Chapter 10 - Reese #2
I shrugged, trying to look unbothered, though the corner of my mouth betrayed a twitch of pride. “Thanks. I guess. I’m just… doing my job.”
“You are,” she said, taking two steps for every one of mine so she could keep up.
“And look, this season? A hell of a lot easier than last. I remember having to coach Hunter through the most basic things.” She shook her head, like the memory of it still pained her.
“You clearly had no teething issues with Theo. Everyone’s loving their new iron man. That’s what they’re calling him now.”
My hands tightened on the strap of my bag. Iron man. If they only knew how their newest hero was being held together with reams of tape for every game.
But I couldn’t dwell on that. As long as that tape held, there was no reason for anyone to think any differently.
“Good. He’s earning it,” I said evenly.
She glanced at me as we stepped onto the ramp leading to the ice. “Honestly, though, it’s clear he’s playing through pain and it’s because of you that he’s this good.”
I gave her a sideways glance, jaw tense. “All in a day’s work.”
Holly laughed and gave me another shoulder bump before floating off to her spot next to the penalty bench.
The air shifted immediately, sharp with cold, the boards gleaming under the lights. I adjusted my bag, and let the sounds of the crowd wash over me. Game 3 was gonna be a killer. Winner took the edge on Round 2, and I hoped to God Theo was up for the challenge.
I let my attention slide to him on the bench, shoulders squared, helmet tucked under one arm. That grin of his. That easy confidence that belied the grind he was pushing through. I inhaled slowly, and reminded myself that keeping him in one piece was more important than ever now.
The puck dropped, and the arena vibrated under the weight of the crowd.
Surge came out the gate hard, but Dallas Stars was up for it and then some.
Van der Berg hadn’t made the flight because he had to finalize his trip to Sweden, so I was all by myself on the trainers’ bench, tracking Theo all the way.
He started with that familiar swagger, chest out, hips squared, ready to rip the head off anyone who got too close.
In the opening minutes, a Stars winger came barreling down the ice, stick cocked high.
Theo pivoted and caught him on the boards shoulder-first. The impact jarred through him, and he stumbled just slightly, right shoulder tucking in.
He shook it off mid-stride, blade skimming ice, and hit his line like nothing had happened.
Guess that was something we were both good at… Pretending.
The play switched. Mason drew two defenders, spun out of the wall, but had his wrist-shot blocked by a flailing pad.
Grayson zipped past, intercepted the rebounding puck, and redirected it back into the slot where Shawn was waiting.
But it got blocked again, this time by a Stars forward who came out of nowhere.
He sped up the ice like a runaway train, straight for Theo and Tucker. The others doubled back to shield.
Theo stood his ground, right arm flexing too quickly. A flicker of a wince through the grill of his helmet, and then gone again. My stomach pinched. The game had barely started. I didn’t know how much more I could take.
Mid-second, Theo absorbed a hit in the neutral zone.
I felt it through the bench before I saw it—his elbow bent slightly, hand gripping his stick tighter, shoulder jerking back to compensate.
He kept moving, passed to Grayson, turned, punched the ice with his stick in celebration, and my fingers loosened.
He was smiling, shouting something to the crowd, but the subtle tension in his arm stayed.
Another turnover. Theo back-checking, battling a winger for the puck.
A Stars skater slammed into him from the side.
The hit rattled the boards. He braced, his shoulder rolling under the pressure, and carried the puck out anyway.
The movement was clean, fluid, but my eyes caught the tiny hitch in the rotation.
I breathed slowly, keeping my expression blank.
Late in the third, the game was tied 2–2.
Puck dropped at center, and Theo intercepted a feed behind the net.
He twisted to pivot, then caught a shoulder from a charging winger mid-rotation.
The hit landed square in his right shoulder, and he hissed between his teeth, clipped his skate to stay upright, and rolled it as he passed to Tucker.
He skated back toward the bench on the next whistle, arm slightly tighter against his side than normal. McAvoy’s expression clouded over as Theo reached for the wall. Before he could say a word, I jumped the bench and pushed in.
“He’s fine,” I said, voice as steady as I could muster over the panic rising in my throat. The tendons in Theo’s jaw twitched, and he nodded at the coach.
“There’s no time for folding now,” he barked at Theo, maybe a little at me too. “Get him back out there.”
“What the fuck, Bouchard?” I hissed at him when we were alone. His face was drawn, all the color drained from it. I didn’t bother massaging his shoulder. Every touch made him grimace, and I knew there were eyes on us from every direction.
So, with only one arm pulled out of his shirt, I gingerly lifted his shoulder pad and angled the nozzle from the cooling spray under it.
“I could use one of your magic needles right about now.”
“This isn’t funny. I told you to protect your shoulder, not throw yourself into every head-on collision out there.” I moved around to get a shot on the front of the joint too. Our best hope was to freeze it into submission until the final horn.
We finished OT. Mason sniped the winning shot, the crowd erupted, and Theo hung back from the team pile-on at center ice like he always did. He was smiling, but there was almost no movement in his right arm.
“You can’t keep absorbing hits like this.”
I’d pulled him aside to an alcove in the locker room that was filled with smelly gear. A far cry better than that excuse for a med bay. He’d needed more help than usual lifting his shirt and pads off. And now, with the last of the tape gone, I got to really see the state he was in.
I swallowed the lump of fear pushing up in my throat. This wasn’t just about our lie being discovered, which, after today’s game, was probably more certainty than threat at this point. It was about the damage he was doing to himself.
He smiled at me, but his eyes didn’t hold their usual sparkle. “You need to stop worrying so much. I’m fine.”
I stared at him. He stared back. We both knew he was nowhere near fine. But also, we both knew there was no take-backsies. We were in this, and we’d be riding it out until the end.
Later, the contained hush of my hotel room acted like an impenetrable barrier between myself and what was turning out to be the biggest fuck up of my life.
Although, not quite.
Because the blinking cursor on my laptop screen quickly reminded me there’d be no escaping this.
The first few reports came and went with barely any acknowledgement. Mason—fit, minor fatigue. Grayson—fit, strong shift patterns. Tucker—ankle taped and responding well to treatment, mobility good.
And then it was Theo.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard. Time bled away. A jarring buzz from my phone cut through the noise in my head. It was a text from van der Berg to say he was waiting for my reports. I took a breath and let it out slowly, pushing the image of Theo wincing his way to that last win. Then I typed.
Theo—minor rotator cuff strain, responding well to treatment, fit to play.