Chapter 33
LIAM
“You okay, Saints?” Craws eyed me across the club table as the plane leveled out. “You look…” He pursed his lips.
“I’m good.” I winced as I shifted in my seat, trying like hell to find a comfortable position. “My back’s still pissed off about last night.”
“Man,” Temo growled from beside Craws. “I should’ve kicked his ass for that.”
I shrugged tightly, which hurt like hell. “Eh. It wasn’t that bad. I just landed weird, I think.”
“Still. It’s the principle of it. You touch the goalie, you get your ass kicked. You dent the captain, you swallow your teeth.” He shook his fist. “That’s the rule.”
My teammates within earshot all nodded and murmured their agreement.
I just chuckled. Dirty hit or not, I appreciated the protectiveness.
What I did not appreciate was my body relentlessly punishing me for it.
I’d taken hundreds of hits and tumbles in my career, and I’d always—or, well, more often than not—bounced back with no issue.
Even as I’d gotten older and my body had become less forgiving, a collision like that didn’t usually mess me up.
Something about last night, though—fuck.
With a defeated sigh, I turned to Barns. “Can you grab my bag out of the overhead?”
“No problem.” He undid his seat belt, got up, and pulled my backpack out of the bin. As he handed it over, he asked, “You want me to see if the flight attendants can get you some ice?”
I shook my head as I unzipped the bag. “Nah. This should help.” I reached in and produced a tennis ball.
Craws, Temo, and Barns all nodded, and Barns shut the bin and sat down again. We all kept tennis balls and similar things in our carry-on for times like this; one of our old trainers had taught us the trick, and we’d all taken it to heart.
Grimacing from the movement, I tried to tuck the tennis ball behind my back, but the spot I needed was too damn high.
Barns furrowed his brow. “You want me to…?”
I nodded and handed him the ball. “Between my shoulder and my spine. Left side.” I leaned forward, and he put the ball behind my back. “Down a little. Down. Right—yes. Right there.”
He let go, and I leaned back against the ball, pressing it hard into the angry muscle. It hurt like hell, but that was the process—dig it in and press on the sore spot until it started to relax. Which it would. Eventually. Theoretically.
“Thanks, man,” I croaked.
“Don’t mention it.” Concern was still etched all over his face. “You sure you’re good?”
“I’m fine.” I was… mostly. It wasn’t an injury, per se. Nothing that would keep me off the ice. It was just a bunch of muscle spasms, and they hurt.
I wouldn’t admit out loud under torture that an icepack probably would’ve helped.
The truth was I hated putting ice on my back.
My neck, my knee, my hip—fine. But something about putting something cold against my back was just—no.
Absolutely the fuck not. Though if one of the trainers clocked that I was in this much pain, they might not give me a choice, the sadistic bastards.
C’mon, stupid ball. Work your magic.
“You sure you’re okay, captain?” Craws watched me, forehead creased with worry. “Did you fuck up your back last night?”
“I’m good,” I insisted. “Comes with age.”
“Aww, fuck.” Drizz scowled across the aisle at us. “Is that what we have to look forward to when we’re as old as you?”
I flipped him off. “If you live that long, kid. And that is not a guarantee at this point.”
He just laughed. “Yeah? How you gonna beat me up when you can’t move?”
I arched an eyebrow. “Just wait until I’m not in pain.”
Craws whistled. “Drizz, man, you are cruisin’ for a bruisin’. I would not tempt the captain.”
Drizz chuckled, but he wisely stopped pushing, and we all resumed our various card games.
I played some of my worst ever games of Hearts on that flight, mostly because I was so focused on getting this knot out of my back.
Instead of getting better, though, it was moving up into my shoulders and my neck, and creeping down into my lower back.
That was how it always happened—one muscle started bitching, and the pain spread like white-hot kudzu until everything hurt.
The back bone’s connected to the bullshit bone…
The bullshit bone’s connected to the fuckery bone…
The fuckery bone’s connected to the please-kill-me bone…
My own silent lyrics almost made me laugh out loud. On a plane full of hockey players plagued by aches and pains, we could probably get a hell of a singalong going about our stupid, battered meat puppets.
Or I could see if the team doc would have mercy on my too-old-for-this soul and prescribe me something strong. I very, very rarely resorted to painkillers, but everyone had a limit.
“You’re done for the night,” Mel, our team doctor, had told me in the locker room.
“No.” I’d shaken my head slowly. “They need me.”
“And you need to rest and—”
“I can have Coach manage my minutes,” I’d ground out. “There’s less than half a period left, and the rest of the team will be less distracted if they see that I’m okay.”
He’d looked like he was going to argue with me, but he and I had both been here long enough to know how well that was going to work out. Absent signs of an actual injury, he wasn’t going to talk me out of returning.
So, he’d acquiesced. I’d returned with eight and a half minutes left to play.
Between two shifts, I’d spent ninety excruciating seconds on the ice.
Probably not the best I’d ever played, but the shift in morale had been apparent the instant I’d come out of the tunnel.
The fourth line and second D pair had been setting up for a faceoff in that moment, and the release in tension in all five of them had been visible to the naked eye.
I’d been on the verge of tears by the time I’d finished that second shift, but it had been worth it to keep my team afloat long enough to win that game.
Today, as every breath hurt like hell and every movement made my eyes water…
Yeah, maybe I shouldn’t have pushed it. Maybe I should’ve had faith in the guys, that they could rally and keep playing hard without me. They’d held their own while I was out because of my separated shoulder. I knew and they knew that they could play hard and win without me.
Hell, maybe that injury was why I’d felt so compelled to get back out there last night—I wasn’t letting them down again.
“Convalescing from an injury is not letting anyone down!” Mel had nearly torn his hair out when we’d argued five years ago when he’d wanted my ass on injured reserve over a hip injury.
“You know what’s letting them down? Playing through an injury, which means you’re not playing at your best, and hurting yourself even more so you’re benched longer!
Is that what you want, Saints? Is it? Is it really? ”
Wise words, in hindsight.
I shifted in my seat, my breath hitching as fresh pain knifed through my neck and back.
I should’ve stayed in the locker room last night.
We’d had a lead. I’d hardly been singlehandedly winning the game.
If I’d stayed off the ice, there was no reason to think they’d have fallen apart.
And I really didn’t think they would have.
I hadn’t in the moment. I’d just felt the pressure to get out there and be the leader they’d elected me to be, season after season, for ten years running.
“Saints,” Craws said. “Man, you’re sweating.”
Was I? Oh, fuck. I was.
“I’m good,” I insisted to three sets of eyes that were already calling me on my bullshit. Finally, I sighed. “Look, it hurts. It’s one of those muscles that hurts like a motherfucker when it lights up. But it’s just a spasm.”
Someone appeared beside me. I wanted to look up and see who it was, but just trying to turn made the pain worse. Because of course it fucking did.
“Saints.” Oh God. Mel. “Son, you’re day to day. No arguments.”
I closed my eyes and slowly pushed out a breath. I wanted to argue. I did. But the knife in my back made a much more compelling argument.
“Fine,” I whispered. “Day to day.” I managed to look up enough to meet his stern but concerned gaze. “No IR.” If they put me on injured reserve, League rules dictated I’d be down for ten days no matter what. Absolutely the fuck not.
He nodded. He’d evaluate me tomorrow, and we could argue about it then. He was probably just happy he’d gotten me to accept being day to day without a fight.
As Mel walked away, probably to let Coach know he was updating my status, I faced my other teammates again. The ones at the next club table were watching too, and a few conversations had fallen silent.
I exhaled. “It’s a muscle spasm,” I insisted. “And if I end up missing a game over it, you guys will be fine.”
“We know that,” Barns said as if I were a complete dumbass. “We know we can play without you. Obviously we’re better with you than not, but the important thing is you not fucking yourself up.”
Temo nodded. “What he said. We’re a team. If someone goes down—next man up. We’ve got it.” His brow creased. “We just don’t want you to be hurt hurt.”
I swallowed, wondering when my throat had tightened. “Thanks, guys. And I’ll… I’ll be okay.” I tried to shift around, which my back did not appreciate. “I’ll be okay.”
They were clearly dubious but didn’t push the issue.
Minutes later, the pilot announced we were starting our descent into Pittsburgh, and panic crackled through me. Not just because landing was going to hurt, either.
I had plans after this flight. I’d been looking forward to bending Garrett over the nearest surface and making sure he still felt me when I left for my next road trip.
Right now, I wasn’t even sure I was going to be able to pick up my suitcase or drive home.
Fuck. That wasn’t good.
We’d spent days spinning each other up with promises of making up for lost time. I could still see Garrett in my mind’s eye, lying back on his bed with his dick in his hand and cum all over his stomach, my promises of hot sex still ringing in the air.