Chapter 21
The sterile smell of the hospital makes me want to bolt. The fluorescent lights hum above me, and I can hear the murmur of voices from the hall. I hate this place. I hate sitting here, pretending I’m fine when I’m anything but.
The torn adductor is worse than I thought. At least that’s what the doctor said after poking and prodding me for way too long.
“Rest, ice, physical therapy,” she said, like those words will magically fix me. Like I have time for that.
The door creaks open, and I sit up straighter, biting back the grimace that comes with the movement. It’s my dad. Of course, it’s him.
He walks in like he owns the place, his suit perfect, his tie sharp, his expression harder than the ice I play on.
“Dad,” I say, leaning back against the bed.
“Zane,” he replies, shutting the door behind him. He doesn’t sit down. He never does. “What’s the damage?”
“It’s nothing,” I lie because that’s easier.
“Bullshit,” he snaps, his voice cutting through the quiet. “If it was nothing, you wouldn’t be here.”
I don’t answer. He steps closer, his hands in his pockets.
“The doctor called me,” he says, his tone cold. “Torn adductor, huh?”
“It’s not that bad,” I say quickly. “I’ll be fine.”
He scoffs, shaking his head. “You don’t have time for this, Zane. The scouts are watching. You’re on their radar, but if they catch wind of this–” He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t have to.
“I’ll play,” I say firmly. “No one’s going to know.”
His eyes narrow, and he steps closer. “You better not let them. Pain is part of the game. You’re a man, so fucking act like it.”
His words hit harder than any check on the ice. I nod, keeping my face blank.
“Good,” he says, satisfied. “Now get your shit together and stay off their radar. You think anyone gives a damn about a player who’s injured? No. They’ll drop you like that.” He snaps his fingers, and the sound makes my stomach twist.
“I get it,” I mutter, looking away.
“Do you?” he asks sharply. “Because if you fuck this up, Zane, you don’t just ruin your future. You ruin everything I’ve invested in you.”
I clench my jaw, my hands gripping the edges of the bed. “I said I get it.”
He studies me for a moment, then nods. “Good. Keep your mouth shut, keep your head down, and for God’s sake, don’t let that fucking girl distract you.”
“Girl?”
“I know about the job promotion you got her mother. You thought you could donate all that money and I wouldn’t be notified?”
“Dad…”
“I don’t care. You keep playing or everything we worked for goes to shit. It would be a really big trouble if her mother suddenly lost her job.”
His words hit me harder than anything else.
“Leave her out of this,” I say quietly.
“You think you can have both? The game and the girl? Grow up, Zane.”
With that, he turns and leaves, the door clicking shut behind him.
I sit there for a long time, staring at the wall. The doctor’s words echo in my head, mixing with my dad’s. Rest, ice, therapy. Pain is part of the game. Man up.
When I finally leave the hospital, I head straight home. The ice pack in my bag feels heavier than it should.
The next morning, I pop two painkillers before I leave the house. The bottle says one, but fuck that. I need to be able to move, to skate, to play like nothing’s wrong.
Practice is brutal. The drills are relentless, and every time I push off the ice, the pain shoots through my leg like fire.
“Zane!” Caleb skates up beside me, his eyes narrowing. “You good, man? You look like shit.”
“I’m fine,” I snap, skating past him.
He follows me, not letting it go. “Seriously, dude. You’re moving weird. You can’t be good after what happened–”
“I said I’m fine,” I repeat, my voice sharp. “Shut it, Caleb.”
He backs off, but I can feel his eyes on me the rest of practice.
By the time it’s over, I’m drenched in sweat, and my leg feels like it’s been ripped apart. But no one says anything. No one notices.
That’s how it has to be. As long as I can keep playing, no one will know.
I head to the locker room, ignoring the ache in my leg. Pain is part of the game. I repeat the words in my head like a mantra, hoping they’ll drown out the doubt.
But as I sit down and untie my skates, Remy’s face flashes in my mind again. Her smile, her laugh, the way she looked at me like I mattered.
I shake my head, shoving the thought away. I can’t think about her right now. I can’t let her distract me.
Because if I do, everything falls apart.
Coach’s voice cuts through the noise in the locker room.
“Listen up!” he barks, and the chatter dies instantly. He stands in the center of the room, clipboard in hand, eyes sweeping over us like he’s daring someone to slack. “The next few games are critical. We’ve got back-to-backs. No time to rest, no time to screw around. You either show up, or you sit. Your call.”
My leg throbs like hell, but I keep my face blank. It’s been screaming at me all morning. Every shift, every stop on the ice, it’s like a knife twisting in my thigh.
Coach goes on about strategy, line changes, and how the scouts are going to be watching. I try to focus, but all I can think about is the ache. It’s pulsing, radiating up into my hip.
I glance down at my leg, fighting the urge to rub the spot. But I know better. The second I give in, someone will notice, and I can’t have that. So, I sit here, gripping my water bottle like it’s the only thing holding me together.
Finally, Coach Jacobs wraps up. “That’s it for today. Get your heads right and your bodies ready. We need this.”
The team starts to file out, but I stay seated, waiting until the room clears out. I dig through my bag, grabbing the bottle of painkillers. Popping two into my mouth, I swallow them dry. The bitter taste lingers on my tongue, but I don’t care.
By the time I step outside, the late afternoon sun is blinding. I squint, adjusting my bag over my shoulder, when I spot Remy. She’s leaning against the fence, scrolling through her phone, wearing this little pink dress and sneakers. Her hair’s loose, catching in the breeze, and she looks like a fucking dream.
For a second, I forget the pain, the stress, everything. I just see her.
I walk over, and she looks up, surprised.
“Zane,” she says, her voice soft.
I don’t even think. I drop my bag, closing the space between us, and pull her into a hug.
She stiffens at first, but then she relaxes, her arms sliding around me.
“You okay?” she asks, her voice muffled against my chest.
“Yeah,” I lie. It’s automatic at this point.
I pull back just enough to look at her, and before I can stop myself, I lean in and kiss her. She tastes like peppermint and something sweet.
When I finally pull away, she’s staring at me, wide-eyed. “Wow,” she breathes, her lips curving into a smile.
“You’re done with class?” I ask, trying to focus on anything other than the way her dress hugs her curves.
“Yeah,” she says. “I wanted to check on you. Make sure you were alright.”
“I’m fine now,” I say quickly. The lie comes too easily.
She tilts her head, studying me. “So… can we go back to your place? Hang out, have some fun?”
Her words hit me like a slap and a caress all at once. I feel the reaction immediately, a heat pooling low in my stomach, but then the pain flares up again— sharp, searing.
I wince, trying to hide it, but she catches it.
“Zane, are you okay?” she asks, concern lacing her voice.
“I—” My brain scrambles for an excuse. “I’ve got a migraine. Probably from practice. I just need to rest.”
“Oh,” she says, disappointment flashing across her face. “Okay. Do you want me to help? I can—”
“No,” I cut her off, hating how harsh I sound. “I’ll be fine. I’ll call you later, alright?”
“Alright,” she says softly, stepping back.
I pick up my bag and walk to my car, my chest tight. Sliding into the driver’s seat, I grip the wheel so hard my knuckles turn white.
“Fuck,” I hiss, slamming my fist against the steering wheel. The pain, the frustration, it all boils over, and I punch it again, harder this time.
When I get home, I’m greeted by a guy I’ve never seen before. He’s standing in the living room, holding a clipboard and wearing a no-nonsense expression.
“Zane Coburn?” he asks.
“Yeah. Who the hell are you?”
“I’m Eric, your physical therapist. Your father hired me.”
Of course, he did.
Eric steps forward, glancing at my leg. “He told me about your injury. Let’s take a look.”
I drop my bag and sit down, pulling up my shorts enough for him to see the bruise forming along my inner thigh.
He whistles low. “Damn. That’s a mess. How long has it been like this?”
“Doesn’t matter,” I say, brushing him off. “What’s the plan?”
“The plan,” he says, crossing his arms, “is rest. That’s what you need.”
“Not an option,” I snap. “I need to play. Fix it.”
“If you keep pushing, you’ll make it worse. You could tear it completely.”
“I don’t care,” I say, my voice rising. “I need to be on the ice. So, whatever you have to do, just do it.”
He sighs, shaking his head. “Alright, kid. This isn’t going to be easy. And it’s not going to be painless.”
“Great,” I say, leaning back. “Let’s get started.”
Eric pulls out a portable table, setting up quickly. He motions for me to lie down, and I do, gritting my teeth against the pain as I shift positions.
He starts working on the muscle, his hands firm and precise. It hurts like hell, but I bite down, refusing to let him see how bad it is.
“This is going to take time,” he says as he works. “You can’t just expect to bounce back overnight.”
“Time’s not something I have,” I mutter.
He glances at me, his expression softening slightly. “Look, I get it. But you’ve got to listen to me if you want to get through this. Deal?”
“Deal,” I say through gritted teeth.
The session feels like it lasts forever, but when it’s over, the ache has dulled slightly. Eric packs up his things, leaving me with a list of exercises and a warning to take it easy.
I nod, pretending I’ll listen, but as soon as he’s gone, I grab the ice pack and press it to my leg, my mind racing.
I don’t have time for this. I’ve got games to win, scouts to impress, and Remy. I push her face out of my mind, focusing on the pain instead. It’s easier that way.