Chapter TWENTY TWO Lexi
I'm rounding the corner, my sneakers squeak against the polished floor of the hospital hallway. My heart is a frantic drummer in my chest, not from the run here but from what awaits me behind Wes's room door. I shake out my hands, trying to dispel the nervous energy crackling through my veins when a shadow looms over me.
"Turner."
The deep voice is as unwelcome as an ice bath, and I freeze mid-step. Coach Thompson stands there, his broad shoulders blocking the path ahead like a goalie defending his net. His eyes are flinty, his jaw set in that familiar stubborn line that spells trouble.
"Coach Thompson," I say, forcing my tone to stay even despite the surge of annoyance. "I was just—"
"Save it." He cuts me off with a dismissive wave of his hand. "You stepped way out of bounds today, Turner. Pulling Wes and Noah out of the game? That's not your call. I don’t care what Drew says."
My fingers twitch, itching for the comfort of the notebook tucked inside my bag—the one filled with evidence of every shortcut and wrong turn he has steered this team toward. But I hold my ground, meeting his glare head-on. "They were hurt, Coach. Seriously hurt. Playing them could've made it worse."
"An intern doesn't make those calls." His voice is a low growl now, a clear warning. "You've got a lot of nerve, Lexi. You want to make it in this field, you can't let sentimentality get in the way of the game."
"Integrity is more important than any game," I retort, my own temper flaring despite the risks.
"Is it worth your internship?" There's a steel edge to his question. "Because keep pushing like this, and I'll have no choice but to let you go. This is your future, Lexi. Think about it."
I clench my jaw, tasting the bitter tang of frustration. The threat hangs between us, heavy as a puck before a penalty shot. But I don't waver. Not when it comes to the safety of the players. Not even if it means facing off against Coach Thompson.
"Is that all, Coach?" I ask, my voice steady despite the inner turmoil.
He studies me for a long, silent moment, then steps aside. "For now."
As I pass him, the tension in my shoulders eases, but not by much. I'm playing a dangerous game, but it's one I have to see through to the end—for Wes, for Noah, for every athlete who's been pushed too far. I square my shoulders, the weight of my notebook a solid reassurance against my side. "Actually, Coach," I interject before he can fully pivot away, "there's something you should know."
Coach Thompson’s eyes narrow, his posture rigid like a ref about to call a penalty. "What's that?"
"Section 4, Article 3, Subsection B." The numbers roll off my tongue as I tap my notebook through my bag, picturing the dates neatly written, the paper's edges frayed from constant use. "It explicitly states that a player with a suspected concussion must be removed from play immediately. Remember when you made that rookie stay in after the headshot? But let's not stop there. How about we discuss the entire season? Because I've got every single violation documented in here." I pat my notebook for emphasis. “Including all the times you pushed Wes and Noah to keep on the ice for these exact same injuries.”
"Thompson's Rulebook, I call it. Think it’s different than what the league says is safe and regulatory?” There's nothing humorous about putting athletes at risk. And while I'm usually all about the banter, right now, I'm shooting straighter than Wes on a breakaway.
"Lexi..." His voice is a warning, but I cut through it.
"Imagine the Dean flipping through these pages. It's a story of ambition over ethics, isn't it?" I tilt my head, feigning contemplation. "Or maybe it's more of a tragedy. Star coach loses everything because he wanted to win—no matter the cost."
The color drains from his face. This is no longer a game of cat-and-mouse; it's checkmate, and he knows it.
"All right." The word is clipped, punctuated with defeat. He steps back, his authority deflated like a puck slashed out of the air. "We're done here."
"Good choice," I say, but as he retreats down the hallway, I can't help a parting shot. "And just so we're clear, my future will never be worth more than someone's health. You might want to remember that."
I watch him go, his shoulders slumped—a stark contrast to the bullish coach who always seemed larger than life. It's a small victory, sure, but it's one for the team. For Wes. For Noah.
Taking a deep breath, I turn toward Wes's room again, my heart pounding a nervous rhythm. Time to face another battle, but this one, I hope, ends with a different kind of win.
I stride down the hallway, a buoyant swagger in my step. My pulse still sings with adrenaline, but it's a harmonious tune now, not the frantic staccato of confrontation. I can't help the smile that dances on my lips; I've done something good today—no, something great.
"Lexi!" The higher, feminine voice slicing through the corridor catches me off guard, and I halt, turning to see Cassidy Harper jogging lightly toward me.
"Hey," I say, guarding my expression. Despite everything, Cassidy and I are more rivals than friends. But the concern etched into her features softens my stance.
"I saw what happened back there with Coach Thompson." Her voice is warm, genuine, and I'm reminded that beneath the privilege and polished exterior lies someone who loves the game as much as I do.
"Thanks," I reply, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. "It was time someone took him on."
"More than time," she agrees, and there's an edge of respect in the words that wasn't there before. "And hey, thanks again for helping me out with my ankle the other day. You didn't have to do that."
"Of course, I did," I respond automatically. "You needed help. We're a team, aren't we?" The words feel foreign yet fitting, like a borrowed jersey that somehow fits just right.
"Guess we are," Cassidy says, and there's a tentative smile on her face that mirrors my own. For a moment, we simply stand there, two people who've seen each other at their worst, finding common ground in a shared purpose.
"Look, about all that animosity between us—" I begin, but she waves me off.
"Water under the bridge," she says, and there's a playful glint in her eye. "Who knows, maybe next time you'll be the one needing saving from a wild puck."
"Or maybe next time we'll both be saving the team from another one of Thompson's crazy plays," I quip back, and we share a laugh, light and unburdened.
"Maybe," she nods, the beginnings of a friendship budding in the space between us.
We walk together—though I’m avoiding going into Wes’s. No way do I want her there for that. As we reach the junction leading to Noah's room, she pauses, and I can't help but notice the way her fingers twist nervously around the strap of her purse.
"Actually, Lexi," Cassidy says, her voice taking on a softer quality that seems out of place with the brisk confidence she usually exudes, "I'm here to see Noah."
Oh. Of course. The pieces click into place—the concern etched in her features, the careful make-up that can't quite hide the worry lines. It dawns on me then; this isn't about rivalry or one-upmanship. Cassidy is genuinely worried about Noah, and the realization is oddly disarming.
"Hey, that's really sweet of you," I find myself saying, and I mean it. "Noah's a great guy. He deserves someone looking out for him."
She looks up at me, hazel eyes wide with a vulnerability I've never seen from her before. "You think so?"
"Absolutely." I nod, encouragingly. "I know he'll appreciate it. Noah's had a rough time with the injury... and with everything else." I don't have to elaborate; we both understand the weight 'everything else' carries.
Cassidy takes a deep breath, bolstered by my words, and her usual poise slips back into place like armor. "Thanks, Lexi. That means a lot, coming from you."
"Take good care of him, okay?" The words are simple, but they're a promise, an acknowledgment of the shift between us. From rivals to something resembling friends, united by a common concern for the people around us.
"Will do." Cassidy's smile is genuine as she turns and heads towards Noah's room, her determination clear in the purposeful tilt of her chin. Watching her go, I feel an unexpected kinship with her. Maybe there's more to Cassidy Harper than meets the eye.
I watch Cassidy's retreating figure, a blend of gratitude and newfound respect blossoming between us. Her heels click rhythmically against the tiled floor, each step echoing the tentative bridge we've constructed over the chasm that was once our rivalry. With a final glance over her shoulder, she disappears around the corner.
"Good luck," I whisper to the empty corridor, my words meant for both Cassidy and Noah. Then, I pivot on my heel, squaring my shoulders as I face the closed door at the end of the hallway. Behind it waits Wes, and with him, a conversation I've been both dreading and craving.
My heart thrums a staccato rhythm against my ribs, threatening to break free from its bony cage. I'm not just nervous; I'm a rookie player stepping onto the ice for a championship game. I stop outside his door, pressing my hand to my chest in an attempt to calm the fluttering inside. It's ridiculous, this reaction. I'm Lexi Turner, the girl who doesn't get flustered, especially not by guys like Wes Jacobs—no matter how the sight of him gliding across the ice ignites something wild within me.
A deep breath fills my lungs, and I push the door open.