Chapter 7
Jolts of pain shoot up my thigh, but I ignore it. What else am I supposed to do? Sit on the bench while my team plays Southern Collegiate without me? Let them think their captain is too broken to show up when it matters?
Let her think I'm broken without her?
Not a fucking chance.
“You good?” Cade glides up beside me, his eyes scanning my face with that annoying perceptiveness he pretends not to have. “You're skating weird.”
“I'm not skating weird.”
“You're favoring your right leg.”
“I always favor my right leg. It's my dominant side.”
“Jay.”
“I'm fine, Bright.” I push off harder, forcing my stride to even out even though it makes my thigh scream in protest. “Focus on your own game.”
He doesn't look convinced, but he also doesn't push it. Smart man.
The arena is packed tonight—Southern Collegiate is our biggest rival, and everyone knows this game could make or break our playoff seeding.
I've already got my contract with the Monterey Leviathans locked in for next year, so the pressure isn't about impressing scouts. It's about something more important.
Legacy.
This is my last season at Covey. My last chance to bring home a championship before I go pro. Every game from here on out matters, and I'm not about to let my team down because my leg decided to stage a rebellion.
Scott Hendricks and his son are in the crowd tonight, watching to see if the investment in the hockey dorm is worth it. Let them watch. Let them see what Covey hockey looks like when our backs are against the wall.
I take a few more laps, testing the leg. It holds. Barely. The tape Mark applied yesterday is doing its job, but it's not the same as when Ally did it. Her wraps were tighter, more precise. It always felt like she knew exactly what I needed, even if she would never admit it.
Mark's good. He's just—not her. Ally has a way of cutting me down and then building me back up.
Stop thinking about her.
I shake my head, trying to clear it. I've spent the last week thinking about Ally Hart, and it's gotten me exactly nowhere. She won't respond to my messages. She quit her placement. She's made it abundantly clear that whatever happened between us was a mistake she'd rather forget.
As if that's fucking possible. I felt how wet she was. She's into me as much as I'm into her. But whatever. If she wants to pretend I don't have the ability to get her off in just a few seconds, fine. I'll give her something to ignore.
I'll play the best fucking game of my life, and she'll have to watch from wherever she is, knowing she can't take credit for taping the best player's thigh.
Coach McKibbon calls us in for the pre-game huddle, his face set in that grim determination that means he's either confident or terrified. With Coach, it's hard to tell.
“Listen up,” he barks. “SoCo's going to come out hard. They're desperate. They've had two losses in a row, and they need this win to stay in playoff contention. They're going to play physical, they're going to play dirty, and they're going to try to get in your heads.”
He looks directly at me.
“Don't let them.”
I nod, ignoring the pointed nature of that comment. I've told Coach I'm fine to play, and Mark did technically clear me, but that tingle in my thigh is still there. A taunting reminder that Ally isn't.
“Cross, you're centering the first line. Bright, you're on his right wing. Morrison, left.” Coach runs through the rest of the assignments, but I don't pay close attention. Instead, I try to subtly massage my thigh through my gloves and shorts.
Yeah, that's doing nothing.
“We win this game, we lock in home ice advantage for the first round. We lose, and we're fighting for scraps. Questions?”
Silence.
“Good. Now get out there and show them what Crusher hockey looks like.”
The team roars and we get in position for the faceoff.
Smith, SoCo's center, lines up across from me. “Cross. How's the thigh?”
I don't answer. Instead, I narrow my eyes, watching him.
It only makes him chuckle. “Don't worry, I'll try my best not to check your right side.”
He knows. They all do, no doubt. I've been managing this injury for weeks, but that doesn't mean I still can't be annoyed that they're going to use it as a tactic.
Don't respond. Just focus on the faceoff.
My thigh twinges on the pivot, and I have to grit my teeth to keep my expression neutral.
Not now. Don't let them or anyone else see the pain. Hold it together.
When the puck drops, everything else disappears.
The first period is rough. SoCo is all over me. With every touch of the puck, I'm surrounded by their players, and they're targeting my right side, unsurprisingly.
I play through it and manage a few solid passes, but I'm a little rusty. Thankfully, even on our worst day, we're better than these losers.
“You sure you're okay?” Cade asks during a line change, his breath fogging in the cold air. “You're grimacing every time you push off.”
“I'm fine.”
“Jay—”
“I said I'm fine,” I growl, then shake my head. Cade's my teammate. He's just trying to help. “Just... cover my weak side if you see me slowing down,” I say quietly. It's the closest to an admission that he's going to get.
Cade stares at me for a long moment, then nods. “You got it, Cap.”
The second period starts, and SoCo scores two minutes in. A screened shot that Dash never saw coming, the puck trickling through traffic and sliding under his pad.
1-0, Southern Collegiate.
“Fuck!” I slam my stick against the boards, frustration boiling over. We were supposed to control this game. We were supposed to dominate.
Instead, we're chasing.
I throw myself into the next shift, skating harder than I should, pushing through the pain because pain is just weakness leaving the body, right? That's what every coach I've ever had has told me. Pain is temporary. Glory is forever.
Ally would call me a fucking idiot.
The thought comes unbidden, and I shove it away. She doesn't get to live in my head right now. Not when I need to focus.
I chase down a loose puck in the corner, battling with SoCo's defenseman for position. He's bigger than me, but I'm faster...usually. Tonight, my legs feel heavy, unresponsive. He wins the battle, clearing the puck up the boards.
Come on, Cross. Get your shit together.
Midway through the second, we finally break through. Cade carries the puck into the zone, draws two defenders, and slides a perfect pass to me in the slot. I don't think. I just shoot.
The puck rockets past their goalie's glove and into the top corner.
The game is tied.
The crowd erupts. My teammates mob me, pounding my helmet and slapping my pads. For a moment—just a moment—I forget about everything else. The pain in my leg. The girl who won't answer my texts. The fear that I'm slowly falling apart.
“That's my captain!” Cade yells, grinning like a maniac. “Let's fucking go!”
We head into the second intermission tied 1-1, and I collapse onto the bench in the locker room, my thigh throbbing so badly I can barely see straight.
I grab an ice pack myself before anyone can ask questions, pressing it against my leg through my pants. The cold helps, but not enough. The muscle is seizing up, tightening with every passing minute.
I should tell Coach. Should sit out the third period and let someone else take the reins, but then I think about the playoffs. The championship. The fact that this is my last season, my last chance to leave a legacy that matters.
You're not doing this for her. You're doing this for the team.
The lie tastes bitter, but I swallow it anyway.
“Third period,” Coach announces. “Same lines, same intensity. Cross, you good?”
Everyone looks at me.
“I'm good,” I lie.
Coach holds my gaze for a beat too long, then nods. “Let's finish this.”
The third period is utter war. SoCo scores first with another garbage goal. It's just a deflection off our own defenseman's skate. 2-1.
We answer three minutes later. Morrison buries a rebound after I crash the net, and suddenly we're tied again. 2-2.
The clock ticks down. Ten minutes. Eight. Five.
My leg is on fire. Every shift feels shorter, every stride more labored. Cade keeps glancing at me with concern, but he doesn't say anything. Neither does Dash. They know I won't listen.
With three minutes left, I'm battling in the corner for the puck. Their defenseman drives his shoulder into my chest, pinning me against the boards.
I push back, fighting for position, when his knee comes up.
It's not a dirty hit. Not technically. Just an unfortunate collision. His knee catches me square in the thigh—right on the adductor, right where Mark's tape ends.
The pain is instant and excruciating.
White-hot fire shoots through my leg, and for a second, I can't breathe. Can't think. Can't do anything but grip my stick and try not to scream.
“Cross!” The ref's whistle hasn't blown—the puck is still in play. “You good?”
I nod. I don't trust my voice.
The play moves away from me, and I use those precious few seconds to lean against the boards, testing my weight. The leg holds, but barely. Something's wrong. Something's very fucking wrong.
But the shift is almost over.
Just thirty more seconds.
I push off the boards, forcing myself to skate. My stride is off—I can feel it, the way I'm compensating, putting too much weight on my right leg—but maybe no one else will notice.
The whistle blows. Line change.
I skate to the bench, keeping my face carefully neutral even though every movement sends shockwaves of agony through my thigh. Cade shoots me a look, but I shake my head before he can say anything.
Not now. Not in front of Coach.
The final minutes tick down. Neither team can break the tie.
Overtime.
“Cross, you're starting OT,” Coach announces. “Bright, Morrison, you're with him. Defense, stick with the pairing that's been working.”
I should tell him. Should admit that something's wrong, that I might be a liability out there, but this is overtime. This is everything, and I'll be damned if I let my team down now.
We line up for the opening faceoff. My thigh is screaming, the muscle seizing with every small movement, but I lock it down. Mind over matter. That's what got me here. That's what's going to get me through this.
The puck drops.
I win the draw, but barely. Then I send it back to our defenseman. He carries it up, looking for an opening.
SoCo's defense is tight. They're playing for the tie now, content to drag this to a shootout.
Not on my watch.
I drive toward the net, calling for the puck. Their center tries to body check me, but I slip past—favoring my good leg more than I should—and position myself in the slot.
The pass comes.
I one time it.
The puck sails wide.
I miss.
Fuck.
We regroup. Dash makes a huge save on the other end and sends the puck back our way.
Two minutes into OT. Then three. Then four.
Every stride is agony. Every pivot, every turn, every moment of pressure on that left leg feels like someone's driving a spike through the muscle, but I don't stop. Can't stop.
Cade picks up the puck in the neutral zone, dangling past one defender, then another. I see the opening before he does—a gap on the left side, just enough space to slip through.
I cut toward the net, my bad leg protesting with every push. Their goalie is tracking Cade, doesn't see me coming.
Cade's pass is perfect.
I don't think. Don't hesitate. Just shoot.
The puck hits the back of the net.
Goal.
The arena explodes.
My teammates pour over the boards, mobbing me at center ice. Cade crashes into me first, nearly knocking me over, and I have to lock my knees to stay upright.
“Fuck yes!” He's screaming. “That's my captain!”
More bodies pile on. Dash skates over from the crease, joining the celebration. Coach is yelling something from the bench, but I can't hear over the roar of the crowd.
We won.
Somehow, despite everything, we won.
I smile. Force myself to celebrate, and raise my stick to the crowd. I act like everything is normal, like I'm not dying inside, like my leg isn't threatening to give out with every second I stand here.
“Hell of a shot, Cross!” Morrison pounds my back.
“Couldn't have done it without you guys,” I manage, my voice steadier than I feel.
The celebration continues. We line up for the handshake with SoCo, which I skate through on autopilot.
Just get to the locker room. Just get there and you can fall apart.
Finally, blessedly, we're off the ice.
The team is celebrating in the locker room. Music is blasting, guys are yelling, and the energy of victory is surging through everyone. I slip into my stall, keeping a smile plastered on my face even though I want to scream.
“That's what I'm talking about!” Coach walks in, grinning. “That's Crusher hockey! Cross, Morrison, Bright—hell of a line tonight. Hell of a line.”
“Thanks, Coach,” I say, already unlacing my skates. The sooner I get out of here, the better.
“You alright?” Coach asks, and my heart stops.
“Yeah, just exhausted. Long game.”
He studies me for a moment, then nods. “Get some rest. We've got Rome U in a couple of days, but take tomorrow off. You've earned it.”
“Will do.”
He moves on to the next player, and I exhale shakily.
I peel off my gear as quickly as I can without drawing attention. Shin pads. Shoulder pads. Jersey. Every movement makes my thigh throb, but I keep my face neutral. Just another post-game routine. Nothing to see here.
I wait until most of the team has cleared out before I try to stand. When I do, my leg nearly buckles.
Shit.
I grip the edge of my stall, breathing through the pain. It's bad. Worse than before. Possibly the worst it's ever been, but I made it through the game. No one knows. And that's all that matters.
I grab my bag, slinging it over my shoulder, and force myself to walk toward the exit. Each step is careful, measured. I keep my weight on my right leg as much as possible, but I can't avoid using the left entirely.
Just get home, Cross. That's all you need to do.