Chapter 14 #2
That night, Mikey came to my window. Literally. He climbed the trellis to the second floor of the dorms (shifter agility was unfair) and tapped on the glass.
Becca was out at a sorority meeting.
I let him in.
He was happy. He was buzzing from a good practice. He picked me up and spun me around, kissing me soundly.
"Reynolds wants a meeting," he announced, dropping me onto the bed. "Tomorrow. Before the game. He wants to talk 'future.'"
"That's amazing!" I forced a smile, my stomach churning with acid.
"It's happening, Lydia," he said, lying down beside me and pulling me close. "Detroit. The contract. The house with the trees. It's all happening."
"Yeah," I whispered, burying my face in his chest so he couldn't see my eyes. "It is."
"What's wrong?" he asked immediately. He felt the tension in my body. "You're stiff."
"Just... tired," I lied. "Mac worked me hard today."
"Mac is a slave driver," Mikey grumbled, stroking my hair. "Once I sign, you're quitting. No more taping ankles for ungrateful rookies."
Ungrateful rookies. Davis.
I shivered.
"Cold?" Mikey asked, pulling the duvet over us.
"Just hold me," I begged. "Just... don't let go."
"Never," he promised.
We fell asleep like that. But while Mikey slept deeply, dreaming of contracts and Newfoundland dogs, I lay awake, staring at the dark window.
Davis knew.
And Davis was a loose cannon.
I had to fix this. I had to neutralize him. But how?
The next morning was Game 1 of the Playoffs. North Ridge vs. Lake Superior State.
The atmosphere on campus was electric. Students were painting their faces. The band was practicing in the quad.
Mikey had his meeting with Reynolds at 10 AM.
I was in the training room, prepping coolers.
Davis walked in.
He was wearing his jersey. He looked smug.
"Did you talk to him?" Davis asked, leaning against the counter.
"I can't just demand he put you on the first line, Davis," I hissed, checking the door to make sure we were alone. "It doesn't work that way. Mac makes the lines based on performance."
"Then make him think it's his idea," Davis shrugged. "You're smart. Figure it out."
"And if I don't?"
" Then I go to Mac's office," Davis said simply. "And I tell him about the sounds I heard coming from the Hydro room yesterday. And the smell."
"You have no proof," I said.
"I have enough to start an investigation," Davis countered. "And an investigation means cameras get pulled. Phone records get checked. And your boy Mikey gets dragged through the mud right before the draft."
He checked his watch.
"You have until warmups at 6 PM. Make it happen."
He walked out.
I slammed a roll of tape onto the counter. I was trapped.
I couldn't talk to Mac. I couldn't talk to Mikey.
I had to do it. I had to manipulate my uncle to save my boyfriend. It felt dirty. It felt wrong. But I didn't have a choice.
I grabbed my clipboard and marched to Mac's office.
Mac was reviewing line charts.
"Hey, Lydie," he muttered, not looking up.
"Hey, Coach," I said, trying to keep my voice casual. "I was... looking at the stats from practice this week."
"And?"
"And... Davis looks good," I lied. The words tasted like ash. "His speed metrics are up. His recovery time is elite. Maybe... maybe he'd be a good fit on the Jagger line? To add some speed?"
Mac looked up. He frowned. "Davis? The kid is a headcase. He doesn't backcheck."
"But his offensive output is high," I argued, sweating. "And Jagger needs a winger who can keep up. Just... a thought. Based on the physiology."
Mac studied me. He squinted.
"Since when do you care about line combinations?"
"I care about winning," I said. "And I care about... efficiency."
Mac tapped his pen on the desk. He looked at the chart.
"Maybe," he mused. "Miller is nursing that elbow. Davis might be a good sub for a few shifts."
He erased a name and wrote Davis.
"Alright," Mac said. "We'll try it. Good eye, Lydia."
"Thanks, Coach."
I walked out of the office. I felt like vomiting.
I had done it. I had succumbed to blackmail. I had put a selfish, lazy player on the first line just to protect my secret.
I walked to the nearest bathroom, locked myself in a stall, and dry heaved.
The game started at 7 PM.
The arena was packed. The energy was manic.
Mikey was flying. He had come out of the Reynolds meeting beaming. Apparently, it went well. Detroit was ready to make an offer.
He looked at me during warmups—a quick wink. He didn't know. He didn't know I had just sold my soul to Davis.
The first period went well. 1-0 North Ridge.
In the second period, Mac put the new line out. Jagger, Mikey... and Davis.
I watched from the bench, holding my breath.
Davis was skating fast, trying to prove he belonged. But he was reckless. He was out of position.
Mikey was covering for him. Constantly.
"Davis, stay in your lane!" Mikey shouted on the ice.
Davis ignored him. He was puck-hogging.
Then, it happened.
Davis turned over the puck in the neutral zone. A bad, lazy pass.
The Lake State winger intercepted it. He had a breakaway.
Mikey pivoted. He skated back, desperate to stop the goal.
He dove. A sprawling, desperation play.
He blocked the shot. The puck deflected into the corner.
But his momentum carried him. He slid fast, feet first, toward the boards.
Davis, trying to "help," backchecked late. He tripped over Mikey’s stick.
Davis fell. He fell hard.
And he landed directly on Mikey’s outstretched leg.
SNAP.
The sound was sickening. It echoed through the arena, louder than the crowd, louder than the buzzer.
Mikey screamed.
It wasn't a roar of anger. It was a scream of agony.
He writhed on the ice, clutching his right leg. His foot was at a wrong angle. A very wrong angle.
The whistle blew. The arena went silent.
I didn't think. I didn't wait for Mac.
I vaulted the boards.
I ran to him, sliding on my knees to his side.
"Mikey!"
He was pale. Grey. His eyes were squeezed shut, teeth gritted so hard I thought they would crack.
"Leg," he gasped. "Broken. It's broken."
I looked. Tibia. Maybe fibula too. It was bad. Surgical bad.
"Don't move," I ordered, putting my hands on his shoulders. "Stay with me, Mikey. Look at me."
He opened his eyes. The gold was swirling, chaotic with pain.
"The draft," he whispered. "Lydia... the draft."
"Forget the draft," I cried. "Just breathe."
Davis skated over. He looked down at us. He didn't look sorry. He looked... annoyed.
"He tripped me," Davis said to the ref. "Did you see that? He tripped me."
Mikey heard him.
Through the haze of pain, the Wolf heard the betrayal.
Mikey roared. He tried to get up. He tried to lunge at Davis, broken leg and all.
"You piece of shit!" Mikey screamed. "I covered for you!"
"Mikey, stop!" I pushed him back down. "Don't move!"
Mac was there now. The other trainers. A stretcher.
They loaded him up. He was groaning, fighting the pain, fighting the rage.
As they wheeled him off, he reached out a hand.
"Lydia," he croaked.
I grabbed his hand. I walked with the stretcher to the Zamboni tunnel.
But at the gate, Mac stopped me.
"Stay here," Mac ordered. His face was a mask of fury.
"I have to go with him!" I argued. "I'm the trainer!"
"You're too close," Mac said. He looked at me, and this time, there was no doubt in his eyes. He knew. "I saw you jump the boards, Lydia. You didn't look like a trainer. You looked like a girlfriend."
He pointed to the bench.
"Stay. Here."
They wheeled Mikey away. The doors closed.
I stood in the tunnel, listening to the fading siren of the ambulance.
Davis skated past me to the locker room for intermission. He smirked.
"Oops," he whispered.
I stood there, frozen.
My boyfriend was broken. His career was likely over. My uncle knew.
And it was all my fault.
I had tried to control the game. And I had lost everything.