my destiny or something. To use me until I was all used up.

I’d spent twenty-two years hiding what I was. Twenty-two years fighting what magic wanted me to be.

Magic wasn’t my destiny.

Hockey was my destiny. Ice, sweat, grit, and hope.

But right here, right now, this moment? This life and death choice was going down.

Choice number one: do nothing, let the guy take the hit to the head. I’d feel sorry for the guy. I would. But I would still be one of the many new rookies drafted into the NHL. My dream job. My lifelong hope.

Choice number two: do something, do magic. Save his life. There would be no major league hockey for me. The life I’d been chasing for fifteen years would be gone. Taken away before I’d even gotten a taste of it.

Wizards, shifters, and every other kind of magically infected marked weren’t allowed in major league hockey.

Weren’t allowed in the minor leagues either.

If I saved this guy it would end my career.

It would save him. Save him.

And what kind of a choice was that for a regular guy like me to make?

Shit.

Just like that, time ran out. And just like hockey, instinct took over.

The defenseman’s stick swung back. He thought he was going to hit the puck clean, didn’t realize unpronounceable-name unconscious guy was flat on his back, down for the count and sliding right into the line of fire.

I pulled on magic with everything I had in me.

And magic answered like a rebel scream.

It flew from me, from my fingers, from my solar plexus, from deeper places that might be where the heart or soul or core of me started and ended. Magic exploded into the air with heady oil-painted strokes, swirling in gold and white and midnight blues like Van Gogh’s Starry Night had caught fire.

Magic, all of it visible, all of it painting me: the yellow and gold of my determination, black of my fear and anger, blue of my shame. And in that wall of colors was green, faint but visible: my hope.

Hope that I hadn’t just destroyed my life.

Hope that I had been fast enough to save his.

Magic slid between the hockey stick and unpronounceable guy. The wall of solid color rippled with impact as the defenseman smashed the puck and his stick into it.

The impact set off a low, sweet sound like struck metal, and magic undulated in starry waves of color.

Everything stopped. All the players. The coaches. The scouts. The reporters. The viewers in the stands.

Everything.

I had one brief, hopeful moment that no one had noticed I was the one who had thrown that monster of a spell. Even though I was the only one on the ice breathing so hard. Even though I was the only one who had acted fast enough to do something.

It was a pretty impressive spell. Fast, precise. Strong enough to take the puck hit without letting any of the stick impact the guy on the ice.

It was kind of beautiful, really.

Pulling that much magic up out of me had the normal consequences. I was instantly exhausted, ravenous, and sick. If I didn’t get some food or shut-eye, I’d hit my knees and pass out.

Have I mentioned using magic sucks?

I stood there, sweating, shaking in a way I couldn’t stop, my vision fuzzing at the edges, swallowing down bile. I stared at the scene, but it was moving away from me down a long gunmetal tunnel.

“What the hell?” the defensemen yelled. He scurried away from the wall of blues, yellows, and green, green, green, that still shimmered in front of him like it was fire.

Why was magic still shimmering there?

My head felt thick, my thoughts sort of gooey.

Oh, yeah. I had to let go of the spell, cut the strings that attached me to it. Should do that before I passed out, although passing out would probably end the spell too.

Or maybe not. It wasn’t like I did a lot of magic. I hated the stuff. Avoided it at all costs. Never trained ’cause I was never gonna be a wizard, right? So what did I know about spells?

Nothing, really.

“You!” a woman’s voice rang out. It seemed too big to fit in the stadium, so big, it filled my skull, made it ache. She stood, and even though she was across the ice from me, I saw her light up as if someone had just snapped a spotlight on her.

“Wizard!” She pointed at me.

A sensitive. Great. Just what I needed. Someone who could zero in on marked who were using magic, or who were about to shift, which was also a kind of magic, but in a more physical, beasting-out way.

I would have answered her but my brain was slushy and I was still trying to figure out how to cut the spell. I’d done it before. Done it under pressure twice. Once with the whole bike versus car thing and once with the hiker vs. edge of cliff.

I tried to imagine a pair of scissors in my gloved hand and made snippy motions. But the imaginary scissors were made out of butter or something because they just sort of melted away.

Screw it. I was this close to passing out. I didn’t have time to be subtle. I pulled back my hockey stick and took a swing at the ice, imagined a puck there, imagined sending that puck flying toward the spell.

Imagined the puck hitting it high glove side.

Magic hummed, then shattered, a beautiful melted chorus of color and sound that rained down on the ice in soppy, sparky colors.

Goal!

The first and last I’d made in professional hockey. And it didn’t even count.

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