Chapter 69
JORDAN
“I can play through it,” Rory says the next afternoon.
“No,” Tate says quietly.
“Coach.” Rory leans forward in his chair across from Tate’s desk. “Please. Let me play. My guys need me.”
“You’re kidding, right?” I gesture at the crutches leaned against the back of his chair.
His knee is sprained, a minor injury that’ll take six to eight weeks to heal, as long as Rory rests. If he plays through it, it could get worse.
We’re lucky it wasn’t worse. He could have torn his ACL.
He’s probably out for the rest of the season, though, playoffs included.
Rory’s jaw tightens, determination in his eyes. “I can play.”
“No one’s doubting that, Miller.”
I hate the worry in Tate’s eyes. I hate it so much.
Our eyes meet, and my stomach knots with conflict. It’s been almost twenty-four hours of hell.
We need Rory to win. We’re pretty certain of that. Tate had this injury and played through it when he shouldn’t have, though. It’s what contributed to the ACL tear that ended his career.
“I’m not interested in ending your career so we can win the Cup, Miller.”
“I don’t care if this season is my last!” he bursts out. “Sitting on the bench while my guys need me is my nightmare.” He jabs his finger out the windows at the rink. “That’s my team. My family.”
I rub my palm over my mouth. What’s worse, tearing this team apart or ending Rory’s career before he’s ready?
I ignored the bad feeling I had when we traded Keir. This might not have happened if I had listened to my gut, or if I had pushed to find an enforcer before the trade deadline.
“You’re still the Storm captain,” Tate tells him. “Until your knee is back to playing shape, though, you won’t be on the ice.”
Rory pulls at his hair in anguish, looking like he wants to argue or swear at us, but instead takes a deep breath and carefully makes his way out of the office on his crutches.
“Did we make the right decision?” I ask, eyes on Rory as he waits for the elevator.
A beat of silence. “I don’t know, Jordan. I really don’t know.”
That night, I sit in the back area in silence with the rest of the Storm staff, eyes on the screen, arms tucked across my body, and my brows knitted together.
The score is three-nothing. The other team sinks another goal, and the silence and disappointment from the arena is deafening.
The camera cuts to Tate on the bench, flanked by Alexei and Rory, who insisted on being out there with his guys tonight. The media speculation about his injury is rampant.
The game restarts. The team is frustrated. I can see it in their tight expressions, the harried, impatient way they play. They stop giving themselves space on the ice, rushing for the net and missing what they normally wouldn’t.
Georgia and I meet eyes. She works with athletes at the hospital. She knows how psychological this game can be.
“It’s one game,” she says lightly. “They’re professionals.”
“Yeah. It’s one game.”
We lose four-nothing, and from then on, things get so much worse.