Chapter Twelve
TYLER
The Metros arena is electric. Fans, anticipating another goal, are on their feet. All afternoon, momentum has swung between St. Louis and our team, with the lead switching like a game of hot potato.
With five minutes to go in the game, we’re down by a goal, six to their seven, but we’re going on a power play, and having an extra attacker on the ice could make all the difference. Sage and Maxim are with me, and we have Remy and Rhys on defense.
The St. Louis player sitting in the penalty box probably regrets high-sticking Jonas now.
Adrenaline pumping, I tap Maxim’s glove as I skate past him. “Let’s do this.”
I get into position, Maxim readies to take the face-off, and all of my attention drills down on the puck.
The whistle blows. Maxim wins the face-off and gets the puck to Sage. Lightning fast, he skates around their left wing and fires it to me. I race up the ice. The cold air feels good on my cheeks, and I hustle faster, watching the goalie and picking my spot.
Two St. Louis forwards close in on my back. Rushing toward the net, I take a short side shot. Something snags my left skate hard enough to lift my skates off the ice. My feet fly up and I tumble forward, fast-first. Wincing as the ice rushes up, I shove out my arms, bracing for impact.
A heavy weight slams into my back, pushing me past the net and toward the boards. Another weight barrels into my side, knocking my breath out of me. In a tangled heap, the St. Louis players and I speed toward the boards. Trapped under them, all I can do is close my eyes and wait.
Agony explodes in my left shoulder and radiates to my neck. “Oh fuck. Fuck.”
Stuck under two heavy weights who are taking too long to move, panic flashes through me. I buck against them, trying and failing to draw in more than shallow breaths. “Get off me!”
The claustrophobic feeling disappears as the other players roll away. My stick is close by. Moving my arm the barest centimeter, I’m toppled by increasing pain. And terrified that something is really wrong because I can’t lift my arm any more than that or move it across my body.
This is bad. Cradling my arm, I try to get to my feet, fail, and fall on my ass.
Sage kneels beside me, concern lining his face. “Are you dizzy? Do you need me to get the doctor? Did you hit your head?”
“I’m… not dizzy. I may have hit my head on the boards. Can you help me up?”
Remy flies in, followed by Rhys. “What happened?”
“I can’t lift my arm. Hurts.” My heart’s racing, and my breaths are coming too fast. I’m gonna freak out, and I don’t want to do that in front of eighteen thousand people.
“We’ve got you. Come on.” Sage takes hold of my good arm and pulls me up with him so I can get my knees under me.
With Remy and Rhys helping steady me, I stand the rest of the way. But I still can’t control my breathing. The pain is too intense.
Sage’s grip on my arm tightens. He’s dealt with anxiety, and I’m sure he recognizes what’s happening with me. “We’ll get you to the bench. You just work on inhaling slow and steady. In and out.”
I can’t talk, only nod. The arena slowly fills with applause and low cheers of fans supporting me. Standing at the bench, my teammates bang their sticks. Surrounded by Remy, Sage, and Rhys, I work on breathing, grateful for their help as they get me across the ice.
The trainer and team doctor meet me at the bench. Sage and Remy both pat me on the back, and the Metros’ backup goalie opens the door in the bench for me so I don’t have to climb over the boards.
The doctor gestures toward the tunnel. “Let’s get you checked out.”
My eyes water with each torturous step, every movement shooting another agonizing throb as I walk ahead of him, sucking in short breaths and wincing with each one.
Fear spikes everything bigger and sharper. I don’t want to be injured, not again. All I can do is hope it’s not as bad as I fear.
The kitchen is overrun with Metros and Slash players, plus Bax.
Several types of pizza cover the counter.
A mellow playlist drifts beneath the conversations.
This looks like a normal dinner gathering, except for the fact that it’s nearly midnight and everyone’s here to commiserate over my injury.
The housemates and Bax hanging out here means a lot.
But Rhys, Maxim, Jonas, and Quinn? I didn’t expect them at all. Not for me.
Sharing a chair, Rhys and Sage also share a slice, passing the large piece laden with pepperoni back and forth.
On the way home from the arena, we talked about the injuries they had last year.
Knowing they understand my frustration helps.
Soren and Jonas have had season-ending injuries, so they also get it.
Gio settles into a chair across from me, next to Maxim and Jonas. “A broken collarbone is a common injury.”
“The doctor said it’s one of the most frequent fractures he sees in athletes.” My body feels like it was slammed by a truck, and I’m so angry I could cry. Or hit something. One-handed, as that will be my new normal for a while. I can’t believe I’m fucking injured again.
My arm is bound in a dark blue sling I already hate, and I’m counting the seconds until I can remove the ice pack from my shoulder. Twenty minutes on, to help ease pain and swelling. The swelling and bruising in the area was enough to make me dry heave when I first saw it.
Bax places a plate with two slices of pepperoni in front of me and ends the delivery with a kiss to my cheek. “Here you go. Best slices in the box.”
“Thanks.” I have to take the pain meds with food, and I’m grateful for pizza because I can eat it without needing help. Adjusting to using one hand for several weeks will be interesting. It’s already frustrating, and I only left the arena thirty minutes ago.
After refilling my glass of water and grabbing sodas for himself and Bax, Soren sits beside me.
I had worried texts from them when I got to my locker and both men were here, waiting outside, when Sage pulled into the driveway.
They helped me get inside and have been hovering in protector mode since we stepped through the door.
Soren rests his hand on my thigh. “How long until you can ditch the sling?”
“Two to six weeks, which is too big a window for me. He’ll narrow down the estimate at my next visit.
I have to wear it all the time, except when I’m showering.
And no driving while I’m in a sling.” My car is sitting in the driveway, but I’ll be dependent on other people again, just like when I first arrived.
Feeling helpless is the worst part of injuries. That and time off the ice.
Bax drops onto the open seat beside me with two slices of veggie lovers and one meat lovers. “What else did he say?”
“A lot of things. My head was kind of spinning in there.” I pick up the slice of pepperoni. “No lifting or overhead movement for six weeks. No running, no weights. No video games that use a two-handed controller.”
That means no Gargoyles Gateway for me, which is as disappointing as it is frustrating. It’s how Bax, Soren, and I connect when we can’t be together.
Maxim steals a pepper from Jonas’s slice, earning an elbow to his side. “They make one-handed controllers. I’ll ask the gamers on our team. Someone probably has one that you can borrow.”
“Thanks.”
Sliding his fingers to the back of my neck, Soren brings his lips to my ear. “If they don’t, I’m buying one. You’re not losing out on playing that with us.”
Emotion clogs my throat. I manage a nod and hold his hand as tight as I dare.
Seated on a desk chair Phil dragged in, Quinn folds his slice of plain pizza in half. “What did the doctor tell you about the break?”
“It’s aligned, I don’t need surgery, and there aren’t any soft tissue injuries, which is lucky. He said that’s what slows down recovery.”
Bax gives my leg a squeeze in support. “That’s good news.”
Remy selects a slice loaded with olives and mushrooms. “Did he give you an ETA on when you’d be back with us?”
“Right now, the best-case scenario is returning to play in eight weeks, which gets me back in time for the first round of the playoffs. The doctor thinks twelve weeks is more realistic. That puts my return in late May. In time for the conference finals, if the team is still in the playoffs.”
Of course, there’s always a chance that the team could be knocked out of the playoffs in an earlier round.
The Metros are good, but even teams that have led the league all season have been knocked out of the playoffs in the first round.
Plus, there’s still a month and a half to go before the playoffs.
Plenty of time for injuries to rear up and take out top players.
Quinn snags another piece of pizza from the box Remy tips his way. “We’ll do our best to hang in there so you can join us.”
More things the doctor said come to mind.
Issues with recovery, setbacks, lingering symptoms. “I better be there. I can’t stand being off the ice.
If recovery takes longer than twelve weeks…
then it interferes with offseason training, which messes up being ready for next season.
” I drop my slice. I can’t eat right now.
Bax rubs circles on my back. “Let’s take this a day at a time, okay? Think about what you need help with this week. Don’t jump too far ahead.”
“Getting dressed and undressed, figuring out easy food options, showering… The doctor said that with most activities, I’ll have to make adjustments or ask for help. And apparently, sleeping with this is really uncomfortable.” Hopelessness closes over me, stealing my breath and drowning me.
The pressure of Bax’s hand on my back and Soren’s on my thigh is like a life preserver, and I cling to it.
“Slow, deep breaths,” Sage advises. “Inhale for four counts, hold it for eight, then exhale for four.”
Closing my eyes, I do what he says. Draw in the breath, hold, then let go.
The music shifts to a soothing instrumental I’ve heard drifting from his apartment, one of his calming playlists.
Opening my eyes, I focus on what’s right in front of me, the faces who cared enough to show up here so late when all of them have to be exhausted.
Inhale, hold, let it go. The panicked pressure recedes.
“The injury sucks, but we’ll help you get through it.” Soren’s tone is as warming as sipping a snifter of brandy in front of a fire on a snowy night.
“Damn right we will.” Bax caresses the crease between my brows, and the muscles in my face relax.
Gio tosses his crust onto the box lid and brushes his hands off on his sweats. “Sounds like you need a sous chef, a personal dresser, and a driver.”
Soren’s hand jolts up. “I volunteer to get you into and out of all clothes.”
“Same here.” Bax raises his hand. Both of them grinning like fools. Adorable, sweet fools. “I’ll be your driver. And help you shower.”
“I’ll cook for you!” Remy jumps up and runs into the kitchen, returning with a pen and a pad of paper.
A discussion of menus and meal prep breaks out as my housemates assign themselves to different days of the week.
Rhys and Quinn both offer to cover takeout for the house one day a week, Maxim promises to send me croissants from his favorite bakery, and Jonas offers to get me a laundry service that provides pickup and drop-off.
All of my remaining tension releases. Feeling overwhelmed in the best way, I sit and stare at everyone with their phones out, making notes in their calendars. “Guys, this is really fucking nice of you.”
Gio looks up. “You’d do it for us.”
“I would.” Without question.
Soren frowns at his screen. “Both teams are on road trips at the end of this week into next week. The Metros leave on the fifth and are back on the ninth. And the Slash are gone the fifth through fifteenth. So that’s four days where no one will be here to help Tyler.”
Thumbs fly as Bax types something into his phone. “I can take vacation time and stay with him.”
I turn so I’m looking directly at him. Everyone pitching in is one thing, but using vacation days he may need for a gig or something, is more than necessary. “You don’t have to do that. I’ll manage.”
“I want to do it.” He holds up his phone, showing a calendar of some sort. “Already done. The fifth through the ninth. It’s on the work calendar.”
My eyes fall shut with relief, and I nod, unable to say anything. I’m glad he’s insisting because I’m worried about fending for myself so soon.
Gio swipes through to next month. “There’s another stretch in April where both teams have away games. The seventh through the twelfth for the Slash and the ninth through thirteenth for the Metros.”
Bax brings my hand to his lips and presses a kiss to my palm. “So I’ll stay here the ninth through the twelfth too. More if you need me.”
That’s a little more than a month away. “Hopefully, I’ll be able to manage better on my own by then.”
Scrolling through his phone, Phil keeps his gaze on whatever he’s looking at as he speaks, “Outside of those road trips, there are a few days where both teams play, but we’ll figure it out, so someone will be here with Tyler.”
“Can you send me the game and practice schedules?” Bax directs his question to Phil.
“I’m sending them now,” Soren says. “For both teams.”
My throat constricts, and my eyes burn with emotion. Maybe it’s the pain messing with my equilibrium. Or maybe it’s the feeling of belonging blooming in my chest. “I don’t know what to say, except thank you.”
Soren nudges my plate closer to me. “Eat so you can take your meds. Then we’re going to sleep. We’ll stack pillows or whatever we need to do so you’re comfortable.”
More settled, I grab my slice. The last time I was injured and facing weeks of hobbling on my own, I felt so alone. Now, in this kitchen surrounded by eleven people all promising to help me get through it, I have support, and it makes such a difference.
Eight weeks to get back is my goal. I need to prove to the team and the fans that when the Metros picked me, they didn’t make a mistake.