1. Silas
Here we go again. I sigh internally.
It’s not that I haven’t been looking forward to getting back on the ice and in season mode—it’s what I live for.
The way my blades hit it on day one. That first hiss.
That cut. The sound that, for most of my life, has been the only thing that could quiet the rest of the world. The thing that gives me my own purpose.
My own personal place of belonging.
With opening night still a couple of weeks away, pre-season scrimmages don’t usually pull a big crowd, but tonight the stands look almost full.
Season-ticket regulars in worn jerseys who’d show up if we played on a sheet of ice behind a gas station.
The noise isn’t playoff-loud, just steady.
Kids banging the glass, light cheering, someone shouting unsolicited coaching comments like a little-league dad.
My shoulder burns in that familiar, annoying way—the one the trainers say is “residual.”
Like they care.
I hear a word like that, I think “never going away” which also means “suffer through.” And eventually . . . people will notice.
Oh yeah, Thorne’s got the bad shoulder—could tell on that last game.
Contract renewal? No. Trade, possibly, but we won’t get much for an injured player. That’s the kind of stuff my personal insecurities allow to play over my head.
The puck drops.
I’m no longer focused on the dull pain when we win the face-off.
I’m thinking about the winger flying the zone and the space behind their defense.
The way their rookie keeps biting on the wrong angle.
I pivot, stretch long to catch the pass, and the rush is there—the one I’ve chased since I was twelve, skating on a pond that might crack beneath me.
The burn returns.
A line of heat that runs from my shoulder blade down to my right bicep. I don’t know if it’s because the puck’s flying my way and I know I need to act. Or if it’s just “residual.” The ache that amplifies when I’m on the ice. When people are watching.
Regardless, I swing like I’ve got something to prove—sending it cleanly past the defenseman’s legs.
The rookie panics. The crowd comes up like a wave.
Summers, the rookie last year, though still humble, catches it nicely and lands it into the net in the blink of an eye.
I’m grinning but not because I’m proud of that pass.
Pros don’t grin. Pros skate off like they’ve done this before and will again.
I’m grinning through a hiss. Through the urge to reach for my shoulder.
Because in my mind—everyone’s watching for a sign.
And I’m not about to give them one.
I keep my shifts short for the next few minutes, but it’s almost impossible to hold back when you’re moving a mile a minute.
On the third time, I reach too far behind me for a puck, and I feel it. Something shifts painfully, a pop that’s more sensation than sound. My shoulder goes loose and I silently beg it to hold till I send this one flying.
It does.
And it’s a hard enough hit that my stick goes flying with it.
I try to brace for impact as I slide toward the boards but my arm refuses. Like there’s no longer something to support it.
I crash hard.
It’s not pain at first. It’s the loss of strength, blurred vision. The frightening immobility that sends a rush of heat through my body before I tumble.
“Thorne!” I hear my name but it’s distant.
I try to push up but a sharp pain shoots through my shoulder and my ears rush like a train I didn’t hear coming.
“Thorne!”
The trainer’s on the ice in seconds, sliding to his knees, gloves already tugging at the laces of my shoulder pad.
“Stay down,” he says, voice too calm. “Don’t try to move the arm.”
The arm.
I want to tell him I’m fine. The words have been a habit for the past year.
But I can barely breathe out the first syllable. Like the breath’s been knocked out of me.
Chase Reeves—our team captain and my best friend—slides into view, towering above me. “You good?” he asks, but it’s clipped. He knows that hit shouldn’t have sent me down. He’s asking if I’m going to lie to him now or later.
An hour later—or ten minutes, I can’t tell—the medic leaves Coach’s office with a nod that confirms it’s what they all suspected.
Coach shuts the door and leans back against it, arms folded. He looks like every coach I’ve ever had condensed into one person: square jaw, tired eyes, permanent scowl.
“How bad?” I ask, even though I heard enough in the trainer’s carefully neutral tone to know “bad” is the only category.
Coach’s mouth flattens as he moves to his desk. “From what they can tell, it’s tracking more bicep than shoulder,” he says. “But that’s as far as guessing goes until they get some images and . . . open it up.”
I clench my good hand into a fist against my thigh. The sling bites at my neck.
“Surgery,” I say. It comes out with a heavy breath—like I didn’t already know.
“With any luck, it’s the bicep,” he says. “That’s manageable. You’re talkin’ weeks to get you moving again. If it’s shoulder—labrum, cuff—you’re out for the season.”
My stomach twists.
It’s a living nightmare, one that’s been on repeat for over a year.
Coach doesn’t sit. Which is fine. I don’t need sympathy or someone breaking my fate to me gently. “How long you been playing through the pain?”
My jaw ticks as I swallow back denial. “Early last season I . . . think I tore something again, I don’t know.” I spare a glance up at this blank expression. “It was fine until that.”
He rubs his chin and sits back with a breath. “Had my suspicions.” His eyes drop from mine and he shrugs. “But you’ve been making hits. We haven’t suffered.”
He lets the silence hang. Because . . . I have.
Suffered through the pain. The fear.
His eyes lock with mine again. “You taking anything?”
I know what he’s asking and I’m almost offended that he thinks I’m living on painkillers. I’m no idiot—I know athletes can be notorious for it. But I was raised depending on duct tape and walking it off—not reaching for a pill. “No, sir.”
He swivels in his seat, looking at the whiteboard. Zoning in on my number. My position.
“We’re calling up Levinsky for a few weeks. Maybe longer. Or until you’re cleared.”
I frown up at him as hope tugs in my gut. “Cleared?”
“Surgery isn’t a career ender, Thorne. Your name’s still on the board till I got a reason to strike it.”
“Is this not that reason?”
His eyes drop to my temporary sling. “It’s a reason to fix it,” he says. “One no one’s going to let you hide.”
I’m relieved he hasn’t pointed out the lie for the past year. But we both know he doesn’t have to.
“Doc booked you for some scans and a consult tomorrow morning,” Coach adds as he stands. “You’re going to go in there with an open mind and you’re going to let that arm heal.” He releases a breath, eyes dropping to the sling again. “And pray you didn’t just make it ten times worse.”
I stay silent as it all sinks in.
Surgery. No hockey. No certainty if I’ll ever get on the ice again.
The one thing I was good at. The one gift I’d been given. Gone before I even turn thirty.
“Where are you going to be during recovery?” He’s facing the board now, voice less sympathetic and more business as usual.
“The city,” I say immediately. My apartment. The view of concrete and the hum of traffic to drown out thinking about what this all means. Physical therapy down the street. Gym two blocks over. I’ll be fine. City life moves fast. This will too.
He turns to face me. “Thorne. You’ll need help. You’re bound to use that arm more than necessary if you’re alone.”
“I’m not going home,” I bite out.
My family’s ranch in Blue River Springs isn’t exactly home to me anymore. It was at one point. Back when I felt rooted to the land. When my older brothers and I tore through the fields like it was our own personal playground.
Until they were too old and had responsibilities I wasn’t exactly cut out for.
Not because I refused to learn my way around the ground and cattle.
But because I wasn’t taught with the same energy they were.
Heck, I was barely taught at all. Not the way my brothers were.
By the time I was old enough to really help, things had changed.
Mom had died. Dad was stretched thin. And somewhere along the way, the plan for me just . . . shifted.
It’s all good.
Silas has got his friends. His pretty-boy looks. Sports activities. No need to get his hands dirty here.
Things I imagine they thought to themselves.
And maybe they were right. I may have enjoyed the occasional horseback ride and light chores back in the day, but hockey’s always been my path.
Still, the ranch never felt like work when I was with Mom.
She was the one who loved the land for what it was, not just for what it produced.
She was obsessed with horses, the air, the fields, the quiet.
Hell, even the late-night bonfires, so long as marshmallows were involved.
Whole place felt like something we could all belong to as a family, instead of something that owned us. That we had to work to keep.
It was Mom who insisted that at the very least, I learn to ride. Gave me a horse and took me out almost every weekend with her.
Haven’t gotten back on Tucker since she died fourteen years ago.
My brothers, Dallas and Wilder, have built their lives around Blue River Ranch. They belong. Always have. Every time I set foot on it, I feel like the outsider.
The jokes around the dining room never bothered me. Not really. I was glad to be different. Chose to be, probably.
Bet any therapist would tell you I rejected the lifestyle before it rejected me.
“I get it,” Coach says after a beat, setting his hands in his pockets like he’s preparing another approach. “But staying in the city by yourself is going to drive you crazy. Breathe some fresh air, spend time with family. I’ve no doubt you’ll be back before the holidays.”
“Yeah, to watch from the sidelines,” I mutter like a child.