Chapter 17
Chapter seventeen
Overtime - Additional time played to decide a tied game.
Phoenix
I hated having to crawl out like some one-night stand he'd be ashamed of, even if I knew he didn't feel that way, so I left before he even woke. But because I was sappy, I drew a heart on the notepaper next to the phone and left it on his pillow.
Three hours later, I hung back near the hand-sanitizer station in the hospital, trying to look official. The ward had gone quiet now that the cameras were down the hall swarming Max and Ember. Here, beyond the double set of glass doors, everything felt softer. Reverent.
A nurse stepped forward and intercepted Cole before he could enter the isolation room. “Mr. Armstrong,” she said gently, “just a reminder—gown, gloves, mask. He doesn’t have much immune defense left.”
Cole nodded once, a serious, grounded kind of nod.
No show. No PR grin. He took the precautions with careful, practiced movements: sliding the yellow gown up over his Dragons jersey, tying the back himself; pulling on the sterile gloves like he’d done it a thousand times; fitting the mask over his nose and scruff-shadowed jaw.
He didn’t complain. Didn’t fidget. He just…focused. Like the kid inside mattered more than anything he’d ever done on the ice.
I tugged on my own mask and gown—protocol for visitors—my heart thudding weirdly hard. This was the first room he’d insisted on visiting after the cameras disappeared.
The nurse cracked the door. “He’s excited to meet you,” she whispered. “He’s a bit tired today, but he’s been waiting.”
Cole swallowed. I saw the flicker in his eyes—a mix of nerves and something tender. Then he stepped inside.
I followed only far enough to stay by the wall.
The boy lay propped up, tucked beneath a blanket patterned with tiny dragons. His hat was teal and far too big, slipping sideways over curls that looked too thin and too few. Pale skin. Dark shadows. Machines humming quietly.
He blinked awake at the soft footsteps.
“Hi,” Cole said, keeping his voice low, warm. Not the superstar version. Not the face he used for fans. Something gentler.
The boy stared at him for a long moment, dazed, like he couldn’t believe Cole was real. “You’re…a dragon,” he whispered.
Cole let out a soft laugh behind the mask. “I am.”
He didn’t go closer yet—waiting for the nurse’s nod. She checked the monitors, then motioned him forward. “He can hold your hand,” she said, “as long as the gloves stay on.”
Cole approached the bed slowly, reverently, as though every step needed permission. He crouched to get level with the boy.
“I’m Cole,” he said. “What’s your name?”
“Eli,” the boy murmured. His voice was paper-thin.
“That’s a strong name,” Cole said, and something inside me twisted because he meant it. “I’m really glad I get to meet you.”
Eli gave a tiny smile and lifted one trembling hand off the blanket.
Cole froze—just for a heartbeat—then reached out, enveloping that small, fragile hand in both of his gloved ones. He kept his movements feather-light. The kind of gentle you don’t learn unless life has taught you where people break.
“Your hands are cold."
“They’re always cold,” Eli whispered, and the door opened behind us and a woman stepped in, her face lighting up when she saw Cole.
“Mommy,” Eli said. “Cole’s a dragon.”
She nodded, clearly having trouble forming words.
Eli blinked up at Cole. “Do you…really turn into a dragon?”
Cole’s eyes softened. “Absolutely,” he said. “And I’m the kind who can keep people warm.”
Eli giggled—a faint, breathy sound that punched straight through my chest. “Mommy says I’m always cold.” But as Cole held both his hands, Eli’s eyes widened. “You’re really warm.”
Cole nodded. “And there’s a parcel I've left with the nurses for you. Special team gloves for keeping your hands warm, a special jersey, and a signed stick from the whole team.”
Eli beamed. “I watched you on TV. You're awesome.”
“Well, just let me know because as soon as you’re out of here, you’re going to be able to come and watch all my games. I’m going to get all your family tickets and fly you there.”
His mom’s eyes filled, and she turned away. I got the feeling she knew he wasn’t ever getting out of here.
“I saw you get hurt,” Eli whispered. “You’re really brave.”
Cole shifted closer, careful not to disturb the IV lines. “Can I tell you something?” he murmured.
Eli nodded, eyes enormous.
“I get scared sometimes,” Cole said. “A lot of people think dragons don’t, but we do. When something matters, it can make you shake right down to your bones.”
Eli swallowed. “I get scared too.”
“I know,” Cole whispered. “But I also know you’re stronger than you think.”
Eli’s lower lip wobbled. “I don’t feel strong.”
Cole squeezed his hand very gently. “Strength isn’t how hard you hit,” he said. “It’s when you keep going. Even when it’s scary. Even when you’re tired. And you’re doing that every single day.”
A tear slipped from beneath the boy’s lashes.
Cole didn’t flinch from it. Didn’t falter. “Thanks for letting me meet you,” he said softly. “And we’re going to meet again when you come to my game.”
Eli closed his eyes, but he didn’t let go of Cole’s hand. Not even as his breaths settled into slow, sleepy rhythm.
Cole stayed until Eli was properly asleep, then carefully eased his fingers free and stood.
I saw the moment the emotion almost overwhelmed him—how he blinked hard and straightened his gown like he needed something to hold him upright.
His mom followed us out of the room and nearly flung herself at Cole. “Thank you. He needed that.”
He held her until she smiled and drew back. “The hospital has my numbers.” He bent down and whispered something in her ear, and she stilled in shock.
“How?” Her lips wobbled.
Cole just smiled, shrugged, and I followed him back to where the rest of the team were.
“What did you say?”
He squirmed a little. “I told her that whatever bills the charity didn’t pick up, the team would cover.”
“They will?”
Cole shrugged. “Someone will. I spoke to Ignatius this morning. He has news, and we’re going to meet tonight after the team dinner.” He smirked. “My room, but this time you might need to keep your clothes on.”
I’d never been one to bite my nails, but as I stood watching the warm-up, it seemed a good time to start.
The commentators’ voices drifted up from the arena speakers as I leaned forward against the glass of the VIP box, trying not to look as out of place as I felt.
Below me, the ice was alive with motion—dragons and bears circling, stretching, snapping shots at the net in warm-up drills.
Energy thrummed through the building like a storm waiting to break.
“Welcome back to United Center, folks,” the play-by-play announcer boomed, his voice crackling over the crowd noise that hadn’t even reached peak volume yet.
“Tonight is a huge one. The Chicago Grizzlies hosting the Colorado Dragons. Both teams are fighting tooth and nail for that wild-card spot, and while that can never be decided this early in the season, the last three times these teams have met, the Grizzlies have trounced the Dragons, and the Dragons have a lot to prove tonight.”
Wild card. Even I knew enough now to tense at the word.
His co-commentator chimed in, sounding downright gleeful at the drama.
“And remember for anyone new to the playoff picture—wild cards go to the two teams in each conference that didn’t win their division but still have the highest number of points overall.
It’s a second chance at the postseason—but only if you stay above the cutoff. ”
“Exactly,” the first guy said. “Winning tonight doesn’t guarantee either team a berth. But losing? Losing knocks another nail in the coffin.”
My stomach clenched. I tore my gaze from the commentators’ booth across the rink and looked down at the Dragons on the ice.
Max was skating in tight, sharp lines, jaw set, the captain in full “nobody breathe wrong” mode. Ember chatted too fast with Ash, who was pretending not to listen. Sorin and Seraphiel who I hadn't met, were shoulder-to-shoulder near the blue line, mirror images of tension.
And then there was Cole.
He was stretching near the bench, rolling his shoulders, rotating his stick in his hands like he was trying to work electricity out of his muscles.
His face was calm, but the kind of calm that told me he was anything but.
He hadn’t spoken much since we’d left the hospital.
Not closed off—not exactly—but quieter. Focused inward, like something had gotten under his skin and stayed there.
I knew what it was.
Eli.
I’d watched that tiny kid’s eyes go soft and sleepy as Cole held his hand, and now all I could see was the way Cole’s own eyes had gone watery beneath the mask. He wouldn’t talk about it—he’d just buried it so deep I wasn’t sure even he could find it again.
The crowd started filing in, fans waving homemade signs, jerseys everywhere—Dragons blue and silver scattered among the sea of Grizzlies orange. The arena vibrated with anticipation, and even from up here, I could feel the pulse of it.
The commentator continued, “Colorado has clawed their way back from a disastrous last two seasons—the betting scandal, roster shakeups, morale in the basement. But they’ve tightened up these last ten games. And number nineteen, Cole Armstrong? He’s been on fire.”
I felt my face heat stupidly at hearing his name said like that. Like he mattered.
“Chicago, meanwhile,” the second commentator jumped in, “has size, physicality, and home-ice advantage. They’re going to want to grind Colorado down early and often.”
On the ice, Cole skated past the Grizzlies’ bench. One of their defensemen barked something ugly at him. Cole didn’t even blink. He just glided on, effortless, spine straight, shoulders squared in that quiet, terrifying way he had when he refused to let anyone see him bleed.
But I saw the way his jaw tightened.
The way his grip on his stick shifted.
The way he wasn’t as unaffected as he looked.
The lights dimmed abruptly. Spotlights swept the rink. The announcer’s voice rose above the swelling roar of the crowd: “Tonight, it’s win or go home. Chicago Grizzlies versus Colorado Dragons.”
I pressed my hand against the glass, breath fogging the surface.
“Cole,” I whispered to myself, unseen. “You’ve got this.”
The game exploded into motion the second the puck hit the ice. I’d barely gotten my breath back before I realized I couldn’t look away. Warm-up Cole had been impressive.
Game-Cole was something else entirely.
He moved so fast it felt like the ice couldn’t keep up with him—gliding, cutting, snapping around players twice his size like he’d been born with blades for feet. I didn’t know the proper words for anything he was doing. I just knew I could hardly blink without missing something.
The commentators were losing their minds.
“Armstrong is on fire tonight!”
I actually snorted. Of course he was. Dragons. Fire. Hilarious. He’d hate the joke. I was definitely teasing him about it later.
The crowd went wild around me, and before I’d even figured out what was happening, Cole had the puck—thing? disk? I still never remembered—shot down the rink, and the red light behind the net flashed bright.
He scored.
His teammates mobbed him. The fans screamed. I pressed both hands to the glass of the VIP box so hard my palms stung.
He did it again—another goal, this one looking completely impossible, like he just flicked his wrist and the puck obeyed him like a trained animal. The announcers went even louder. The Dragons’ bench yelled. The air crackled.
And I… I felt warm all over. Stupidly proud. Like I had anything to do with it.
Which is probably why I didn’t notice Chicago charging the other way until the horn blasted and their fans erupted—apparently the Grizzlies had scored while I was too busy staring at Cole.
By the third part of the game—period, I reminded myself, period—everyone looked exhausted.
Chicago especially. Their team name wasn’t subtle: Grizzlies.
Big, heavy, and mean on the ice. They hit hard.
They shoved harder. The whole game had turned into pushing and slamming and bodies colliding every few seconds.
They’d each scored another goal, and it was 3:2 for us.
Both teams had someone in the penalty box and each was down to four players.
Cole still flew across the ice like he was made of smoke and heat.
Then he caught the puck again—right out in the open. The crowd rose around me like a wave. Even I knew what that meant.
One more goal and he gets…something. A hat trick? Something with hats? People throw hats?
He sprinted toward the net, faster than I’d ever seen him move. My heart rattled painfully against my ribs. He was going to do it. He was—
A huge Chicago player lunged at him.
Cole dodged. Of course he dodged. He always dodged. But another Chicago player—just as massive—came in from the other side. I couldn’t tell if he’d seen him, if anyone had. They were coming from both directions like closing jaws.
It didn’t look intentional.
But it also didn’t matter.
They slammed into Cole at the exact same time.
His body snapped between them, lifted clean off the ice, and then he crashed down, his head hitting with a sound that made my stomach drop to my shoes.
He didn’t get up.
Chaos erupted instantly—whistles, shouting, players rushing over—but all of it faded under a thick, roaring silence inside my head.
My hand flattened uselessly against the glass.
“Cole,” I whispered, voice cracking. “Please…get up.”
He didn’t move.
Not even a twitch.
For a second—maybe longer—I couldn’t hear anything.
Not the screaming crowd. Not the refs’ whistles. Not even the pounding in my own skull.
Just the awful stillness of Cole lying there.