Chapter 16 Tian
SIXTEEN
Tian
We’d kept everything soft and low, a jokey bed bath had been less washing, and more me caging Jack and blowing him with all the care and sweetness I could muster, the kind of closeness I craved when everything outside these walls was noise and pressure.
Jack had come undone in my mouth, his hand tangled in my hair, the sound of his release a muffled groan I wanted to hold onto forever.
But even that tenderness had been too much.
When I slid up beside him and kissed the sweat on his cheek, he winced, the pain obvious.
That was when I knew something wasn’t right.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” I whispered, regret clawing at me. “I shouldn’t have pushed you.”
“I’m fine.” He leaned in, brushed his mouth over mine with a shaky kiss. “Give me a second and I’ll return the favor,” he joked, but when his eyes slipped shut, the color drained from his face. He looked so damn pale it scared me.
“Jack?”
“Five seconds, that’s all I need.”
“I don’t need anything.”
He smirked faintly, stubborn even through the pain. “I’m blowing you whether you want it or not. I want my mouth on you, I want to kiss you, I want all of you.” His eyes rolled a little, and he placed a hand to his forehead. “Wow, head rush,” he said.
“You’re not well. Talk to me, Jack.”
“I’m fine.” His voice cracked into something softer, then he tried to lighten it with a crooked grin. “Hell, I’ll even sing the national anthem if that’ll convince you I’m fine.”
I knew the second he tried to laugh it off that it was bad.
He tried to roll to sit up and went white as paper as the movement tore a gasp from him.
My stomach knotted with fear when I saw the bruise had spread, ugly purple and black, blooming from his ribs down over his flank and creeping toward his hip, the kind of mottled bruise that looked like spilled ink spreading under his skin.
I’d seen bruises, hell, I’d had bruises as bad as this on my limbs, but never this bad on my torso.
“Fuck, Jack, that looks bad.”
He smirked faintly, trying to play it off. “I’ve had worse; it’s nothing,” he lied, moving slowly until his feet were on the floor, tugging the sheet up as if he wanted to hide the bruise.
“That’s not nothing, Jack. That’s your body telling you it’s serious,” I shot back, unable to keep the fear out of my voice.
He waved a hand as if brushing away my words, but even that small gesture made him grimace. “I’ve played with worse,” he added, as if he wanted to stop me following this train of concern to the inevitable conclusion. “I’m playing,” he added.
I understood playing through pain. I understood the focus, the absolute instinct to push past the hurt for the sake of the game, for pride, for the team.
But this wasn’t the kind of pain you fought through.
This wasn’t right, and every instinct in me screamed that if he kept ignoring it, it could cost him more than hockey.
I scrambled off the bed to help him up, and he leaned way too much on me, rigid with pain, and he didn’t let go, all the way to the bathroom.
“It’s okay, you can go,” he muttered, clearly embarrassed. I crossed my arms over my chest and stayed put.
“You want me to just walk away while you bleed inside?” I shot back.
“Christ, Tian, do you have to watch me piss too?” he snapped, and the edge in his tone stung.
“If that’s what it takes to make sure you don’t collapse in here, yeah, I’ll damn well watch,” I retorted.
He shot me a look, sharp and cutting. “Fucking you doesn’t mean you get a say in what I do on the ice.”
The words hit like a slap, and I inhaled, stung but refusing to back down. “Maybe not. But caring about you does. And I’m not going to shut up and watch you wreck yourself just to prove how tough you are.”
His jaw tightened, fury flashing in his eyes, then dimming to exhaustion. “Fuck, Tian. I didn’t mean that,” he whispered at last, eyes closing, sagging back against the wall, pale and sweating.
“I know you didn’t.”
“Just give me five minutes to—”
“No, Jack. I’ll back you playing again, I’m in your corner—but you have a life to live, Jack. If you endanger yourself, we don’t just lose the game. We lose you.” I paused. “I lose you.”
That broke through his stubbornness, his shoulders sagging in reluctant surrender. He managed to force a weak stream, and the moment the pink swirled into the basin, he slumped forward into my hold. “Fuck,” he said hoarsely, trembling against me.
My stomach dropped. “Jack,” I said, planting myself in the doorway, “I’m calling the doctor. Now.”
He swore, muttering about stubborn boyfriends and overprotective snowboarders. “It’s fine. Just a little color—”
“Blood is not a thing you play through.” My voice came out sharper than I intended, but I didn’t care what he thought.
I guided him back to the bed and picked up the phone, scrolling to the team doctor and explaining.
Within five minutes, the doctor was in the room, and his expression tightened the second he saw the bruise.
A quick exam, some pointed questions, and then the verdict landed like a hammer.
“Renal contusion,” he said. “Renal contusion, aka kidneys bruised to hell. You’re not playing for at least the next four games. Bed rest, fluids, ibuprofen, and heat for the pain. Monitor urine, daily reassessment. No exceptions.”
“How long, Doc?” Jack asked.
“Seven to ten.”
“Fuck,” Jack swore, then started to argue, but the doctor cut him off with a look.
“Push this and you risk permanent damage. You’ll be lucky if you’re cleared for the final.”
That silenced Jack. For once.
I threaded my fingers through his, squeezing hard. “Then we’ll do everything right,” I said. “Because you’re making that final.”
The door opened, Starry came in, standing at the door, and stared in shock. His eyes darted from Jack, slumped against me, to the strained way I was holding him. “Jack? What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice low, already knowing it wasn’t good.
“Out four games,” I said.
“Nothing serious,” Jack said at the same time.
“Which is it?” Starry asked, moving to one side to let Doc out.
Jack hung his head. “Three to four games.”
“But he’ll be at the final,” I added quickly, meeting Starry’s gaze.
Jack shot me a grateful look, and I squeezed his hand.
“He will be,” I promised, more to Jack than anyone else.
The next game we had to watch from the room.
Starry had switched rooms to give us our space, and I hadn’t moved from Jack’s side.
We watched movies, I read, Jack slept, and all the time I was right there, helping him with whatever he needed.
The only time I had to leave was for a sponsor meet, and I hurried back so fast I nearly fell up the second flight of stairs.
Fiona visited once, bringing light and laughter into the quiet gloom, but even she couldn’t make it easy.
Playing Denmark should have been routine, but the worst part of it was how Jack tried to engage at first, forcing comments and the occasional joke, then slowly ran out of steam.
He grew quiet, eyes fixed on the screen, disappointment written in every line of his face.
I stayed pressed close, willing him not to notice me watching him fade.
Thank fuck the USA were five to two up by the end of the second period.
All they had to do was keep it tight, shut it down, and the win would be theirs.
Jack’s lips curved in a faint smile when the horn sounded, but I could see how much it cost him to even hold that.
We put on Miracle, a film we’d both seen a million times, but it had become our snuggle movie, the one with heart that always pulled us close.
I’d rearranged the second bed in the room weeks ago into more of a sofa, cushions and pillows piled high, so we curled into it together.
I even asked Fiona to smuggle us popcorn, and when she dropped it off with a wink, Jack grinned like a kid.
“I can quote this whole scene,” he said as Herb Brooks barked at his team.
“Same,” I shot back, tossing popcorn at him.
He caught a piece, laughed, and leaned in to kiss me, the taste of salt and butter on his lips. “Thank you,” he whispered. Herb’s voice seemed to merge into nothing as he cradled my face, and I straddled his lap. “You’re doing this with me, and stopping me from going mad…”
“I wouldn’t be anywhere else.” I loved him, although I hadn’t said it yet.
I didn’t know what I was waiting for, but the timing didn’t seem right.
He was injured, exhausted, leaning on me for everything, vulnerable, and sad.
No, it wasn’t the right time to tell him.
Not yet. And he hadn’t said it to me either, but one day I knew I’d tell him, and then he could let me know how he felt.
Just not yet.
We kissed a little, but that was all Jack was up for, and I was good with that as we slid back to snuggling.
“You know what the best part of this movie is?” he asked.
“What?”
“Snuggling up to you while we watch it.”
We spent the night that way—watching, quoting lines, stealing kisses, and sharing mouthfuls of popcorn until the bowl was empty and we were drowsy in each other’s arms.
Best night, along with all the other best nights. From sunsets on a cay to snuggling in a hotel room, we’d had so many.
I love you, Jack O’Leary. I love you.
By the time we played Sweden, Jack had improved a lot.
Still in pain, still bruised, but at least he was staying awake, and he’d moved onto the miserably irritable stage.
This time, we’d managed to get down into the locker room, though that came with obstacles—so many people wanted to talk to him.
He tried to engage, throwing out comments on the defensive coverage, barking a quiet suggestion to one of the youngest guys skating by, and every single one of them listened.
He wasn’t the captain of Team USA, nor an alternate, but he knew what he was talking about, and respect carried in every nod that came back his way.
Still, the effort drained him, and after the second period, we retreated to the room.
We ended up scraping a 3–2 win and were through to the quarterfinals, Germany in our sights.
Jack was brighter for the Germany game, staying all three periods and keeping up a steady commentary, leaning into me every so often when the pain caught up.
He joked about lazy backchecking, teased the goalie’s rebound control, and muttered strategies under his breath as if he couldn’t help himself.
I loved every second of hearing his hockey brain at work, even as I kept an arm ready to steady him.
The USA pulled out a hard-fought win, and when the horn sounded, Jack’s eyes were bright despite the bruises.
Canada cruised past Czechia in their own quarterfinal, and the way things were shaping up, it was clear—we could be heading toward a USA–Canada final. Just the semis to survive first.
Sweden was the game from hell. Jack was almost healed, itching to get back on the ice, even doing some light skating in the mornings.
The doc had said seven to ten days, and Jack had counted every hour—seven was enough in his mind.
He was desperate to make that final game.
But sitting through Sweden had him furious at himself.
The defense wasn’t gelling, we were 2–1 down at the end of the second, and he was pacing like a caged animal.
“I should be out there,” he muttered, fists clenching. “They’re leaving gaps a mile wide.”
“Doc said no,” I reminded him.
“Doc doesn’t see what I see. One more shift and I’d shut that down.” His voice cracked with anger, his jaw tight.
“You’ll shut Canada down in the final,” I said. “Right now, you heal.”
He swore under his breath, eyes burning into the ice as if the numbers on the scoreboard might change if he stared hard enough. “I’m useless sitting here.”
“You’re not useless,” I countered. “They listen to you. Every word.”
He fell quiet, still furious, but his hand crept into mine, and he didn’t pull away even as Team USA fought hard and long and pulled out a win in the last minute, a desperate rush saw one of our forwards pull off a slick toe-drag around the defense and roof the puck top shelf.
The whole bench erupted, the crowd went insane, and even Jack forgot to be angry for a heartbeat, his grin wide as he shouted with the rest of us.
Fuck, Jack, I love you.
When the doc cleared him to play in the final against Canada, Jack smiled and nodded, pleased and excited, and I fought down the fear of him getting on the ice and someone from the Canadian team pummeling him, knowing he’d been hurt.
The injury had been kept under wraps, but shit, the video of it happening was out there.
Taped up, he was ready. I had a rink-side view, and when he warmed up, he skated toward me, grinned, and I’d never seen him so happy.
He pressed his gloved hand to his heart, then to his lips, and I knew right then.
Surely, Jack loves me back.