Chapter 6
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Tap. Tap.
I hit both posts with my stick as I slide into the crease, a ritual I’ve performed thousands of times. The ice under my skates should feel the same as it always does, but it doesn’t. It feels charged.
This is it. This is my chance.
But it doesn’t feel the way it should. It hits different because of Lou’s injury.
The expression on Lou’s face as they helped him off the ice has me shook.
Pain, we can handle—we all play through pain—but the look on Louis Tremblay’s face was more than pain; it was stone-cold fear.
The goalie who once finished a period with two broken fingers and cracked jokes about it during the intermission looked like his world was ending.
Stop it. My job is to be ready. The starter went down; I’m the next man up. That’s the whole reason I’m here.
The ref drops the puck in the circle to my left. The Broncos forward wins it clean.
My heart hammers against my ribs as their top line cycles the puck. Their passing is fast and precise. I drop into my stance, trying to lock in on the black rubber disc, trying to purge the image of my starting goalie crumpling to the ice.
One of their wingers cuts toward the net. Our defensemen scramble, looking rattled. Gaudreau fakes a pass, then snaps a quick wrist shot. I react on instinct, getting a piece of it with my blocker and deflecting it wide.
Focus, dammit.
The puck cycles back to the point. I shuffle left to track it, but the geometry is off. My movement is jagged. I’m not seeing the puck; I’m seeing Lou’s eyes meeting mine as I skated past him.
A one-timer rockets from the blue line.
I throw up my blocker a split second too late, and the puck clips my shoulder pad as it shoots into the net.
The red light flashes, the horn blares, and Calgary leads 3-2.
“Motherfucker!” I resist the urge to smash my stick against the post. I should have had that, but my mind isn’t in the game.
Rylan skates over, tapping my pads. “Shake it off, Sinc. There’s still time. We’ll get it back.”
I nod, but we both know. The Broncos tighten up for the final ninety seconds, collapsing around their own net. Coach Shaw pulls me for the extra attacker, but the clock bleeds out. The final horn sounds, and it’s 3-2 Calgary.
It’s like a morgue in the Edmonton visitors’ locker room.
Equipment hits the floor with heavy thuds, the usual post-game chatter nowhere to be found.
Coach Shaw gives a perfunctory speech about burying this one and focusing on Edmonton tomorrow night, but his eyes are distant.
None of us are really focused on the moment.
The guilt is eating me alive. I blew my chance to prove myself in a game that mattered. And why? Because I was too busy worrying about the guy whose job I’m supposed to be trying to take.
It makes no fucking sense.
I feel like an imposter in this locker room. I’m the guy who let in the game-winning goal. Our real hero is lying broken in the other room.
Most of the guys go back to getting undressed after Coach’s speech, peeling off jerseys and unlacing skates, trying to put the loss behind them.
I start undoing my own pads, my fingers a little shaky.
I want to get the hell out of here. I want to hide in the back of the plane, put on my noise-canceling headphones, and retreat into myself while we fly to Edmonton.
“Sinclair.”
I flinch, looking up.
Rylan is standing over me. He looks exhausted, his normally perfectly composed demeanor slipping a fraction, revealing the worried friend underneath it.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice low enough that the guys on either side of me can’t hear.
“Yeah. Fine,” I lie.
He studies me for a second, his eyes shrewd.
“Listen, Lou is in the medical room,” he says, leaning in closer.
“I was just in there. He’s not handling this well.
” He runs a hand through his wet hair, wincing slightly.
“He’s gonna need a hand getting dressed, even though he’s not gonna want to accept help.
After you’re cleaned up, could you bring him his clothes and maybe hang out there, help him as much as he’ll let you? ”
My stomach twists into a knot. “Uh, sure, I guess? But, uh, wouldn’t he rather someone else help him? I'm probably the last person he wants to see right now.”
Rylan glances toward the mob of reporters standing by the door, making sure they’re not paying attention to us before he leans in.
“Look, if I go in there, Lou will put on a show. He’ll crack jokes and pretend he’s fine because he doesn’t want me to worry.
It’s what he does.” He pauses to catch my eye.
“But he’s scared. He won’t show it to the trainers, and he definitely won’t show it to Coach, but he’s terrified.
He needs someone he doesn’t need to protect.
You’re his backup and his roommate. He might be prickly with you right now, but I think that might be easier on him than trying to laugh this off, you know? ”
That weird instinct to take away whatever is hurting Louis is back. But there’s nothing I can do to help him right now. Except maybe this. Maybe allowing him to be angry or upset or scared without having to worry about taking care of anyone else is what he needs. I can do that for him.
“Yeah,” I say, standing up on legs that are a little shaky. I’m still in my hockey pants, the stink of the loss still clinging to me. “Okay, I got him.”
Rylan claps a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “Thanks, Sinc. I’ll let him know you’ll be in to help him as soon as you’re showered. Bus leaves in forty-five.”
He turns and heads for the gathered press outside the locker room doors, squaring his shoulders, his confident captain’s mask sliding firmly back into place.
I rush through my shower, and a few minutes later, I’m pushing open the door to the medical room. My heart is hammering against my ribs harder than it was during the game, so I suck in a deep breath through my nose, holding it for a moment to steady myself before stepping inside.
The room smells like rubbing alcohol and bad news.
Lou’s sitting on the edge of the exam table, stripped to the waist, with his left side heavily wrapped in compression bandages.
He’s staring up at the ceiling, his lips moving silently, almost like he’s counting to himself.
His skin is white as a ghost, and when he sees me step into the room, his jaw clenches so tight I half expect his teeth to crack.
Carson Wells, our GM, is standing off to one side with his arms crossed. His face is impassive, but his eyes are worried. I might be new to the NHL, but I know he wouldn’t be down here if Lou’s injury wasn’t serious. Meanwhile, Coach Shaw is pacing near the sink.
“We don’t have enough info yet,” Doc Kendall says calmly.
He’s wearing that carefully neutral expression they must teach doctors to perfect in medical school—the one they use when things are shit, but they don’t want anyone to freak out.
“The X-rays were negative for breaks, but from my exam, we could be looking at a grade 3 tear. Pectoralis major, possibly involving the anterior deltoid.”
Louis doesn’t look away from the ceiling, but he swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“What do you think, George?” Carson asks. “Do we fly him back to Seattle tonight?”
The doctor checks his iPad. “No, I don’t think sending him home commercial would be a great experience.
He looks at Louis. “Let’s bring you to Edmonton with us.
We’ll get the MRI done there first thing tomorrow morning.
The University of Alberta has a world-class facility and some of the best doctors in the field.
” He gives Louis an encouraging smile. “They’ll take good care of us up there. ”
“Fine,” Carson says. He pulls out his phone immediately. He taps the screen and puts it to his ear. “Yeah, it’s Wells,” he says, turning away and stepping into the corner. “I need to call up Casey McWhittier. Tonight. We need him in Edmonton to back up Sinclair tomorrow night.”
Lou exhales sharply, like he’s been punched in the gut, and he grips the edge of the exam table so tightly his knuckles go white.
Jesus. Next man up. The poor guy’s getting a front-row seat to watch the business of pro hockey move forward. Less than an hour after his injury.
Coach Shaw stops in front of Lou and reaches out to give his knee a comforting squeeze. “Hey, Louis,” he says in a low voice while Carson continues his conversation and Doc Kendall types more notes into his iPad. “We’re gonna get you through this. Try not to get into your head, okay?”
Louis doesn’t say anything, just gives him a curt nod without making eye contact.
Coach notices me hovering by the door, Lou’s bag in one hand and his warm-up suit draped over my arm. He gives me a nod. “Sinclair. Good. Give him a hand getting dressed, and we’ll see you both on the bus in—” He checks his watch. “—twenty-five minutes.”
Carson ends his call. “McWhittier’s flight leaves Seattle in two hours. He won’t get much sleep tonight, but he’ll be at morning skate.” He looks at Louis, his expression softening. “Try not to worry too much, Lou. We’ll know more tomorrow.”
“Right,” he rasps. “No problem.” The fact that he doesn’t attempt to make any kind of joke is one more sign that Louis Tremblay is rattled.
He sits still for a long moment after management and the doc file out, staring at the closed door like he’s waiting for someone to come back and tell him this is all a mistake. When no one does, he turns his attention to me.
I’m still standing awkwardly next to the door, holding his stuff.
He holds his good arm out. “Give me the shirt,” he mutters, more to himself than to me.
I hand him the gray team T-shirt. He slides off the table, turning his back to me.
He tries to shake it out one-handed, but the soft cotton tangles around his wrist. He curses under his breath and tries to get it over his head using his one good arm, which is surprisingly difficult, and his agitated movements pull at the muscles in his chest.
He hisses sharply, and the T-shirt drops to the floor.
“Fuck!” He clenches his good hand into a fist. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He squeezes his eyes shut, breathing hard through his nose, trying to ride out the wave of pain.
He doesn’t want help. Nothing could be more clear. But he needs it.
I cross the room and grab the shirt off the floor.
“Stop,” I say quietly.
His eyes snap open. “I can do it. Give me my damn suit.”
“No. You’re not wearing the suit. Don’t be stupid, Lou.” I step into his personal space, shaking out the soft T-shirt. “We’ve got two bus rides and a flight to get through. You’re already going to be uncomfortable enough. You’re wearing the sweats.”
“I don’t show up looking like a slob,” he argues, but the fight is draining out of him.
“You show up looking like a guy who left everything he had out on the ice. Let me help.”
He stares at me, his chest heaving. Is he going to tell me to get the hell out?
“Fine,” he whispers. “Just… be careful.”
I nod and step closer, engulfed in his scent. Sweat, Tiger Balm, and man.
“We’ll go slow.”
I get the T-shirt over his head without too much trouble.
He holds his breath as I pull it down as gently as possible over his injured side, careful not to jostle him.
Bruises are already starting to bloom underneath the compression bandages, the dark purple beginning to spread across his chest like spilled ink. My stomach turns.
“Breathe, Lou,” I murmur.
He lets out a shaky exhale as I pull the hem the rest of the way down.
“Okay. Let’s do your hoodie next.”
I drape it over his shoulders, helping him get his good arm into the sleeve and leaving the other side to hang empty.
I move to stand directly in front of him and grab both sides of the hoodie’s zipper. It’s a simple task, but for some reason, my hands are trembling slightly, so I fumble with it, and it takes me a minute to get the zipper started.
“Carson called up McWhittier,” Louis says suddenly, his voice rough. “Before I was even off the table.”
I finally get the zipper to catch and start to pull it up slowly. “I know.”
“I’m fucking finished, Sinc.” His voice cracks. “I’m thirty-four. A grade 3 tear? At my age? That’s it.”
I keep my eyes focused on the Sasquatch logo on his chest as I pull the zipper up.
“No it’s not. You’re Louis fucking Tremblay,” I say quietly. “This isn’t going to be how you go out.”
He lets out a bitter laugh. “You saw what happened. They’re already moving on.”
“McWhittier's a placeholder.” I smooth the hoodie down over his good shoulder. “It’s still your net. We’re just borrowing it.”
He goes quiet. When I step back, he’s looking at me with glass in his dark eyes. He’s holding on by a thread.
“Thanks,” he whispers.
I nod. Then I glance down at his bare feet.
“Okay, get your ass back on the table. Shoes next.”
He follows my gaze and breathes out shakily. “Okay.”
He reaches for his socks, but lets out a hiss of pain when he bends forward.
“Don’t,” I say. “I got it.”
I grab the socks and kneel on the floor between his knees.
Jesus, could this be more… suggestive? A rush of blood heads south, directly to my dick. Being on my knees in front of Louis Tremblay is a thrill I had no idea I needed. But my body definitely likes it. Fucking hell, not the time, Sinclair!
This isn’t about sex or even about the power dynamics—the whole “Young Gun on his knees before the Fallen King” scenario. This is about helping a man who’s hurting.
I pick up his socks. “Left foot first.”
He stares at me, like he can’t quite believe I’m doing this.
I slide the socks on, then grab his sneakers. I slide them onto his feet and tie them efficiently.
When I’m done, I look up at him, resting my hands on his knees for a second.
His good hand twitches like he wants to reach for me. But he doesn’t.
I get to my feet, and the spell breaks. “Ready?” I ask.
He swallows hard and nods. “Yeah. Let’s get on the bus.”
I open the door. It sounds like the media scrum has moved down the hall, probably in search of Carson or Coach. I’m sure they’re voracious to get news about our star goaltender’s injury. I step out of the room first, positioning myself between Louis and the noise, using my body as a shield.
We walk toward the exit together, and I don’t move out of the way until we’re safely on the bus.