Chapter 21
Tane
One more game.
One more game and the Stormers were toast. After taking the first match in the series convincingly, the Enforcers grew in confidence.
Tane might not have been back to his best yet, but he could see that the team was doing well in his absence.
He’d never liked the Stormers either, so to finish them off at home would be the perfect.
The arena hummed with pre-game electricity. Twenty thousand seats filled steadily, the home crowd already buzzing in electric blue and silver, waving flags and chanting the Enforcers fight song.
Warm-ups were in full swing: pucks cracking against boards, skates carving sharp turns, goalies thumping pads in rhythm.
Tane glided through the familiar patterns… edge work, quick stops, wrist shots from the slot. But every motion sent a fresh twinge through his right shoulder, sharp and hot, like someone had jammed a knitting needle under the joint.
It wasn’t good.
And to make matters worse, he hadn’t told anyone.
The niggle had started that morning during—nothing dramatic, just a dull ache when he pressed into a push-up. By the time he taped his stick for warm-ups it had sharpened into something insistent.
Tane rolled the shoulder once, twice, trying to shake it loose.
No dice.
But he gritted his teeth and kept moving, refusing to let it show in his stride.
Alex Rebrov skated up beside him during a passing drill, effortless as always, hair still damp from the shower, eyes sharp under the lights. Alex had been reading bodies longer than most, he could spot a limp from across the rink.
“You’re favoring the right side,” Alex said quietly, voice low enough that only Tane could hear over the crowd noise. “I know an injured player when I see one, Tane.”
Tane snapped the puck harder than necessary into the boards. “Mind your own business, Rebrov.”
The words came out harsh. But Alex didn’t flinch, he just raised one dark eyebrow and kept pace.
Tane circled back around the net, jaw tight.
Regret hit him almost immediately. Alex wasn’t prying for gossip, he was looking out for the team. And for an old friend too.
Tane peeled off the drill line and skated over. Alex was waiting near the blue line, stick resting across his thighs.
“Sorry,” Tane muttered, keeping his voice down. “Listen, man. It’s just a niggle. Been there all day. I’ll be fine.”
Alex studied him for a long second.
“You’ve got three goals and an assist in the last four games since coming back,” Alex said. “You’re moving well. But that shoulder’s talking to you. You need to listen. You’ve been in the game long enough to know that.”
“We’re up in the series,” Tane said. “We’ve got the beating of these guys. I’m not sitting this one out. I can handle it.”
Alex nodded slowly. “Then tell Tremaine you want to sit,” Alex reasoned. “Limited minutes. We can close this at home without you playing hero for every damn minute tonight.”
Tane shook his head. “I need the reps. I need to fight through it, get the confidence back. If I start sitting now, it’s too easy to keep sitting. We’ve seen it before. Remember Nakov?”
“Yeah, I remember Nakov,” Alex answered. “And he went down as a Hall of Famer precisely because he knew when it was time to manage himself better. Sure, it got tough for him at the end. But you don’t have to go down that route. Just play it smart.”
“As your captain and your friend,” Tane said, clenching his jaw. “Back the hell off.”
Alex exhaled through his nose, a small sound that might have been amusement or resignation.
“Got it,” Alex said, a wry smile on his face. “You of all people know what you need to do, Tane. Just don’t be stupid about it.”
Tane clapped him on the shoulder and skated away before the conversation could drag on.
Then, the whistle blew.
The warm-ups ended.
It was time to line up and bring this one home…
* * *
The puck dropped and the game exploded into motion.
The first period was tight. The Stormers came out swinging, knowing full well that they were fighting for their lives to stay in the playoffs.
They were forechecking hard, trying to rattle the Enforcers.
But Tane played through the pain, keeping his shots quick and low, avoiding heavy contact when he could.
He logged eight solid minutes, blocked a shot off the shin, won a couple of board battles.
The shoulder screamed every time he wound up for a slapshot, but he buried the discomfort and kept moving.
“You good?” Alex asked as he skated up to Tane in a moment of respite.
“I’m good,” Tane answered, his body in survival mode and all his years of experience backing him up.
Second period, the Enforcers found their rhythm.
Jacob danced through the neutral zone, drawing two defenders, then dished a perfect pass to Alex at the point.
Alex one-timed it toward the net, nothing fancy, just hard and accurate.
Tane was already crashing the crease. He tipped the puck with the blade of his stick, enough to redirect it past the goalie’s glove.
2-0. And probably game over.
The building erupted. Tane glided back to the bench, glove raised, but the ache in his shoulder had upgraded to a deep burn. He didn’t celebrate long, just tapped gloves with Alex and Jacob, then dropped onto the bench to hide how much he was breathing through his teeth.
That’s it.
You played your part.
There’s life in you yet.
“Go for the kill!” Tane hollered from the bench as play resumed. “This Storm is barely a fucking drizzle!”
Third period, the Stormers did push back—the assholes got one on a power play—but the Enforcers answered. Jacob scored shorthanded on a breakaway. Alex buried one from the circle.
Final score: 4-1 to Toronto.
When the buzzer sounded, the crowd rose as one.
“Rivers! Rivers! Rivers!” echoed off the rafters.
Tane skated a slow lap with the team, stick raised, nodding to the fans who’d stuck by him through the injury, the rehab, the questions about whether he’d ever come back the same.
But the applause barely registered.
The shoulder was on fire now—every rotation sent fresh lightning down his arm.
Tane needed ice, tape, the rehab room, and he needed it five minutes ago. He peeled off toward the tunnel before the rest of the team had even finished fist-bumping the goalie.
I need off the ice.
Rehab. Rest.
And maybe a God damned miracle…
* * *
Later that evening, Tane’s apartment was quiet except for the hum of the city outside the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Pensive, tired, and sore, he sat in the leather armchair by the bookshelf, a tumbler of single malt in his hand… fifteen-year-old Islay, peaty and medicinal.
Tane hadn’t turned on the lights. All he had was the glow from the skyline and the faint blue flicker of the muted TV replaying highlights.
He sipped slowly, letting the burn settle in his throat.
The win felt good on paper. Another step closer to a career defining championship.
Another crucial goal too.
And another night where the body had held on, just.
But the shoulder hadn’t stopped throbbing since the final buzzer. Ice and anti-inflammatories had dulled it to a steady ache, but Tane knew the difference between manageable and masking a bigger problem.
He was thirty-eight.
This was his final season.
One more run at the Cup he’d fought for his entire career. Tane could feel the window closing—it was no longer wide open either, just a crack he was trying to wedge himself through. The body wanted to retire before the mind did. And that felt like the cruel part.
Tane let out a low growl, his animal instincts rising up in defiance.
He paced to the window, glass cool against his palm.
Could he get the form back? Yes, he absolutely could.
Tane still had the hockey IQ, the vision, the shot when the shoulder cooperated.
But his confidence was fragile. One bad hit, one re-aggravation, and the doubt would creep in louder than any crowd.
Or worse, he could find himself crumpled on the floor in agony, a truly miserable last sight of him on the ice for his legion of fans.
Yes, he might have signed the contract extension but Tane knew that a serious injury requiring surgery for a player of his age could spell the end no matter what.
But before Tane could get too deep in his emotions, the front door clicked open.
Jacob stumbled in, his cheeks flushed, hair mussed, jacket half-off one shoulder. The stench of beer followed him. He grinned wide when he saw Tane, the sloppy, affectionate grin that only appeared after four or five pints with the squad...
“Captain Tane!” Jacob sang, kicking off his sneakers in two different directions. “We fuckin’ crushed ‘em. You were a beast. Chef’s kiss! Now let me kiss that delicious cock!”
Tane set the whisky down. “You’re drunk.”
“Celebratory drunk,” Jacob corrected, weaving toward him. “Good drunk. Horny drunk.” He reached for Tane’s waist, fingers clumsy but determined.
Tane caught his wrists gently. “Easy, boy. You’re in no state.”
Jacob pouted, dramatic and endearing. “But I missed you. Everyone was toasting you and I just wanted to come home and climb you like a tree.”
Tane chuckled despite himself. “Pffft. You wish. Bed. Now. Water first.”
He steered Jacob down the hallway, one arm around his waist to keep him upright. Jacob leaned into him heavily, humming off-key.
“I’m not saying you’re not cute like this,” Tane said, a wry note in his voice. “But you’re definitely in no shape to be talking about us getting down and dirty.”
“Yeah yeah yeah,” Jacob replied, seemingly none the wiser as to what Tane was saying, his mind far too scrambled from the chasers that had almost certainly accompanied his beers.
In the bedroom, Tane flicked on the bedside lamp. Jacob flopped onto the mattress face-first, then rolled over and stared up at Tane with glassy, earnest eyes.