3. Jinx
CHAPTER THREE
Jinx
Game day always crackles with tension, but tonight the atmosphere is electric, like a storm about to break.
The Minnesota Marauders face off against the Detroit Bayhawks, and from the opening whistle, it’s been a brutal clash, the Detroit Bayhawks’ gray and black jerseys a blur on the white ice.
By the end of the second intermission, the scoreboard reflects a grim reality: three of our players are sidelined, each nursing injuries that clearly reveal the match’s ferocity.
Braden Gallagher grimaces as I kneel beside him on the bench, my fingers working diligently to untangle the stubborn knots in his calf muscles. Sweat beads on his forehead, his jersey clinging to him like a second skin, while Erik Novak sits nearby with a bag of ice strapped to his throbbing shoulder, his face a mask of frustration.
Tyler Porter, still dazed from being slammed into the boards, shakes his head in disbelief, a bruise already blooming across his cheek.
My eyes dart between Braden and the assistant coach, Jordan Gray, whose expression is a thundercloud of anger. His short blond hair is tousled from running his hands through it in exasperation, and his jaw is set like granite.
“Are the refs fucking blind?” I demand, adjusting the pressure on Braden’s leg as he winces, pain etched in the lines of his face. “Or are they just letting the Bayhawks get away with actual murder tonight?”
Jordan’s eyes flash with irritation. “I’ve been screaming at them all night. They’re letting too much slide. I don’t know what’s gotten into them, but they can’t keep letting the Bayhawks get away with this shit.”
“No kidding,” I mutter, unsure if he can hear me over the roar of the crowd.
Erik shifts uncomfortably, trying to find relief from the icy burn on his shoulder, while Tyler’s disbelief remains etched in his features.
Braden lets out a sharp breath as I work out another cramp, the tension in his muscles slowly easing under my touch.
“They’re playing dirty,” he grumbles, his voice low and filled with conviction. “I swear, one more hit like that and someone’s gonna end up on a stretcher.”
His words harden and catch in his throat as his entire body goes rigid under my working hands.
“Oh, shit—Jinx!” he stammers, eyes wide with panic, his finger flung out in front of him towards the rink.
I jerk my head up, tracing his line of sight to the massive jumbotron. My heart lurches to a terrifying halt as I take in the sight. The crowd gasps and boos, people jumping to their feet, arms outstretched toward the ice.
Rowan lies sprawled on the surface, motionless like a marionette with its strings cut.
The once rowdy arena now holds its breath, a chilling silence sweeping over the hushed stands. My stomach churns violently, a surge of panic flooding through me in this quiet moment.
The camera zooms in, capturing every agonizing detail: Rowan’s limbs splayed at unnatural angles, his dark uniform stark against the blinding white ice.
The image sears into my mind, and my pulse drums violently in my ears, drowning out all other sound. I don’t even register Coach’s reaction.
No. No, no, no!
A voice pierces the silence, calling my name, but I’m rooted to the spot. My breath is trapped in my chest, and my fingers are clamped onto Braden’s leg, unable to let go.
Bruno swings in to cover the net, but the game’s already been paused by the referees as everyone watches.
Dr. Ally materializes at my side. “We need more hands, now,” she commands with calm urgency.
I blink rapidly, pulling myself together, and nod. Adrenaline propels me upright so quickly that the arena spins momentarily before my eyes.
My body operates on instinct as I trail behind her, my boots echoing with each step across the bench area, then crunching onto the ice. The chill is sharper here, biting through my layers and tightening around my chest as I near the scene, trying not to land on my ass next to him.
Rowan lies motionless, his chest rising and falling with barely perceptible movement. The other players have retreated a few steps, their faces etched with worry that mirrors the turmoil churning in my guts.
Ally drops to her knees beside him, her fingers already seeking his pulse with practiced precision. “Rowan, can you hear me?” she calls out, insistent.
Silence.
“Damn. C’mon, Rowan,” I whisper under my breath.
The crowd’s collective voice swells and ebbs like a distant tide, but an oppressive hush envelops us all around Rowan. I place my hand on his forearm, his skin radiating an unsettling heat, his breathing shallow and labored.
“We need the stretcher,” Ally demands, her tone clipped and worried.
Within seconds, two nurses arrive with the stretcher, and there are tentative cheers as we load Rowan’s body onto it as gently as we can. Ally guides us all while stabilizing his head, and we carry him away from the game, leaving it to end without him.
Rowan’s eyelids flutter slightly as we maneuver him onto the examination table in Ally’s office, yet an eerie stillness still envelops him.
The overhead light casts sharp, angular shadows across his pale, waxy face, highlighting the purplish tint beneath his eyes.
I want him to wake up, to open his eyes and give me the lazy, confident smile he always has, but no matter how many times I attempt to will him awake, he doesn’t stir.
Ally moves with practiced speed, her gloved fingers gently lifting his eyelids, revealing dilated pupils that show no signs of life. I stand at the foot of the table, arms tightly crossed as my heart pounds with such intensity it drowns out my thoughts.
“Please, Rowan, please,” Ally murmurs, her voice a plea as she clicks her penlight on and off, the beam flickering across his unmoving gaze.
There’s no real reaction, no shimmer of recognition or response.
I swallow hard, the dryness in my throat uncomfortable. “Is he going to be okay?” My voice trembles with the question.
Ally hesitates, her silence stretching for what feels like an eternity, wrapping around my insides and twisting them into a knot. She’s usually a pillar of confidence, calm and composed—if she’s hesitating, it means something is seriously wrong.
Rowan’s body remains as still as a statue, save for the occasional involuntary twitch of his fingers. Seeing him like this, so utterly motionless, feels profoundly wrong, sending a sharp ache through my chest that I wasn’t prepared for.
Ally straightens her back and lets out a long sigh as she tugs off her blue latex gloves, the snap echoing in the small room.
“He’s too messed up for us to handle here,” she says, her voice filled with urgency. “He needs to be transported to the hospital immediately.”
She turns on her heel, heading toward the phone mounted on the wall, her footsteps quick and purposeful.
I inch closer to the examination table, my heart pounding in my chest. My fingers wrap tightly around the cold metal edge of the exam bed, my knuckles turning white as I try to anchor myself.
Is this the end for him? Will he ever set foot on the ice again? What happens if?—?
Suddenly, Rowan’s lips tremble, and for a fleeting moment, I think my mind might be playing tricks on me. But then, with a voice barely above a whisper, he manages to croak out, “Jinx…”
My head snaps down to him, panic and hope swirling inside me. “Rowan? Hey, I’m here,” I say, leaning closer, my breath held tight in my chest.
His long, dark lashes flutter like fragile wings against the pale skin of his cheekbones. He struggles to crack his eyes open, and when he finally does, they lock onto mine with a mixture of frustration and affection.
“Damn it, Jinx,” he rasps. “I just wanted to take you on a date before I died. Why you gotta be so cruel to me?”
I blink. “Are you seriously using your near-death experience to hit on me?”
He lets out a ragged chuckle that quickly morphs into a pained groan, his face contorting with the effort. “Did it work?” he forces out.
I snort, shaking my head in disbelief. “You are unbelievable,” I mutter, crossing my arms over my chest.
He tries to tilt his head toward me, the movement slow and labored. His forehead creases with the exertion, and I can see the glaze of pain in his eyes, a clear sign that he’s teetering on the edge of consciousness.
“Jinx,” he says again, sounding more fragile this time. “You owe me.”
I roll my eyes, but the fondness that tugs at my lips betrays me, despite the situation. Damn him.
Damn him for making me feel something right now, when I should be focused on his health, not on how infuriatingly attractive he looks even while lying half-dead.
“Fine.” I sigh dramatically, trying to mask the concern in my voice. “One date. If you survive this, I’ll go on a date with you.”
Ally clears her throat, a subtle yet pointed sound that demands attention. I glance up from the cluttered desk to find her watching me with a knowing expression, her eyes sparkling with understanding.
She arches a brow in a silent question, but I just roll my eyes and wave a hand through the air as if shooing away an unwelcome thought.
“It’s for morale,” I say, offering a vague explanation that barely scratches the surface of the truth.
Rowan manages a faint smile, his lips curling upward in a way that suggests he’s smug despite the pain that’s rendering him barely functional.
At that moment, the ambulance crew burst into the small office space, their presence announced by the rapid clatter of their boots against the cold tile floor.
The rhythmic beeping of medical equipment intermingles with the static crackle of their radios, creating a symphony of urgency that fills the room and heightens the tension in the air.
One of the EMTs, a wiry man with a focused demeanor, kneels by Rowan’s side and swiftly assesses his vitals, his fingers expertly finding the pulse on Rowan’s wrist.
“What’s his status?” he asks.
Ally immediately launches into a detailed but efficient rundown of Rowan’s condition. I step back, giving the professionals room to work as they prepare to transfer Rowan onto the waiting stretcher.
Just as they begin to lift him, Rowan’s fingers twitch, reaching toward mine in a silent plea for connection.
For a split second, I hesitate, uncertainty flickering through my mind. Then, before doubt can take hold, I reach out and grasp his hand firmly, feeling the warmth of his skin against mine as I squeeze gently.
“You’d better hold me to that date,” he mutters, sounding somehow both determined and vulnerable as they lift him.
I swallow hard against the tightness in my chest, emotions swirling tumultuously within me. “Yeah,” I say, and it comes out barely above a whisper. “I will.”
Rowan’s grip on my hand feels like it’s made of steel, his fingers clamping down with a strength that’s surprising for someone in his condition. Despite being half-conscious, his hold is unyielding, and no amount of gentle tugging on my part can free my fingers from his grasp.
“You’re stuck with me, Jinx.”
His eyes are barely cracked open, and his words are slurred, but there’s a light chuckle on his lips that makes my chest tighten with a strange mix of frustration and affection.
I let out a long, resigned sigh, rolling my eyes but unable to hide the small smile tugging at my lips. “Yeah, yeah, don’t get all romantic on me now,” I reply, trying to keep my tone light.
The EMTs, familiar with the chaos of game nights, don’t protest when I climb into the ambulance alongside him.
The sirens scream to life, filling the air with their urgent cry as we speed away from the rink, red and blue lights painting the interior with their rhythmic dance.
Rowan’s fingers twitch against my palm, and I glance down at him, noting the pallor of his skin. His face, usually so full of life, looks washed out, his lips parted as he draws shallow breaths through whatever pain is gripping him.
A pang of worry shoots through me, tightening around my heart like a vice.
I know I should be focused on the implications for the team. Rowan’s absence, even temporarily, spells trouble for us. He’s a fortress in front of the net, the kind of goalie whose presence is irreplaceable.
With the team already stretched thin by injuries, the thought of losing him is a nightmare. I can practically hear Coach’s voice, thick with frustration and concern, echoing in my mind.
Still, despite the turmoil, my thoughts keep drifting back to Rowan himself. To the warmth of his hand in mine, the way his fingers instinctively curl tighter, seeking comfort in the contact.
And inexplicably, my heart begins to race.