42. Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Two
JACKSON
T he second the door closes behind me, I yank off my gloves and hurl them at the nearest wall.
The trainer’s already waiting. “Sit,” he says, calm but firm. “Let’s take a look.”
The sounds of the game still bleed in from the tunnel: skates carving ice, the piercing shriek of a whistle, a wave of crowd noise rising like a storm front.
I sit on the edge of the padded table, jersey unfastened, shoulder aching deep and hot. The head trainer steps in, crouching beside me as he rotates my arm. Every movement sends a pulse through my jaw. I grit my teeth and stay still.
It’s the left shoulder. Same one that’s been bugging me on and off since the last round. I’d been keeping it under control: ice, rest, not saying too much.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “You’re locked up pretty good. Same shoulder?”
I nod, jaw rigid. “Been bothering me for a few weeks. Mainly tightness, nothing like this.”
“Any shooting pain?”
“No.”
But now it’s a deep, unyielding ache, throbbing harder as the adrenaline wears off.
One of them lifts my arm just a little and I hiss through my teeth.
“Still think it’s mostly bruising,” the lead trainer mutters, fingers probing gently. “Maybe an aggravated rotator cuff. We’ll get a better picture in the morning.”
“MRI?” I ask, jaw still clenched.
“Yeah. You’re on the schedule first thing. Nothing feels dislocated, but I don’t like how locked up it is. You’re done for tonight, Hart.”
I close my eyes, drag in a breath. “Of course, I am.”
He doesn’t answer. Just secures a thick ice pack to my shoulder and wraps it firmly with elastic tape, strapping it down across my chest and upper arm.
“That should hold for now. Try not to move it more than you have to.”
I hate this.
Being pulled from the game. Watching from the tunnel. Knowing Ava’s up there somewhere in the crowd and saw the whole damn thing.
She’s going to worry.
I hope the boys didn’t see this.
I rub my hand down my face, the cold from the ice pack already leeching into my skin.
This was supposed to be our night.
Our start to the Final. At home. In front of our people. And I went down like a fucking rookie.
I grit my teeth and stare at the floor, a sick, sinking feeling that I might’ve just blown it.
By the time I make it back to the bench, my shoulder is wrapped and cold, the ice pack already numbing most of the ache.
I slide onto the end of the row, careful not to bump anyone as I sit.
It’s the kind of quiet where everyone knows you’re there but doesn’t say much.
Just a few nods, a couple of looks from the guys closest to me.
Russo skates by during a line change and casts a quick glance down the row. He doesn’t say anything, but the look says enough. You good?
I lift my chin in return. As good as I can be, taped up like a busted engine part.
The guys are locked in now, heads down and focused. There’s barely five minutes left in regulation, and the score’s close. It’s 2-1, us winning. The whole building’s on edge, the kind of tension that clings to your skin.
I catch Coach Barrett down the line, barking something at the defensemen before turning back toward the ice.
He throws a quick glance down the bench when I slide in, his gaze catching on the taped shoulder.
He doesn’t say anything, just nods once, like he’s clocked it, processed it, and moved on for now.
I blow out a slow breath and lean forward slightly, careful of the shoulder.
From here, I can still track the puck, watch the rotation of the lines, see how tight we’re keeping the zone.
It’s torture, sitting here while they battle for every inch.
My good hand curls against my thigh, itching to be out there.
One of the assistants walks past and nods. “MRI’s set for seven a.m.”
I grunt in response, leaning back, letting the cold from the wrap seep in, watching the game unfold in front of me like I’m stuck behind glass.
I shift in my seat, the cold from the ice pack biting through the fabric now. Every time I breathe, it feels like disappointment settling deep in my ribs.
I glance at the scoreboard again. Just hold the line. That’s all we need.
The clock ticks down, each second loud in my ears.
A few shifts rotate. Fast, disciplined. We’re still up by one, but it feels thinner than it should. Like if you blink wrong, it’ll vanish.
Russo’s line takes the ice again. He moves like he’s got something to prove, which he probably does. He’s been looking for blood since I got hit. One solid check along the boards and the crowd erupts.
I shift slightly, careful of the wrap on my shoulder. The cold’s starting to wear off, and the throb is settling into something dull but deep. It’ll feel worse later.
But right now, I can’t feel anything except the seconds burning off the clock.
Empty-netter with 16 seconds left.
3–1.
That’s it. We’ve got it.
The horn blares, and the building explodes.
Guys are flying off the bench, throwing arms around each other, sticks tapping the ice. I stay where I am, halfway up, one arm braced against my thigh. It’s instinct to rise, to move, but I know better. The second I try to stand too fast, I’ll feel it. And I’m not giving the media that shot.
Coach Barrett turns my way as he makes his way down the line. He pauses beside me and drops a hand on the back of the bench.
“Get the imaging done tomorrow. I’ll talk to you after the results. We’ll adjust rotations temporarily, but I want you back when it counts. Don’t be an idiot about the shoulder.”
I grunt. “Copy that.”
Eventually, I push to my feet and head toward the tunnel. No one stops me. Not the guys, not the staff. I think they know better than to try.
I cut through the back hallway toward the locker room, moving slower than usual, careful of every jolt to my shoulder. By the time I reach the corner outside the medical room, the hallway’s already thinning out: security, staff, a couple of reporters waiting to be waved in.
Then I see her.
Ava’s tucked to the side, near the spot where family usually waits. Her coat’s still half-buttoned, eyes scanning every person who passes.
She sees me, and I swear I watch the tension drop from her shoulders like someone cut a string.
She crosses the distance in three quick steps. “You’re okay?” Her hands hover like she wants to touch me but isn’t sure where it’s safe.
“God, I saw the hit and then you didn’t come back and…” She shakes her head, swallowing hard. “I was so scared.”
I nod once, slow. “Shoulder’s banged up. MRI in the morning. They don’t think it’s serious.” I stop, my throat going dry. “But I have no idea how long I’ll be benched.”
Ava looks down at the wrap peeking from beneath my shirt sleeve. “Does it hurt?”
“Only when I breathe,” I deadpan, and her mouth twitches despite everything.
She steps in closer, her voice quiet now. “The boys didn’t see it happen. Miss Taylor texted me.”
Relief hits me like a second wind. “Good.”
She reaches for my good hand, threading her fingers through mine like it’s second nature.
As she does, a thought rises. Quiet, steady, impossible to ignore.
That unopened pregnancy test on her desk.
I haven’t said anything. Haven’t asked.
Because I don’t know what to say.
When I first saw it, my stomach dropped. I won’t lie.
The timing. The weight of it. How fast everything between us has moved.
And yeah—my first instinct? It was panic.
Not because I don’t care about her. God, that’s not it.
But because we’re still figuring this out. Because I’ve already done the whole newborn phase. Because part of me is still relearning how to let someone in without losing the ground beneath my feet.
A baby?
That’s not a small detour. That’s a whole new map.
It scares me, yeah.
But the longer I sit with it, the more I keep coming back to the same thing:
I want to be the one she leans on.
If she’s pregnant, then everything changes.
And I’m still here.
I want to ask her about it. To take that weight off her shoulders.
But something in her eyes tells me she’s not ready yet.
So I wait.
Not because I’m afraid of the answer.
But because I’m not going anywhere.