3. Chapter Three
Chapter Three
Kevin
Walking through the doors here in Calgary reminds me of the universal quality of road trips.
It smells like every other away arena: stale beer, industrial cleaner, and an undeniable brand of hostility courtesy of thousands of fans who want to watch you lose.
I've been coming to Alberta for four years now, and this particular building never gets friendlier.
We're halfway through this road trip and I'm completely exhausted. We won the opener in Winnipeg, which felt good until we immediately gave it back with a brutal loss in Edmonton. Now we're in Calgary for game three, with Vancouver tomorrow and then finally home.
Home to Sarah.
And there goes my focus. I don’t even mind that we’re playing back-to-back because that means it’s only two damn long days until I walk into my condo and she's there with Ranger and that smile she doesn't know she gives me.
The one that makes me forget I get chased with sticks for a living, but her smile is what consistently makes me weak in the knees.
Get it together, St. Clair.
"You good, Sunshine?" Liam asks as we're getting dressed in the locker room. He's already in his gear and is now onto the stage of prep where he tapes and retaped the socks over his shin pads even though they're fine.
"Yeah. Why?"
"You've been staring at your phone for five minutes."
I glance down. Sarah texted me an hour ago — a photo of Ranger sprawled across my couch like he owns the place. Which he does.
Ranger’s Mom
Your dog is judging my life choices.
He thinks I should be processing adoption applications instead of watching Bridgerton.
He's not wrong but also he's a DOG so what does he know?
Fine. He knows that dogs need homes.
I'd responded with a laughing emoji because I was in pre-game meetings and couldn't formulate actual words. Now I type back.
Tell him to mind his business. And you eat something that's not cheese and crackers.
Her response is immediate.
Ranger’s Mom
You're not my dad, Sunshine.
No, I'm the guy who knows you forget to eat when you're stressed about dogs.
Three dots appear, then disappear. Then nothing.
Great. Now I've annoyed her when I'm in another damn country and can't fix it.
"Sunshine," Aiden calls from across the locker room. "Phone away. Time to lock in."
Right. Time to lock in. Game time. Where I'm paid to think about hockey, not about whether Sarah's eating grown-up Lunchables.
I put my phone in my locker and finish gearing up.
Shoulder's feeling tight tonight — still not fully healed from a stupid hit I took in the last pre-season game.
Dominic, our athletic trainer, taped it this morning and gave me the look that said he knew I was playing through something but wasn't going to stop me.
Can't afford to sit. Not even at the beginning of the season.
Every game counts, and we really believe we can make the Cup finals this year.
We believe we can win it all. This team is special.
Every team says this is their year. Every locker room swears they’ve got the chemistry and the grit and the belief in their brothers on the ice, that there’s magic that happens between buzzers.
But this season, we really mean it.
It’s our year. And I’m damn sure going to be out there for all 82 to prove it.
Coach Gagnon gives his pre-game speech. The usual about playing smart, staying disciplined, protecting the puck.
I hear it, but I’m also running through defensive zone coverage in my head, trying to predict Calgary's power play setup, mentally preparing for their top line that's been on fire lately. And then it’s time to walk through the tunnel.
The anthems play. We line up. The puck drops.
And Calgary comes out flying.
The first period is a battle. Calgary's fast, physical, and they're playing like they have something to prove.
Their top line is relentless. I'm out there against them for three separate shifts and it's all I can do to keep up, which I fucking hate. I don’t like letting anyone beat me, especially these guys.
Midway through the period, their center makes a move at our blue line. I read it wrong — he goes wide when I expect him to cut middle — and suddenly he's got a step on me. I recover, pivot hard, and throw myself into the boards to prevent the pass.
My shoulder connects with the glass at a bad angle.
White-hot pain explodes through my left side.
I stay down for a second, trying to breathe through it. The whistle blows — icing. Thank fuck.
"You good?" Liam's there, offering a hand to pull me up.
"Yeah." I take his hand, let him haul me to my feet. My shoulder's screaming obscenities, but I can move it. That's all that matters.
"That looked bad."
"I'm fine."
"Liar."
I skate to the bench, trying not to wince. Coach doesn't even look at me. "Next shift, St. Clair."
So, I go back out. Because that's what you do when there's an arena full of people watching you and you're paid to be a professional. You play through it.
The second period is worse. Calgary scores in the first two minutes — a deflection that I couldn't have stopped even if I'd been positioned perfectly, which I absolutely wasn't. We tie it up five minutes later on a power play goal from Aiden, but then Calgary answers right back.
2-1 Calgary going into the third.
My shoulder's getting worse. Every hit sends lightning through the joint.
Every time I raise my stick to poke check, I feel something grinding that shouldn't be grinding.
But I keep going because we need this win.
Because we're down Christiansen with a lower-body injury and Brandon's playing his second game back from concussion protocol.
Because Graham and I need all these early season minutes together to solidify our pairing and instincts for the rest of the season.
Six minutes into the third period, everything goes to shit.
Calgary dumps the puck into our zone. I read it perfectly, beat their forechecker to the corner, and start the breakout. Their center is coming hard, trying to force a turnover. I protect the puck with my body, shoulder him off, and make the pass up to Liam at the blue line.
Clean play. Textbook defensive zone exit.
Except the center doesn't stop. He follows through with his momentum and drives me into the boards shoulder-first. It's not dirty — it's hockey — but my already-compromised shoulder takes the full impact.
Something inside pops.
Not like before. This is different. Worse.
I go down hard, and this time I can't get back up right away.
Dominic is on the ice immediately. "Where?"
"Shoulder." I'm gritting my teeth so hard my jaw aches. "Left."
"Can you move it?"
I try. The pain is breathtaking, but I can lift my arm. "Yeah."
"Rotation?"
I manage internal and external rotation. It hurts like hell but nothing's torn. Probably. Maybe. I don't actually know, but I'm not about to say that.
"St. Clair, you're done for the night," Coach calls from the bench.
"Coach, I can—"
"You're done. Get checked out."
I skate off under my own power because I'm not giving Calgary the satisfaction of seeing me helped off the ice. In the tunnel, Quinn is motioning to Dr. Craig, who is in a conversation with Dominic. He waves at her, and she nods.
"Table," she orders. “I’ll get you started, and if I see anything, I’ll get Craig to take over.”
I sit. She examines my shoulder without any chitchat — range of motion tests, palpating for swelling, checking for instability. Every touch makes me want to scream but I keep my face neutral.
"X-rays for sur," Quinn says. "Could be an AC joint sprain, could be a separation, could be worse. Let's see what we're dealing with."
"Can't it wait until—"
"No. There's imaging here and we're getting film now. Move it, Kevin."
Twenty minutes later, I'm back in the medical room staring at my own shoulder on a lightbox while Quinn points at things I don't understand.
"Craig took a look. He says it’s a grade one AC sprain, and I agree," she says, reviewing the images. "See here? Your AC ligament is stretched and inflamed but not torn. No displacement of the clavicle. You got lucky. This could've been much worse."
"So, I can play against Vancouver?"
She gives me a look. "You shouldn't. But with a Grade 1, you probably can if we manage it right. It's going to hurt like hell."
"I can handle pain."
"I know you can. That doesn't mean you should." Quinn sighs. "Here's the deal: heavy taping tomorrow, limited contact drills in morning skate, and you tell me immediately if something feels wrong. This is a sprain, not a tear, but you can still make it worse if you're stupid about it."
"But I can play."
She stares me down and I swear she’s about to either put her hands on her hips or waggle a pointer finger in my face. "You're an idiot."
"I'll take that as a yes."
She pulls out her tablet to document everything for medical records.
"Ice and compression tonight. Anti-inflammatories. Dominic will be taping you before the game — serious tape, not your usual. If Dr. Craig changes his mind and says no between now and the National Anthem, though, there’s nothing I can do to override it.
And you're getting an MRI when we get back to Austin to make sure we didn't miss anything tonight or that it's gotten worse. Understood?"
"Deal."
Quinn shakes her head. "Don't make me regret this. And Kevin? Take care of it. Grade 1 can become Grade 2 real fast if you're not careful."
I leave before she can change her mind.