Chapter 5 - Theo
Theo
My arm refused to cooperate. The stall didn’t give me any room to work either, but it wasn’t like the med bay was much bigger. I braced my forearm against the metal divider, trying to angle the strip of tape exactly where Reese had anchored it before the last game.
That tape job was the only reason I’d made it through those two hours without that deep, grinding tug along the front of the joint.
“Tension along the bicep…” I instructed my uncoordinated brain, knowing I wouldn’t be able to fake the precision on my best day.
Out on the ice my shoulder had felt… steady. I’d even taken a minor hit on the boards and it hadn’t buckled. I had executed checks and full body blocks with nothing more than a tight wince here and there.
My version of it wasn’t even close.
I cursed under my breath. The tape stuck to the back of my fucking hand. It folded too early. When I tried to reach across my body to smooth it down, the joint clicked in warning.
“For fuck’s sake.” I was one wrong angle from losing the whole night.
I took a breath, shook the tension from my hands, then shifted, hoping to get the strip under control.
But raising my elbow past shoulder height sent a streak of heat up the joint.
The kind that made my fingers go unsteady for a second.
I bit back another curse and tried to prop my elbow against the toilet tank to steady it.
Not ideal, but it let me ease the strip into place.
Locker-room noise seeped through the door: skates scraping the rubber flooring, someone arguing over Tucker’s shitty wannabe bluegrass playlist, bodies moving with building anticipation for a blinder of a game. I usually fed off those sounds. Tonight it pressed in. Unsettled my gut.
“Come on,” I muttered, trying to feather the next strip along my deltoid without pulling something I’d regret later.
Reese had drawn the line along the exact path where the muscle tugged whenever I rotated outward.
I didn’t have her steadiness, and every time the tape pulled too tight, the joint bit back.
I had one more strip half-torn when the stall door erupted in a blow that rattled the hinges. “Bouchard, you in there?”
I jerked hard, shoulder lighting up from the sudden pull. The roll of tape skittered out from between my knees and hit the floor, bounced off the toe of my skate, and whizzed under the door like it couldn’t wait to abandon me.
Shit. And also, fuck.
A muffled moan as he bent to pick it up, the scrape of the roll lifting off the floor, then Hunter’s voice carried through the gap. “Theo? What the hell are you doing in there with K-tape?”
Hunter called bullshit in his sleep, which didn’t help the spike in my nerves. Still, I had to give it my best shot.
“Someone must’ve left it in here,” I said. “I knocked it off the tank when you scared the shit out of me.” He sniggered, and I relaxed into the lie. “You also managed to scare my dump away. Thanks for that.”
He laughed louder, and tapped the door a few times. “Maybe that’s a good thing. Huddle’s about to start, and you know Coach hates it when we make him wait.”
My shoulder throbbed from that stupid reflex flinch, and holding it still only made the ache crawl toward my neck. I bit through it, until I was sure his steps were moving away.
I sagged against the stall, not relieved so much as annoyed with myself. For almost getting caught, for lying to my best friend and teammate, for having to lie in the first place…
I had about ten seconds to pull on my gear, get back in there, and pretend nothing was wrong.
“Minnesota Wild, boys,” Coach was saying when I sauntered into the locker room.
The guys were pretty much geared up, helmets in hands as they listened to him.
I gave Hunter a miss, and took up a spot next to Grayson instead.
“I don’t need to tell you what’s riding on tonight’s game.
A win takes us to first place finish. Anything less, and the Oilers steal top spot. ”
“Not on our watch, Coach,” Shawn barked, and hit his stick against the locker for emphasis. We backed him up with a resolute, collective “Fuck, yeah.”
Well, mine was maybe not as insistent, considering the creeping pain in my shoulder. But I wore the right mask so nobody would notice. I couldn’t tape myself up for shit, but the mask I had down. Not even Coach picked up on the sag when he looked my way.
“What do you say, Captain?”
I straightened, knowing all eyes were on Grayson beside me.
He punched a gloved fist into his open palm, sheer menace shining in his eyes. Like an Alpha wolf about to spring on its prey. “I say we close up shop on the number one spot.”
The guys went crazy, sticks banging, skates stomping. I tried my best to blend in with the camaraderie, but Reese was right, I was an idiot.
Grayson, the wolf with his pack, salivating for the hunt. And me, the pet ferret they let come along for the ride.
First period had me staggering. My lungs burned through every shift, and my damn shoulder buzzed like a live wire whenever I reached for anything.
Minnesota had pressed hard from the drop, bodies slamming along the boards as they raced the puck up the ice with almost no objection.
For a while, we were at loggerheads, giving and taking in equal parts.
Until a messy first touch from a Minnesota winger sent the puck rebounding.
The fans were on their feet. Hollering. I made a point of scanning only the parts of the arena that weren’t near the players’ bench.
Reese would be sitting there, likely studying my every move and calculating how badly I lied during the exam.
She was cute as hell… when she wasn’t sniffing around my injury so much.
Mason swooped onto the free-for-all and carried it up the right wing, weaving past a defenseman, head down, intent. I stayed behind, ready to intercept if Minnesota got a sniff, but mostly just trying to keep my arm from stabbing me in the wrong direction.
Into the slot, Grayson was sticking close for a tight passing game, which he faked on the last, holding onto the puck while the defense rushed Mason.
He pulled back, sending a slap shot straight for the sweet spot.
Blocked. The crowd’s chants lifted the roof, chasing us out of the dip and straight into buffering Minnesota’s counter.
A searing poker stabbed through my arm as I lunged to the right.
Even then, it wasn’t good enough, and the attacker handled his way past me.
I felt Coach’s eyes burning into the back of my head and refused to look.
Just picked it back up, and went to cover the slot while Tucker blasted the poor guy in a three-foot carry that shook the boards.
Counter on the counter; surely this had to be it.
Our guys were firing for the blue line, crisp passes between Shawn, Mason, and Grayson.
The puck slipped left, Grayson pushing into the slot like his skates were on fire.
With only a split second to set, he took the shot.
We all watched it curve on its bullet trajectory, right into the goalie’s waiting glove.
“Fuuuck!” Every one of us felt Tucker’s frustration. This was the worst freeze-out we’d had all season.
Second period kicked off, and my shoulder wasn’t subtle about it. Reese had tried to corner me during the break, but enough of the guys were hurting to keep both her and van der Berg at bay.
Minnesota came out like blood-hungry sharks, skating with an ugly efficiency that made the first period feel like a warm-up in comparison.
I tried to line up with a winger charging through the slot, but my arm didn’t like the trajectory.
I pivoted to avoid the incoming body check.
It was a reflex more than anything. Not wanting to risk another hit.
But that move left a lane gaping. And my backward parry was too little, too late. The guy ripped the puck past us, and forced Hunter to lunge. I waited for the puck to skitter off his pad, his glove, stick. Hell, I would’ve taken a deflection off his face.
It never came.
First blood for Minnesota. 1–0.
I bit down on my mouthguard and cursed the joint that wouldn’t do as it was told, while the roar of the away fans pressed into me like dead weight, intent on suffocating me.
We tried to settle back into our rhythm and keep our lanes in check, but that goal had Minnesota’s tails in the air. They fucked us up in response times, counter feeds, and just plain, old never backing down.
“We’re still in this,” Hunter said to me as I skated by. “Gotta keep it tight back here, and leave the rest to the guys.”
He’d been a good friend from the day I started with the team, and we’d only grown closer over the years. No way was he gonna come right out and tell me I was fucking up. That the first goal was all my fault, and I needed to clean up my act or ship out.
I couldn’t let him, or any of the others, down again.
Deep in the second, there was a break on the wing.
I clenched my jaw and pushed to meet another forward barreling into our zone.
Every cell in my body screamed to hesitate, to pull out.
But how the fuck was I gonna do that now?
I reached past the blinding pain that shot through my arm, overextended to the point where I was bent so low I could smell the metallic tang wafting off the ice.
But the puck sliced by me, a determined forward still attached.
Hunter recovered, becoming larger than life in his posts. But it couldn’t help the clinical angle, the perfectly timed slap that shook the net. My stomach dropped, a twist of frustration and guilt tangling in my ribs. 2–0 to Minnesota Wild.
Time passed like molasses after that, but at the same time, faster than a blink.
It was all a scrambling blur of turnovers, sloppy discipline, and scuffles randomly breaking out.
Mason nearly snagged a rebound when his stick flicked just shy of Minnesota’s crossbar.
Grayson threw himself into a board-side battle, sweat streaking his face, shouting to cover the open lane I should’ve filled.
I ignored the swelling pain and tried to recalibrate, but the scoreboard reflected my failures.
Third period, and The Surge needed a spark.
Something to make the momentum swing in our favor.
And with only five minutes to go, Mason gave it to us.
Minnesota’s clinical assault slipped, one bad pass, one tiny hesitation in their defense, and Mason was in.
He snapped the puck into the top corner.
Clean and simple enough to make me wonder why it hadn’t happened sooner.
Just like that, the ice felt alive again. The bench erupted, and we were shouting at each other, fists pumping, voices cutting through the rink. The crowd ate it up, their chanting growing louder, egging us on.
Grayson took the next chance like a storm.
One touch, one surge into the slot, and he fired—goal.
The arena exploded, a deafening tidal wave of sound and motion as they shoved and grabbed each other, jumping up and down.
We were back in it. I skated past the crease, lunging at a loose puck, and though my shoulder ached with every twist, I still felt it…
the thrill, the adrenaline, the fight that didn’t care about pain.
We were here for the win and nothing else.
Clock bleeding down. Tension carved into every second.
We got a faceoff in the attacking zone. Coach’s voice bellowed out over the ice, and Landon vaulted over the boards.
Supersub. Whistle blew. Landon stole the puck like a rabid Jack Russell and went straight for the finish.
Two on one, defenders closing. He faked left, shedding the first like he was nothing, then, just like he’d done in training, scooped the puck in a high arc over the last defender’s head.
He twisted round to snatch it from the air with his blade, balancing the puck at waist height as he skated behind the net.
He rounded and, with the whole Minnesota team closing in, neatly flicked the puck off his blade into the net. Top shelf.
Silence, then pandemonium. Fans climbing, shouting, shoving, spilling into themselves. Our team skating toward each other, sticks in the air. I barely even heard the horn. It was just bodies, motion, heat, triumph. We’d nabbed the top spot.
And as they lost themselves in celebration, I hung back, lost in the realization that no matter what, I couldn’t bow out now. Our path to finals was practically set in stone, and come hell or high water, I would be with the guys when we lifted that cup.
The locker room was more raucous once the guys had shed their gear and the beers were cracked. Even Coach allowed himself a time-out to enjoy the moment.
“Big pressure moments are always 50–50,” he said, putting his arm around my shoulder. I could’ve sworn he was only two beers in, but his speech was already dicey, his cheeks glowing red. “Don’t beat yourself up. The boys had your back. We put it behind us, and aim to do better the next game.”
“Yes, Coach.” I pressed through the bolt of lightning burning through my shoulder right where his hand weighed on it.
“One game at a time, Bouchard. You’ve got this.” He left me with a reassuring pat on the back and walked over to sing Landon’s praises.
Most of the guys were shirtless already, but I couldn’t peel off my shit in front of them without raising alarm bells. Besides, my hack tape job kept shooting loose as I moved around out there, I was too embarrassed to face the aftermath just yet.
“Good game.” Reese tossed a cold beer at me, and I caught it by reflex with my left hand.
“Not me, but thank God for our forwards.” I cracked the can and bumped it against hers.
She took a sip, then smiled at me. “And thank God for narrow wins, am I right?”
Her hand shot up to high-five me, but between the beer and my dud shoulder, I couldn’t do anything but stare it at. And then at her.
“You lied to me,” she said, and although she still smiled, there was nothing friendly about her words.