Chapter 24
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
cameron
The energy during a rivalry game is always heightened.
The moment I step onto the ice for warm-ups, the familiar weight of my pads grounds me and keeps me that way as I skate toward the net.
Our decades long history with the Titans is filled with several playoff series that went to seven games, trades that felt like disloyalty, and a geographic closeness that sometimes makes home games feel like away games and vice versa.
“Fucking zoo in here,” Jake mutters as he glides past.
He fires a puck at my glove, and I catch it, cleanly tossing it back.
Yeah, it is. The arena is packed to the rafters, every seat filled, the excitement so thick it would take a skate blade to cut it.
There are tons of celebrities here. None of them could name three players on either team, but they show up because this is the game to be seen at.
I spot at least two actresses from Kennedy’s reality TV shows, a rapper whose album dropped last week, and some TikTok star the younger guys were freaking out about in the locker room.
“All right, listen up,” Henderson yells while we’re gathered in the locker room after warm-ups. His voice silences the room, but it doesn’t dull the adrenaline coursing through all of us. “You all know these bastards would love nothing more than to embarrass us on their home ice.”
A few guys growl in agreement.
“So we’re going to play our game: fast, physical, and relentless. We’re going to make them regret dropping the puck.” He looks directly at me. “And Davies? You’re going to be a fucking wall out there. Nothing gets past you. Nothing.”
My smile is all teeth and vitriol. “Yes, sir.”
“The Titans think their pretty passing plays and celebrity fans make them untouchable.” Henderson paces like a caged animal, a vein in his forehead pulsing.
I’ve played under him for years, so it doesn’t faze me, but I get why Kennedy thinks he’s scary.
“Let’s remind them of what happens when you poke a fucking Bobcat. ”
The room erupts, and as we file back out through the tunnel, the crowd’s noise hits like a physical force.
I take my position in the crease and start my familiar ritual.
Tap the right post, tap the left post, drag my stick across the crease, and skate back a few times, cutting up the ice. Same routine every game for ten years.
While the national anthem plays, I scan the arena, searching for one face out of nineteen thousand. I don’t find her, but I know from a photo she texted me that the jersey she’s wearing has my name and my number.
Because she’s mine.
The thought is possessive and probably caveman-level primitive, but I can’t find it in me to care. For however long this lasts, she is mine.
The first period is a battle, and as we near the end of the second period, we’re tied. The Titans are fast and they make me work for every save. As a two-on-one develops, I stay patient, trusting Erickson to take the pass. He makes a diving attempt, but the puck skips over his stick.
Shit.
The shooter lines up and releases the shot, a rocket aimed low, and I drop into my butterfly, pads sealing the ice, ready and in position. But the puck hits a skate or maybe one of the guys’ sticks, I don’t know, and suddenly, the trajectory changes.
There’s a split second where I know I’m out of position, where my brain’s screaming at me to adjust, but my body hasn’t caught up yet. Intense pain explodes down my thigh and radiates outward, sharp and hot. I clutch my leg reflexively, toppling onto my side.
The whistle blows—puck covered, thank God—but I barely hear it over the ringing in my ears. While my pads protect against major injury, they don’t eliminate all impact, and that fucking shot got me in the small gap between my pad and pants that lacks protection.
A group of teammates are in front of me instantly, asking if I’m okay.
I nod, even though I’m very much not okay, and search for the spot through my pants. When I find it, I hiss. It’s already tender and swelling.
“Is your dick injured?” Logan calls out from nearby. “Does it still work?”
I briefly consider yelling at him to fuck off, but my jaw is clenched too tightly to get a word out.
Fallon, one of our athletic trainers, is on the ice moments later, crouching beside me. “Where’d it get you?”
“Apparently not his dick,” Logan answers unhelpfully.
“Inner thigh,” I grit out. “Left side. Caught me right above the pad.”
She’s already moving, gloved hands checking the area with practiced efficiency. Behind her, Coach Henderson skates up to the crease, close enough to hear Fallon but giving her room to work.
She sits back on her heels a moment later, meeting my eyes. “Let’s get you up and see if you can put weight on it.”
I nod, and she helps me to one knee, then up to my skates. Pain radiates up to my hip and down my knee, but nothing feels torn or unstable. While it hurts like hell, it’s functional.
“Cameron.” Her voice drops lower, serious now.
The guys have skated off to give us space, but they’re watching, assessing, and it makes me antsy. “I trust you to know your body, but be honest with me. Can you finish the period?”
I zero in on her. Fallon’s been with the team for a couple of years, and in that time, she has seen me play through worse. She knows I won’t come off unless I absolutely have to.
“I can finish the game,” I correct her, knowing Henderson is listening.
She studies me for another long moment, then nods slowly. “All right. But if it gets worse and you feel—”
“I’ll tap out. Promise.”
“Okay. We’ll ice it before the third.” She slaps my shoulder pad, then skates off, giving the ref a thumbs-up, signaling that I’m good to continue.
I settle back into my crease, testing the leg one more time. The pain is there, constant and sharp but manageable. Forcing thoughts of it out of my mind, I ready for the puck.
The rest of the period is a fight against both the Titans and my own body. Every save is agony, every butterfly slide a test of willpower, but I don’t let anything else past me. As coach requested, I’m an immovable wall of muscle.
By the time the game ends, I’m hanging on by sheer willpower and a thread of sanity. We win, albeit barely, but rather than celebrate with my teammates, I head straight to the athletic room where Fallon is waiting for me with fresh ice.
“Let’s get your gear off so I can take a look at that leg.”
My chest protector comes off easily enough, but peeling off my pants sends that piercing pain radiating through me again, making me grunt. Fuck. It’s been a long time since I got hit like this.
“Drop your compression shorts,” she commands. “And so help me God,” she continues, eyes narrowed on me, “if you ask me to buy you dinner first, I will go to HR.”
I bark out a laugh and gingerly work the shorts down. A bruise the size of a grapefruit has already bloomed across my thigh, angry shades of purple and red spreading from the impact site.
She probes gently around the edges, professional and efficient. “Can you bend your knee? All the way?” she asks without looking away from the site.
I try, gritting my teeth, but the pain spikes so sharply around ninety degrees that it takes my breath away.
With a nod to herself, she walks me through a few more movements.
Each time, the muscle under the bruise jumps weakly.
We go through the usual range of questions: no numbness, no tingling, no sharp pain unless I move it wrong.
She crosses her arms. “You’re lucky, Davies. No sign of a hematoma, and compartment syndrome looks unlikely. Your range of motion is limited but not terrible. You’re sitting out of practice Monday. No arguments.”
“Fallon—”
“Did you miss the part where I said no arguments?” She sets her jaw, readying for a challenge. “Your adrenaline’s masking the pain, but by morning, you won’t be able to walk without limping. I let you finish playing, so now you let me do my job.”
She presses the ice pack to my thigh, brow furrowed. Motherfucker. “Forty-eight hours of rest, ice, compression, elevation. I’ll clear you for light skating on Wednesday if the swelling’s down.”
My gut sinks. “We have a game Tuesday—”
“Yep, and the team has two goalies,” she snaps. “You also have a girlfriend in the stands who watched you drag yourself off the ice after a win that should’ve had you in the middle of a pile with your teammates.”
She raises an eyebrow, waiting for me to argue.
Shit. I was so focused on not passing out from pain that I forgot that Kennedy was here, watching it unfold.
“How bad did it look?”
“On a scale of one to ‘you’re an idiot for continuing to play’? Solid five-point-five.” She gently wraps the ice pack in place with an elastic bandage. “You’ll live, but you’ll be sore as hell, so please take it easy, okay?”
I nod and lie back on the table. I might as well wait here for the acetaminophen to kick in and alleviate some of the ache.
The pain has dulled a bit by the time Cole pokes his head into the visitors’ training room. “How ya doing, Davies? I’ve got a locker room full of guys who want to know if you’re okay.”
“Liar.” I toss an arm over my eyes. “Those assholes are betting on how bad the bruise is, and they want to see who wins.”
He grins, not the least bit repentant, and disappears.
A heartbeat later, my teammates file in, oohing and aahing over the bruise as if I’m an exhibit on display.
As if they haven’t seen or received similar injuries.
After it’s determined that Jake won the bet, Fallon shoos them out, but Cole stays, leaning against the doorframe.
“You can leave, too,” I tell him. “I don’t need you to babysit me.”
“That job is Kennedy’s.” He tosses me a wink. “She’s on her way down here, by the way.”
“Fuck, she’s going to—”
“Too late.” Cole steps aside and Kennedy rushes past him into the room.
She’s still dressed in my jersey, but now she’s also wearing an adorably furious expression as well. I don’t know what I’m expecting—a lecture, a kiss, a smack—but it’s certainly not being completely ignored.
She stands straight, arms crossed, lips pulled down. “You’re Fallon, right?” she asks the redhead at my side. “The athletic trainer?”
Fallon nods, her expression a mix of apprehension and interest. She probably doesn’t know what to expect from this force of a woman. “Yup. That’s me.”
“Hi, I’m Kennedy.” She extends her hand with perfect politeness, like she’s networking at an event and not ambushing a training room. “Does he have a concussion?”
I puff out a breath. “I don’t have—”
“Shh.” Kennedy give me a single razor-sharp glance. “The adults are talking.”
Cole barks out a laugh while I choke out an “Excuse me?”
“Only a child would continue to play after an injury that could be made worse by—you guessed it—continuing to play. Unless he had a concussion and wasn’t in his right mind.” She turns back to Fallon without missing a beat. “So? Concussion?”
“No concussion.” The trainer tilts her head to the side. “The puck hit his thigh.”
“Okay, just confirming.” Kennedy’s frown slowly transforms into a sardonic smile. “I figured it was his natural idiocy that made him think it was a good idea to play the third period, but I wanted to at least give him the benefit of the doubt.”
“Hey—” I protest.
“How bad is the leg?” she asks, still not looking at me.
“Deep tissue contusion on his inner thigh. He’ll be black and blue for a bit.”
“And he played an entire period on this?”
“Over a period, actually.”
Kennedy’s jaw tightens. “Of course he did.”
“To be fair,” Fallon adds, though her tone suggests she’s not actually interested in being fair, “most goalies would have done the same thing. They’re a rare breed. It comes with the position.”
“That’s not an excuse,” my adorably angry girlfriend grouses.
Then, finally, she turns to look at me. Concern and anger war in her eyes, and I can’t tell which one is winning. She crosses her arms again, the movement snagging my attention.
Shit. Her hands are shaking. It’s almost imperceptible, but the fear is there.
Guilt twists in my gut, competing with the throbbing in my thigh. “Kennedy—”
“Nope. You don’t get to talk yet.” She looks back at Fallon. “What does he need?”
Fallon rattles off the care instructions again, and she nods along. When she’s gotten them all, she finally—finally—turns her full attention to me.
“Can you walk?”
“Yes.”
She lowers her chin, her brows lifted. “Without limping?”
I hesitate before answering. It’s a terrible mistake, because before I can force myself to downplay the pain again, she looks at Cole, who’s watching the scene unfold like he’s taking notes for Logan. “Can you help him to the car?”
“Wait, what?” I straighten, and my thigh screams in protest. I suck in a sharp breath and hope my voice sounds normal when I say, “I can walk.”
It doesn’t.
She ignores me. “Cole?”
“On it.” He grins at me. “Don’t fight it, man. You’ve already lost.”
“I haven’t lost—”
“Cameron.” Kennedy steps closer, her voice sweet, but her eyes steel. “Please shut the fuck up. You’re going to let Cole help you to the car, you’re going to take your medication, and then you’re going to let me take care of you. Understood?”
The fight drains out of me, my whole body sagging. “Understood,” I mutter.
“Good boy.” She pats my cheek with just enough condescension to make Fallon snort.
“I like her,” the trainer announces. “She can come back anytime.”
“Great,” I grumble, accepting my captain’s offered shoulder to stand. “Thrilled you’re all bonding over my pain.”
“Could be worse,” Cole says cheerfully as he supports my weight and leads me to the door. “At least your dick’s working.”
Asshole.