Chapter Twenty-Three
Sadie
Leo: Why was there a stack of board games on my doorstep this morning?
Sadie: The same reason a new Nespresso machine was waiting for me on my porch two days ago with a bottle of blueberry syrup. You started this. I had to tell Vivi it was from my mother, by the way.
Leo: Smart. Now that I’m stocked, are you going to come over and play with me?
Sadie: In a dirty way, or a sweet way?
Leo: Don’t flirt with me on the team jet. I can’t afford a hard-on right now.
Sadie: Then don’t ask flirty questions.
Henri is injured, which means we’re down one of our best D-men.
And of course it had to be the night we’re playing the Grizzlies at The Kodiak, their home arena in southern California. Leo’s former team. We’re capable of beating them when we play our best.
They’re struggling tonight, but so are we.
The puck slides past our line.
Leo’s a half second behind in getting there. His stick trembles just enough to betray a lack of confidence—
The Grizzlies’ best forward flies in.
He pins Leo against the boards. The thud of his body hitting glass echoes through the arena.
Their forward takes possession, shoots—
Damn it.
“McLaren isn’t himself tonight,” Jax yells over the roar of the boisterous crowd. I have no idea how long he’s been standing next to me because I’m so locked in on the game. “He’s been slow to respond.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want another Philly.”
Choir, meet preacher. “I’ll talk to him and make sure he’s okay.”
As soon as Leo’s line hits the bench, I’m behind him in a flash, tapping his shoulder. He leans back so he can more easily hear me.
I resist the natural instinct to touch him. “You okay?”
He nods once—barely—without turning to face me.
That’s not like him. Even before things evolved between us to whatever they are, he was big on eye contact. On making sure we were communicating effectively as captain and coach.
“Look at me, Leo.” Worry grips me more than it should, making me sound frantic. “Are you sure you’re feeling a hundred percent?”
He’s a player.
He knows his own body.
But I’ve got a lot of people to answer to.
He finally tilts his head just enough to catch my eye through the grid of his helmet. “I’m okay.”
“Because if you’re tired, or—”
“I’m fine, Rivers.”
I flinch as Nic takes a tumble mere feet in front of us. He hops up quickly.
Maybe it’s just one of those nights where everyone is a little off and I need to relax. “Okay. Heard that.”
Callum smacks his glove against Leo’s knee. “Watch their winger. He’s sneaking low every time.”
He’s not wrong. I give Callum’s helmet an encouraging pat and step back.
They’ve got this.
Even so, my skin feels too tight when they return to the ice for their next shift. Watching the game shouldn’t make me nervous. It never has before.
This is what you get for letting yourself fall.
I dismiss the thought. It’s not the time to think about my bad decisions.
It’s time for hockey.
I pace back and forth, hands clasped behind my back. The lines swap, and then they swap again, and I fall into the cadence of the game. We’re turning into a well-oiled machine.
I’m always telling the guys to trust in their training. I need to do the same.
Vivi’s attention is on our second-line forwards who just took the ice as she steps in my path. “Hey, what do you think about flipping the wings for—damn.”
A scuffle breaks out against the boards. Intensifies.
Someone drops to the ice. My stomach drops with him.
Leo.
Unlike Nic, he doesn’t pop back up.
The ref waves for the trainers before the crowd fully processes what’s happening, but once they do, the sound dies fast. Cheers collapse into a stunned hush as blades scrape to a stop. Our benched players are silent.
Nausea rolls through me in a wave as seconds stretch out.
I’m vaguely aware of Vivi’s hand on my elbow, gripping.
Fallon, our trainer, slides toward Leo, knees first. She leans in to talk to him. Or at him.
She waves for another trainer to join her.
That is not good. Panic overtakes me in a violent wave. My heartbeat thunders in my ears as I try and keep my composure.
“It’s his shoulder,” Ivan tells me from the bench, steely concern hardening his gaze. “It’s gotten so bad he can’t take a hit without nearly blacking out. I thought maybe it was getting better.”
It feels like an eternity, but it’s maybe thirty seconds before they call for the backboard.
He’s still not moving.
Leo, please.
This can’t be happening. My lungs seem to harden, my skin violently clammy like I’m sinking in a cold lake.
I should’ve taken him out. Fuck, I knew it. I knew in my bones something was wrong tonight, but I ignored it because he told me he was fine.
Nothing in that scuffle should’ve triggered a reaction like that from what I could see.
Which means his shoulder hasn’t been okay for a while.
I did exactly what my old coach did to me—kept him in the game. It was for a totally different reason, but the end result is the same.
I let this happen.
Was I in denial that something was wrong, or am I just terrible at my fucking job? My feelings for him, my player, clouded my judgment.
Yes, he hid it from me. He didn’t want me to see it. But I could’ve saved him from himself.
Someone brings out the stretcher. Guys on both benches stay frozen, helmets off, eyes locked on the scene.
Move, Leo.
Before they can move him, an arm lifts. His right one. The movement is sluggish, but it happens. He’s waving them off so they don’t put him on the stretcher.
I heave a sharp breath of relief.
The lift of his arm draws a collective exhale from the whole arena. A smattering of applause breaks out, soft at first, then louder when they help him to his feet.
He wobbles violently. I draw blood inside my palm from squeezing my fist so tight.
Vivi’s already on the phone with Dr. Bonifacio, explaining exactly what happened in case he missed it from his vantage point.
“He’s waiting to meet them in the tunnel, then he’ll assess,” she assures me. Her round eyes find mine. “Go to him. I can take it from here.”
“I can’t just…” My voice is wrecked. “I can’t leave.”
“The game is almost over. Cruz and Dom can—”
“That’s not how it works in the NHL.” I look left and right for eavesdroppers. “It’d be a scandal.”
Her brow furrows almost as if in sympathy. “Maybe some things are more important than optics.”
Of course they are. But I can’t. I plead with my eyes for her to not talk me into something risky when I’m already on the verge of a meltdown.
Because I’m not allowed to falter. Not even an inch.
Head coaches don’t walk out on a game because one player got hurt. Period. Doing so would be as good as announcing to the world that I—
I shake my head. “He wouldn’t want me to do that. But can you go monitor the situation?”
“Sadie—”
“Please, Vivi.” My voice cracks.
She has to do what I can’t. Someone has to be there for him.
I want so badly for it to be me.
Her nod is resolute. “I’ll text you and let you know what Dr. B says.”
I try to keep my head in the game, falling back on the muscle memory of what needs to be done. But I’m in a state of suspended panic, waiting for my pocket to vibrate, waiting for an eventual update that doesn’t give me any relief.
Heading to the hospital for scans.
This time when we win the game, it feels decidedly like a loss.