Epilogue
ETHAN
The hit comes out of nowhere.
One second, I'm skating backward, tracking the Denver forward cutting toward the net. The next, I'm airborne, my body slamming into the boards with a sickening crunch that I feel more than hear.
Pain explodes through my left side. Shoulder, knee, everything. White-hot pain.
I try to get up. I try to push myself off the ice like I've done a thousand times before. But my knee buckles, and the pain intensifies so sharply that my vision goes spotty.
“Ethan, don't move!” One of the trainers is already on the ice, sliding toward me.
I can hear the collective gasp that happens when everyone realizes the hit was worse than it looked. I hear the referee's whistle and feel hands on me, assessing damage.
“Where does it hurt?” The trainer's voice is calm.
“Everywhere,” I grit out. “Knee. Shoulder.”
“Can you stand?”
I try. My good leg holds, but the moment I put weight on my left knee, it gives out completely. The trainer catches me, and suddenly, there are more hands supporting my other side.
“We're taking you off,” the trainer says. “Don't argue.”
I wouldn't even if I could. The pain is too intense, too consuming. I can tell from the way my shoulder is screaming that something is torn or broken or both.
They help me to the bench, then down the tunnel. The crowd is chanting my nickname, the Wall. But it feels distant. I’m in too much pain, both physically and emotionally.
Because I'm not on the ice. I'm not helping my team win the Stanley Cup. I'm being carried off like damaged goods. Of all the games in my career to get injured, it just had to be this one.
The medical room is small and unbearably quiet compared to the arena. They lay me on the examination table, and the team doctor immediately starts his assessment.
“Scale of one to ten, what's the pain?”
“Eight.” It's probably a nine, but I won't admit that.
He prods my knee gently, and I have to bite back a string of curses. “We need X-rays. Possibly an MRI. But based on the mechanism of injury and your symptoms, I'm suspecting an MCL tear at a minimum. Maybe ACL. Won't know for sure until we image it.”
Fuck. “How long until I can play again?”
He exchanges a look with the trainer. “Let's get the imaging first. But if it's what I think it is, we're looking at surgery. Months of recovery.”
Months.
Everything in me goes cold. Everything but the burning pain. I don’t want to feel any of it. Not the pain, or the disappointment I feel. “Can you give me something for the pain?”
“We'll get you to the hospital first. They'll have better imaging equipment and can manage your pain more effectively there.” He pats my good shoulder. “Try to stay still. We'll get a stretcher.”
They leave me alone for a moment, then I notice the TV mounted in the corner, still showing the game.
Third period. Five minutes left. We're up 4-3.
I should be out there, blocking shots, clearing the zone, doing my job as a defenseman. Instead, I'm stuck in this medical room, watching my team win the Stanley Cup without me.
Minutes crawl by. Every second feels like an eternity. My knee is throbbing in time with my heartbeat.
On screen, Denver pulls their goalie for an extra attacker. The Renegades hold strong. Cole makes an incredible defensive play. Logan makes three impossible saves in the final minute, and Nova scores in the last few seconds.
The buzzer sounds.
We won.
The Stanley Cup is ours.
On the TV, I watch my teammates pile onto each other, onto Nova, everyone screaming and celebrating. The Cup is being brought out. Cole lifts it first as captain, and even through my pain, pride surges through me.
We did it.
Except I'm here alone while everyone else celebrates the moment we've worked toward all season.
The door opens, and two paramedics wheel in a stretcher.
“Mr. Ward? We're going to transport you to Mount Sinai. The team doctor has already called ahead. They're expecting you.”
I nod, unable to speak past the tightness in my throat.
They help me onto the stretcher, strapping me down carefully. My knee screams with every small movement, but I grit my teeth and don't make a sound.
The Wall doesn't show pain. The Wall doesn't show anything.
They wheel me out of the medical room, down the corridor that leads toward the arena exit. The celebration is louder out here, echoing through the hallways.
We turn a corner, and suddenly there are people. Team officials, family members, girlfriends, and wives who've been allowed into the back areas for the celebration.
“Ethan.” Cole appears, Harper beside him. They both look concerned, their celebration faces replaced with worry when they see me on the stretcher.
“Congrats, Cap,” I manage. “Hell of a game.”
He rests a hand on my good shoulder. “Forget the game. How bad is it?”
My stomach twists. “Don’t know yet. Headed to the hospital for imaging.”
Harper squeezes Cole's hand, then steps forward. “We'll come visit tomorrow. As soon as they let us.”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
There's a woman standing behind Harper. Even in my pain, I notice that she’s stunning, with dark hair pulled back in an elegant twist, wearing a skirt suit that looks wildly out of place among the jerseys and casual clothes everyone else is wearing.
The skirt hits just above her knee. Sexy in a way that makes my brain short-circuit despite the pain.
Who wears a skirt suit to a hockey game?
She catches me staring.
“This is my cousin, Natalie,” Harper says, following my gaze. “Natalie, this is Ethan Ward.”
“Nice to meet you,” Natalie says. “Congratulations on the Cup. Sorry about the injury.”
I grunt something that might be an acknowledgment, still trying to figure out why someone would dress like they're going to a board meeting for the Stanley Cup Finals.
The paramedics are getting restless, ready to move. But then Liam appears, Avery tucked under his arm. She's wearing his jersey, and they look disgustingly happy together.
“Ethan, man.” Liam's usual cocky grin is replaced with concern. “That hit was brutal. You okay?”
“Been better.”
Looking at them and the way they're all paired off and happy and whole makes something twist in my chest that has nothing to do with my injuries.
Everyone has someone.
Cole has Harper, and even Nova has Avery. The woman who somehow tamed the untamable Nova. Even Jake probably has someone waiting for him in the celebration, some woman I haven't met yet.
And me?
I'm on a stretcher, being wheeled away from the biggest moment of my career because my body betrayed me at the worst possible time.
“We need to go,” one of the paramedics says gently. “The ambulance is waiting.”
They start moving again, and I watch my teammates and their people fade into the distance. The sounds of celebration grow fainter with each turn of the wheels.
In the ambulance, they give me more medication. The pain dulls to a manageable throb, but it doesn't touch the ache in my chest.
This is what I've always wanted, isn't it? To be left alone. To not have to deal with people and their expectations and their need for connection.
It's served me well on the ice, making me one of the best defensemen in the league. Nobody gets past my walls.
But lying here, watching the city lights blur past through the ambulance windows, I wonder if maybe that's the problem.
Everyone else has someone to celebrate with. Someone to lean on when things get hard.
I have no one.
And whose fault is that?
For some reason, the last thing I see before the anesthesia takes me under is that woman in the skirt suit. Natalie.
My last thought before everything goes dark is, what the hell was she doing at a hockey game dressed like that?
The END