Chapter 19
Nineteen
Sebastian
Opening the season playing one of my former teams, the Los Angeles Seraphim, isn’t ideal, but at least I have a decent relationship with a few of the guys who are still on the team from when we played together years ago.
The hockey world is small, and most of us have played with each other in some capacity.
The Seraphim’s captain, Tyler Braddock, is the guy I played with, and he’s a good dude.
Except when he’s checking me into the boards on the blue line. But that’s hockey.
I let out a low oomph and work myself away from the wall, searching for the puck, which is between Tyler’s feet.
“Slowing down in your old age, Monty?” Tyler chirps as we fight for the puck in the corner by the LA goal.
“You wish, Bradder,” I toss back, working my stick in between his skates as Rook pokes at the puck from his other side.
“You’ll always be five years older than me, so you're ancient in hockey years, Grandpa.” I'm leaning into him, keeping him pressed into the boards with my body as we battle for the biscuit.
I finally dislodge the puck from under his skate and fling it back to Campbell, who skates off and passes it over to Westy.
I hustle away from the wall and into position as Westy passes to Chad, who is screening the goalie.
I spin around the D-man shadowing me, getting free for the pass that Chad sends to me.
I’m ready and already winding up to slap the puck when it slides my way.
The connection is perfect, my stick flexing as the puck sails into the top right corner of the net before the goalie can stop it.
The lamp lights and the goal horn goes off, finally putting us on the board in the third period after staying zero-zero for two periods straight and making for a frustrating as fuck game.
We’re a better team than LA, especially after our preseason training camp.
There’s no reason for us not to have gotten on the board before this, other than first game jitters or some bullshit that Coach will destroy us for later.
I skate around the back of the net, dropping to one knee and pulling my stick back in a bow and arrow move that is part of my celly, and standing back up just before Westy and Chad slide into me.
“Let’s fucking go!” Chad screams, banging on my back.
“Way to get us on the board, Cap!” Westy says, leaning his head back and whooping.
They hug me and pat my helmet before we get called back to the bench for a line change.
I try not to look across the rink to where Tucker and Cami are sitting as the boys reset at center ice.
Mercer wins the face-off, sending the puck back to Nico as they push forward.
I’m trying to focus on the play happening on the ice, but there’s a big-ass beast of a man directly across from me looking like a flannel daddy bearded dream.
His arms are crossed over his chest, testing the limits of his flannel shirt as he watches the players on the ice.
This is his first hockey game, and it feels extra amazing that he saw me score that goal.
I feel like I’m back in college with Eliana watching me play and wanting to impress her. It's the same urgent need for Tucker to see me in my element and realize I’m not just a fuck-up with too much on my plate. I’m actually good at what I do, and he can see it for himself.
I want him to see me as capable and strong, not some weak and needy, broken thing he has to take care of and fix.
I don't want to be a burden. I want to be exciting and enticing, worthy of his attention and affection. I want him to want me and know he can lean on me as much as I do him. I want him to see that I’m not going to fuck with him and leave him a broken-hearted mess who can't own up to these feelings.
His head turns, blue eyes finding mine across the ice when the action moves down toward the LA goal, and for a moment, I can't breathe. His lips curve into a soft smile, and air floods back into my lungs. I don't know what this is with Tucker, or what it means for me. All I know is I haven't felt like this about anyone since Eliana, and I’m not going to let him get away because he’s scared of my lack of experience with romantic male relationships. He’s making me rethink everything I know about myself.
Like realizing I’m not gay, just sexually fluid, and I connected with him out of everyone.
I also know the hordes of hell couldn’t stop me from getting what I want when it comes to seeing what we have between us now.
“Monty, get your damn head in the game!” Coach Kennedy shouts. “Your line’s up.”
I look up and realize Fisher is coming back to the bench, and I need to get my ass over the wall and onto the ice to relieve him, right now.
I scramble, refocusing with a deep breath.
It’s not like me to think of anything but the game, but Tucker is a big fucking distraction, especially where I can see him so easily.
Still, I wouldn't give up having him here at this game for anything.
I skate as fast as I can to get back into the fray, finding the puck and watching for openings where I can take a pass.
LA’s doing a good job of holding onto the puck right now, keeping their passing fast and tight.
All we can do is keep them from marching down the ice toward our goal.
If Ryder can get cold down there in the net from inactivity, we’ll have done our jobs.
Westy steals the puck during a pass and turns with it, moving back toward the LA goal.
I skate fast along the boards to provide coverage and pull the defenders away.
Bronkowski, a giant defenseman, is racing toward me right as Westy slaps the puck my way while I have the briefest opening.
I barely have time to get my stick on the puck when I’m checked hard, Bronkowski’s stick coming up and smacking me in the throat as he rocks me off my skates.
I’m sent spinning, the rink and arena around me blurring with the motion as I hit the ice on my left shoulder.
Pain explodes down my arm and takes my breath away, but not in the nice kind like Tucker did.
I lie sprawled face down on the ice, gasping like a fish against the cold surface, my arm pulled tight against my body as I work to fill my lungs with oxygen again.
My fucking throat feels like I’ve eaten rocks and they’re sitting in my larynx, keeping it closed.
Finally, my throat opens and I’m able to gulp in air.
My shoulder is on fire, bright bursts of pain streaking up and down my arm and radiating down my back.
My throat is raw, and my shoulder hurts so damn bad, I can only hope it’s not a tear or dislocation.
Just be a fucking nasty bruise. Please.
I can’t be taken out in the first game of the season. I don't know how long I lie there, but I can't move to get myself up and can barely breathe through the pain in my throat.
Collin, one of the PTs, kneels next to me, his head down low so he can hear me. “Hey, Monty. Talk to me and tell me what hurts. Is it your head?”
“Left shoulder.” I gasp, still struggling to breathe through the glass shards in my throat. “Fucker…high sticked me…in the throat.”
“We’ll get you up and take you back to medical for a full evaluation,” Collin says, gently helping me turn to my right side and stabilizing my left arm.
“You okay, man?” Westy asks, helping Collin as they get me back on my feet. “You scared us there for a minute when you weren't moving. We took out Bronkowski for that. It was an uncalled-for hit.”
“Campbell’s in the penalty box for taking the fucker down as soon as he saw that stick hit you in the throat and you went sprawling,” Rook adds. “The dumb idiot charged him. Had his gloves off and was beating the shit out of Bronk before the Stripes even knew you were hurt.”
“We got your back out here, dude. Go get taken care of and we’ll finish this game the way we need to,” Chad says, patting my ass and sending me on my way with Collin and the med staff who meet us at the tunnel and hustle me down to the medical room as fast as I can move while trying not to jostle my injured shoulder.
I don’t try to speak through the pain in my throat and shoulder, I just keep my head down and walk quickly.
Dr. Putnam meets us and has me sit down.
He cuts off my jersey and helps me out of my pads, so I’m stripped to the waist on a massage table.
He eyes my shoulder as he starts his evaluation, asking me the basics about hitting my head, where it hurts, the level of pain, and what it feels like.
After I describe everything, he finally palpates around my muscles and the joint.
“Does this cause more pain?” he asks, moving my arm around and pressing into the top of my shoulder.
“Yes,” I hiss, trying to bear it anyway. I can stand the movement, but it sucks.
He feels along my collarbone, then my back, and moves to my shoulder again.
“Bad news is it’s your AC joint. The good news is it doesn't feel broken or dislocated, and it’s likely just a bruise or minor strain.
You’re not going back out there tonight.
I want imaging done before you’re back in a game.
You’ll need rest, ice, and a sling wouldn't hurt, but I doubt I can get that from you.”
“Yeah, now that you said it’s not torn, broken, or dislocated, you’re not putting me in a sling,” I say. “I’ll ice twenty minutes on and off like a good kid for the inflammation.”
He gives me a shot of something for the pain and straps an ice pack over the top of my shoulder, wrapping it around my torso to keep it in place. It’s as good as a sling with how it limits my mobility.
There’s a commotion outside the medical room, and I hear someone calling for Dr. Putnam. Josh, one of the equipment managers, sticks his head into the room and beckons to Collin when he sees Dr. Putnam with me.