Chapter 15 - Theo
Theo
She was right. She had warned me, but I’d wanted that moment of relief, the ghost of normal I’d been chasing for months. Pain-free—even for a few hours—was worth the cost.
Except now her words were coming back to haunt me. Just because I didn’t feel it, didn’t mean I wasn’t doing damage.
I paced the hotel room, the ice pack pressing against my skin, cold numbing the joint but not enough to quiet the gnawing ache.
I checked my phone again. Still nothing.
It had been fifteen minutes since I’d texted her.
She was either ignoring me, or already on the bus waiting for everyone else. It was just like her to be early.
My thumb hovered over our chat, itching to shoot through one more message. Just in case. But a soft knock at the door told me that wouldn’t be necessary. She was here.
“What’s the emergency?” She was dressed and ready to go, kit bag slung over her shoulder, default scowl pinching her otherwise open features.
“Don’t make that face,” I said, stepping aside for her to come in. “I just missed you, is all.”
Reese rolled her eyes, though the corners of her mouth twitched as she pushed past me, thinking I hadn’t noticed. “You’re not even dressed. The bus leaves in five minutes.”
I caught the flicker in her gaze, the half-lidded glance sliding over me like she was trying not to register exactly what I looked like in nothing but sweatpants.
It started out as me just needing to ice my shoulder, but now I thought maybe going topless was the right move.
Maybe I could get away with pushing her patience just a little further.
“Thirsty?” I crossed to the minibar to grab two bottles of water, and held one out.
She looked at it, then back at me. “Why’d you text me to come here if you were going to see me at the arena anyway?”
Okay, fine. I wasn’t expecting her to be a pushover with this. Both waters were abandoned. I never wanted one anyway.
“You look… really nice today.”
She folded her arms across her chest, not falling for any of it. “It’s the same uniform from yesterday, covered in plane stink, and there’s a ketchup stain on my jacket from the hotdog I had outside the hotel.”
“Yeah,” I said, sidling over all nonchalant, “but you make ketchup stains look good.”
“Spit it out, Bouchard.” Her impatience finally got the better of her. “Is it your shoulder? What’s going on?”
The pretense, the flirting, the games. All gone. My shoulder throbbed in rhythm with my heartbeat, and I had no plan to lie through it this time.
“It’s killing me,” I admitted. “I texted you because… whatever I want probably won’t fly on Dallas’ home ice.”
Her mouth flattened into a tight line. “No.”
I closed the gap between us, and took hold of her arms with a small shake.
“It’s game 6, Hopper. Surge has it in the bag if I can just hold the back line.
No seventh needed. I’m on every platform, news outlets breathing down my neck, Coach has his hawk eye on me, and I thought… I thought you’d understand.”
“I understand,” she said, slowly stepping out of my grip. Her eyes never wavered on mine. “I understand your reasoning skills must’ve gotten knocked out of you from all the impacts on the ice. Because I distinctly remember telling you that the last time was the last time.”
“Quit being difficult,” I shot back.
“You quit being an ass,” she said, her eyes sharp. “I’m trying to protect you, Theo. You’re the one making things difficult when you keep putting me in positions like this.”
“Protect me?” I let out a dry, cutting laugh. “You’re protecting your promotion, and you know it.”
Her nostrils flared a little, but she took a beat before coming back at me. “Believe it or not, but I actually give a shit about your arm. I don’t wanna see your career end sooner than it has to. You’re a great player, and you could get a few more good years out of the game if you play it right.”
Fury simmered under my skin, my mind a carousel spinning too fast. This whole time I’d been worried about her patience, but now I felt my edges fraying all the way. My charm, my flirtation, my easy smiles… they were my armor, and she was intent on grinding against it until I cracked.
“I can’t play when I’m in this much pain,” I told her, my voice strained but measured. Losing my shit wasn’t gonna help me now.
She dug into her bag, and pulled out a small bottle of painkillers. Fucking pills. “Take these. They’ll have kicked in by the time you hit the ice. I’ll tape you up at the arena.”
“Don’t bother.” I turned away from her and the useless pills, making my way to the door.
“What?” Her footsteps came after me.
I opened the door and gestured calmly for her to leave. “No drugs, remember? And I don’t need your tape either.”
“Would you stop being so goddamn stubborn for a second and just see that I’m trying to help you?”
The pause between us stretched into a thick, charged standoff. I couldn’t look at her.
“I don’t need you protecting me anymore,” I said then. “I should’ve stopped this charade ages ago, so I’m doing it now. I’ll get my rehab somewhere else.”
Reese grabbed my arm and forced me to look at her. “That wasn’t the deal. No third party—”
“Yeah, well, the deal’s off.” She stared at me, stunned speechless. “Now if you don’t mind… I need to get my stuff or the bus leaves without me.”
The click of the door echoed behind her like a verdict, leaving me staring at the wall, shoulder throbbing, ice forgotten, wondering how the hell I was going to survive the next hour, let alone sixty grueling minutes on the ice.
*
The tape I’d slapped on by myself was laughable, barely holding, and the joint jerked under the pressure of everything I did.
It was mid-first period, and Dallas wanted blood.
Their forwards crashed the net in waves, dumping the puck low, testing Hunter from every angle.
I skated to meet a point shot, twisting my torso to keep my arm from screaming, and shoved myself into the path anyway.
The puck ricocheted off my glove, and thankfully only clipped the post. Close call.
Grayson got all up in my face. “What the fuck, Bouchard? That was routine.”
“Easy, easy,” Hunter said, using his whole body as a block between our captain and me.
“Tell your D-man to get his shit together, or I’m calling the change myself,” he spat, then skated off again.
“He’s not my D-man,” Hunter muttered.
I clapped him on the back. “Thanks, man. I—”
“I’m done sticking my neck out for you,” he snapped, looking me dead in the eye. “Get it together, or get off the ice.”
The game had to go on, and I had to keep up with it. One look at the bench, and Coach’s face was a mirror of Grayson’s. Of everyone’s. We had it all on the line, and I was letting it slip away. Again.
I flexed, ignoring the flare of pain, and squared up for the oncoming attack.
The puck flew toward the crease. I dropped low, my shoulder screaming against the force of impact, and shoved a Dallas winger aside.
It wasn’t pretty or textbook, but it kept it away from the net.
My breath came in shallow bursts, my body riding adrenaline and anger at myself for the fumble before.
First period ended with nothing to show for it, but Dallas retaliated hard in the second.
Two-on-one break off the whistle, their flash winger sneaking around the net.
I lunged, arm extended in a grimace, and tipped the puck just enough with my stick to send it careening toward Tucker, who scooped it up and away.
My fingers tingled from the pain, and I swayed on my skates as I watched him team up with Mason in a spectacular partnership.
One block sidestepped, then another, then Grayson rose up out of nowhere to collect the puck as it shot out of a huddle. One touch, and goal.
Hunter banged his stick on the side of his net, but hung back from the celebration. “What’s gotten into you, man?”
I clenched my jaw and skated right past him without saying anything.
Third period, five minutes left, tied game after Dallas snuck one by Hunter.
Sweat stung my eyes, but I didn’t dare blink.
Not with the game devolving into total chaos.
First Mason, then Shawn got body-slammed, freeing the puck for the Dallas winger waiting just outside.
But instead of picking it up and coming for me, he dropped his stick and his gloves.
“Ah, shit,” Hunter cursed behind me, as the winger went into a full-on fight with Shawn.
I knew what that meant, and groaned when the players started breaking off into their own fights on the ice all around them.
Hunter zoomed past me to take out the guy headed my way, but Tucker and Grayson were two-manning someone close by, and I had to dodge stray fists and elbows.
The crowd’s roar was a wall of sound that vibrated through the boards and into my legs.
I valleyed back, trying to remove myself from the periphery of the fight, but all I did was make it so much worse.
A Dallas forward barreled straight at me, chest-first into my shoulder.
It wasn’t my voice crying out, rising above the noise in the arena.
I’d never heard anyone who sounded like that, let alone me.
Pain exploded, a hot flare ripping through me, but even so, I planted my skate and twisted, sending him sprawling across the ice.
I wasn’t sure whether it was sweat or tears that I was tasting, but I didn’t really care. I wasn’t going to go down, not now.
The clock had bled down to the final sixty seconds, with the game back on.
Fights forgotten as each team looked for that elusive winning goal.
Mason fed the puck to Grayson in the slot, and I skated hard to cover the left side, my shoulder screaming with every stride.
The seconds counted down to a moment that would either break the game open, or break me.
Next thing I knew, Landon launched over the boards.
The kid had balls for days, and he let it all hang out.
His blade sliced through the ice as he went straight for Grayson’s hand-off.
Time slowed, and I was one of the riveted audience watching him do his thing.
He juked a defender, scooped the puck up—and I watched everyone’s head tilt back to track the motion—he took it out of the air with his stick, and slotted that baby right between the goalie’s legs.
The team erupted around me, sticks slamming the boards, shouts cutting through the arena. I had nothing left to give because of the raging fire in my arm. In fact, it was this second that the sounds around me started to dull. As if I were bundled up in gauze.
Dallas didn’t take losing quietly. Fists flew, bodies collided, and I was caught in it before I knew what was happening. And after that last impact, it didn’t take more than their dickhead goalie’s side-swipe to get me off my skates.
The funny part was feeling nothing after that initial explosion of pain when I hit the ice.
I didn’t see much either, just flashes of pin-pricks hurting my eyes.
There was probably screaming, but I couldn’t be sure.
Somebody was on me, fists swinging with blinding accuracy, the fight moving around me in a whirlwind I couldn’t escape.
“Get out of my way! Move! Oh, my God, Theo!”
As pain radiated in jagged lines up my neck, and everything went white around the edges, quickly fading black, I thought of another funny thing: She’d never called me by my name before.