Chapter 15
Mikey
The hospital room smelled like bleach and bad news.
My leg was encased in a heavy plaster cast from toe to thigh. It throbbed with a dull, persistent rhythm, a bass line to the sharper, more acute pain of my career evaporating.
I stared at the ceiling tiles, counting the dots. One, two, three, four.
The doctor had been clear. Spiral fracture of the tibia. Clean break of the fibula. Surgery required. Pins. Plates. Six months recovery minimum.
Six months. The draft was in three.
I closed my eyes. It was over. The bonus. The contract. The facility fees. All of it, gone in a single, stupid moment of tripping over a rookie who couldn't skate.
The door opened.
I expected Mac, coming to tell me I was off the team. I expected Reynolds, coming to tell me Detroit was pulling their interest.
Instead, a small, furious hurricane blew in.
Lydia.
She was still wearing her game-day polo, but she had thrown a coat over it. Her hair was wild. Her eyes were red.
She slammed the door shut and marched over to the bed.
"You're awake," she said, her voice shaking.
"Hard to sleep when your future is being amputated," I rasped.
She didn't offer sympathy. She didn't offer a hug. She grabbed the railing of the bed and leaned over me, her face inches from mine.
"Listen to me, Michael Holt. You are not done. Do you hear me? You are not done."
"Lydia," I sighed, turning my head away. "The bone stuck out through the skin. I saw it. Reynolds saw it. Nobody drafts a broken Enforcer."
"Then we fix it," she said fiercely. "I've already looked at the x-rays. The break is clean. The surgery is scheduled for tomorrow morning. Dr. Evans is the best ortho in the state. If you rehab aggressively—and I mean aggressively—you can be skating in three months."
"Three months is too late."
"Not for a private workout," she argued. "We call Reynolds. We tell him it's a minor setback. We tell him you'll be ready for camp. We send him videos of your rehab. We make him believe."
I looked back at her. Her eyes were blazing with a fire that made the pain in my leg recede. She wasn't giving up. She was fighting a war I had already surrendered.
"Why?" I whispered. "Why do you care so much? I'm broken, Lydia. I'm a bad investment."
"Because," she said, her voice cracking. "Because I love you, you idiot. And I'm not letting you quit on your dream. Or on your dad. Or on us."
The words hung in the sterile air.
Us.
Despite the pain, despite the fear, a small spark of hope ignited in my chest.
"Us?" I asked.
"Yes, us," she said, reaching out to take my hand. "The house. The trees. The Newfoundland dog. We're still doing that. This is just... a plot twist. A really shitty plot twist."
I squeezed her hand. "You're delusional, Mouse."
"I'm optimistic," she corrected. "And I'm stubborn. And I'm going to be your PT. I'm going to torture you until that leg is stronger than it was before."
I looked at her. Really looked at her.
She was risking everything being here. Mac had told her to stay away.
"Mac knows," I said quietly.
"I know," she nodded. "He saw me jump the boards. He knows."
"He's going to fire you."
"Let him," she shrugged. "I'll transfer. I'll get a job at a clinic. I don't care about the internship, Mikey. I care about you."
She leaned down and kissed me. It was soft, salty with tears, and desperate.
"We'll figure it out," she promised against my lips. "Just... don't give up."
I closed my eyes, leaning into her touch. For the first time since the snap, I felt something other than despair.
"Okay," I whispered. "I won't give up."
The next two weeks were a blur of pain meds, physical therapy, and secrecy.
Mac didn't fire Lydia. He didn't have the heart. But he banished her from the team. She was no longer allowed in the locker room, the bus, or the arena during practice. She was relegated to the student clinic, treating intramural soccer players with sprained ankles.
But that didn't stop her.
She came to my dorm room every night. She helped me shower (a logistical nightmare involving a plastic chair and a lot of cursing). She cooked me dinner. She massaged the scar tissue around my incision until I screamed, and then she kissed me until I forgot why I was screaming.
We were living in the "Future" we had talked about. It was messy, painful, and constrained to a twelve-by-twelve room, but it was ours.
"Move your toes," Lydia commanded. She was sitting at the end of my bed, holding my casted leg in her lap.
I wiggled my toes.
"Good. Dorsiflexion is improving. Swelling is down."
She made a note in her notebook. She treated my recovery like a military campaign. Charts. Goals. Timelines.
"Reynolds called today," I said, leaning back against the pillows.
Lydia’s head snapped up. "And?"
"He said Detroit is still interested. But they want to see me skate by May 1st. If I'm on the ice, they'll offer a two-way contract."
"May 1st," Lydia calculated. "That's eight weeks. It's aggressive."
"It's impossible," I said.
"It's aggressive," she repeated firmly. "We can do it. We just need to up the hydrotherapy."
She crawled up the bed, careful of the cast, and lay down on my chest.
"We're going to make it, Mikey," she whispered. "Detroit. The contract. The bonus."
"And the dog," I added, wrapping my arms around her.
"And the dog."
She traced the runes on my chest.
"I've been looking at apartments in Detroit," she confessed. "Online. Just for fun."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. There's a neighborhood called Corktown. Historic. Brick roads. They have lofts."
"Do they have trees?"
"A few," she smiled. "And a park nearby."
"Sounds perfect," I murmured.
"It's expensive," she warned.
"I'll be rich soon," I joked. "Once I sign."
We lay there, dreaming. It felt real. The house. The life. The escape from the madness.
"I love you," I said into her hair. It came out easily now. Natural as breathing.
"I love you too," she said.
It was the peak. The absolute zenith of my life. I had a broken leg, a dying father, and no money, but I felt like the richest man on earth because I had her.
Then, my phone buzzed.
It was Jagger.
Jagger: Dude. Turn on the TV. Channel 4. Local news.
I frowned. "Lydia, turn on the TV."
"Why?"
"Jagger says so."
She grabbed the remote and clicked it on. Channel 4.
The news anchor, a stern woman with helmet hair, was speaking gravely.
"...breaking news from North Ridge University. A scandal rocking the hockey program tonight as allegations of academic fraud and inappropriate staff conduct surface."
My blood ran cold.
The screen changed. It showed a grainy photo.
It was me. And Lydia.
In the hydrotherapy room.
It was blurry—taken from a weird angle, maybe through the glass door or a hidden camera. But it was unmistakable. I was shirtless. She was in scrubs. We were kissing. My hands were under her shirt.
"Sources allege that student trainer Lydia Cross, niece of Head Coach Mackenzie Cross, engaged in a sexual relationship with star player Michael Holt in exchange for falsifying academic records to maintain his eligibility."
The anchor continued, voice dripping with judgment.
"Holt, who was failing his anatomy course, suddenly began passing after being assigned Ms. Cross as a tutor. An anonymous tipster provided this photo and grade logs."
Lydia gasped, her hands flying to her mouth.
"Oh my god," she whispered. "Davis."
"Davis?" I asked, confused. "What does Davis have to do with this?"
She turned to me, her face pale as a sheet.
"Mikey... I didn't tell you. Before the game... Davis blackmailed me. He saw us. He threatened to tell Mac unless I got him on the first line."
I stared at her. "You... you put him on the line?"
"I had to!" she cried. "He was going to ruin you!"
"He's the reason I broke my leg!" I shouted. "He was on the ice because of you?"
"I was protecting you!"
"You were manipulating the game!" I roared, sitting up, ignoring the pain in my leg. "You compromised the team! For a secret!"
The news continued.
"Coach Cross has released a statement saying he is 'devastated' and has launched an immediate internal investigation. The NCAA has been notified."
My phone buzzed again. And again. And again.
Reynolds. Mac. My agent. The facility.
It was an avalanche.
"Mikey," Lydia sobbed, reaching for me. "I'm sorry. I didn't know he would do this. I thought if I gave him what he wanted..."
"You trusted a snake," I said coldly, pulling away from her touch. "And now... now it's over."
"It's not over," she begged. "We can explain. We can tell the truth."
"The truth?" I laughed bitterly. "The truth is that I'm failing a class and sleeping with the tutor. The truth is that you used your influence to put an unqualified player on the ice, which led to my injury. The truth is that we are exactly what they say we are: a liability."
My phone rang. It was Reynolds.
I answered it. Speakerphone.
"Holt," Reynolds’ voice was ice. "I saw the news."
"It's not what it looks like," I started.
"Doesn't matter what it looks like. It's an NCAA violation. Academic fraud. Staff fraternization. You're toxic, son."
Pause.
"Detroit is pulling the offer. We're out. Good luck with the leg."
Click.
Silence filled the room.
The dream—the loft in Corktown, the trees, the dog—it didn't just fade. It incinerated.
I looked at Lydia. She was crying silently, her whole body shaking.
"You did this," I whispered. The words tasted like poison.
"I was trying to save you," she choked out.
"You didn't save me," I said, staring at the blank TV screen. "You buried me."
I pointed to the door.
"Get out."
"Mikey..."
"Get. Out."
She stood up, trembling. She grabbed her coat. She looked at me one last time—a look of pure, shattered heartbreak.
Then she turned and walked out.
I sat alone in the dark room.
My leg was broken. My career was dead. My dad was going to the state ward.
And the girl I loved had just destroyed my life.
I reached for the bottle of painkillers on the nightstand.
I didn't take one. I threw the bottle at the wall.
It shattered.
Just like us.