Chapter 25
Milo
Things between Beau and me have shifted in an astronomical way. Something from the other night fundamentally changed us. It changed how I see him. It certainly changed things I want to say to him.
It changed how I feel for him, really cementing my feelings into something tangible.
I think I might love him?
I know my feelings for him are running deep, coursing through my veins, because they don’t leave me even as I settle into our game.
I settle between the pipes, and all I can think about is Beau. All I can think about is confessing to him, to telling him how I feel.
But tonight is not the night for those kinds of declarations. Tonight, we have a game, and we have to stay focused.
We’re playing absolute bruisers this evening, and I need to be on my A-game. I need to be in peak form. So for the millionth time tonight, I shake all thoughts of loving Beau loose from my skull, and focus on the game in front of me.
We’re in deep against the Boston Guardians. 2-1, we’re ahead.
I’ve never liked playing them. They play dirty, always too rough when they don’t have to be. Rough in ways that make you wince just from watching. Rough in ways that could potentially involve me.
They’ve never been above roughing a goalie, so I have to stay sharp. And I’m glad for my sharpness. They are all up in my crease the first two periods before they finally back off.
We’re in the third period, and so far it’s been a relatively clean game, just some shoving and general annoyance, but we’re all sitting on edge, just waiting for that other shoe to drop.
Waiting for them to bring down the metaphorical hammer.
I’m on the opposite end of the action right now, watching as the team silently communicates and, fuck yes, manages to put away another biscuit right over the goalie’s shoulder.
3-1.
Each point makes me more and more nervous because I know it’s another reason for Boston to become unhinged.
I know it’s just another excuse for them to start coming after us, for them to start going after my teammates.
I nervously watch as the puck drops, and we win the faceoff.
I can see everything from the crease, the whole rink laid out in front of me like a chessboard: lanes, gaps, bodies in motion.
I track the puck as Paxton curls low through center ice, head up, stick loose and confident.
He always looks confident when he’s in his flow like this, chasing a puck and flying down the ice.
Brennan streaks down the right wing, calling for it, while Beau slides wide on the left, timing it perfectly.
It’s a good rush. A perfect rush.
Paxton feeds Beau through the neutral zone, clean and fast. I tap my stick once against the ice, a warning more instinct than sound.
“Boards!”
Beau doesn’t dump it. He never does.
I drop my stance as Beau crosses the blue line, knees flexed, glove hand set while the defense pinches in. Oskar and Kirill hang back at the red line, already reading the play, ready to retreat if it turns.
The opposing defenseman steps up on Beau, forcing him toward the wall. Brennan cuts toward the slot, stick down, looking for the dish. Paxton trails high, ready to support.
Then there he is.
Fuck, he’s right there.
The second defender accelerating in from Beau’s blind side.
Too fast.
Too late.
But I cry out anyway.
The hit lands with a violent crack, echoing through the arena.
Beau gets crushed into the boards, skates flying out from under him as his upper body takes the full force. The puck kicks loose behind the net, but my eyes never leave the corner.
Beau is lying there, motionless.
There’s screaming. Someone is screaming.
Someone should tell them to stop.
Oh.
It’s me.
Brennan is there by Beau’s side instantly, dropping his gloves halfway as he shoves the defenseman back, shouting something that I can’t hear, or maybe I’m just not listening. I’m too busy willing Beau to move, to open his eyes, anything.
I don’t realize how far out of the crease I am until I’m crossing the red line. I just need to see him, need to make sure he’s okay.
His eyes peel open slowly, and I breathe out a sigh of relief.
Paxton skids in right behind him, arms out, barking at the ref, furious.
“What the fuck was that?!”
The whistle finally blows, but Beau still isn’t actually moving.
Oskar and Kirill skate in together from the blue line, sticks down but bodies tense. Oskar positions himself between Brennan and the opposing bench, Kirill looming just behind Paxton like a silent threat.
I finally see a little movement. Beau is curling up on the ice, arm tucked tight against his chest. In the stark silence of the rink, I can hear him groaning in pain.
Fuck, that’s not good.
Beau moves to try and sit up, but he immediately slumps back down, his face twisting in agony, his breath hitching sharp and shallow. Paxton drops to a knee beside him, talking fast and low, one hand hovering like he’s afraid to touch him. I’m close enough now that I can hear him.
“Hey, BB, you’re fine just like that, man. Don’t move.” Paxton crouches down, but looks away toward the bench, where the trainers are springing into action. “Just stay still, okay?”
Oskar pushes away from where everyone is huddled. His face is red with anger. His wild eyes keep flying between where Beau is lying crumpled on the ice and the defenseman who rocked him. He looks like maybe he wants to risk the suspension. Right now, I can’t really blame him.
Not when they cut Beau’s jersey open, pads shifting, and I see that unnatural swell of skin near his clavicle.
My stomach drops too low in my belly, and I immediately feel as if I’m going to be sick.
I’ve wandered close enough now that the ref is telling me to stay back.
Brennan and Kirill are huddled together, swearing under their breath.
The arena has gone completely silent, no music, no chatter, just that horrible, collective hush.
I grip the top of my stick like I’m trying to choke it, my breathing shallow. My face is wet. Why is it so wet?
The stretcher is brought out, and they carefully put a neck brace on him.
Why am I just standing here?
I push closer, still wanting to see him, to let him know I’m here, but scared to get too close, scared that all it will take is one look at me and it’ll be so obvious how I feel.
“Is he okay?” I ask, over and over. “Is he okay?”
I want to scream. No one is listening to me. No one is answering me.
But then…
Then I hear him.
“I’m okay,” his voice is hoarse and strained. “Tell him I’m fine.” His voice is so low it’s barely a whisper, but I’m straining to be near him, and I hear him. “Tell him to go. Tell him to play.”
My vision blurs, stinging from unshed tears.
I’m going to play for him. These fuckers aren’t getting anything past me.