CHAPTER 12
BENNETT
The private sports clinic is located in a high-end commercial building on the west side of Portland, completely removed from the arena and the usual medical facilities the Kodiaks use. The waiting room is empty, smelling faintly of antiseptic and expensive leather furniture.
The front door opens, and a rush of cold air sweeps into the room.
Maren walks in. She is wearing a dark wool trench coat over a simple black sweater and jeans. It is the first time I have seen her in something that isn't a tailored suit or a silk dress. She looks smaller, less corporate, but the tension in her posture is exactly the same.
She spots me and walks over, stopping a few feet away.
"Did anyone see you come in?" she asks, her voice low.
"No. I parked in the underground garage and took the service elevator." I stand up, checking the perimeter of the room purely out of habit. "You shouldn't be here, Maren."
"I made the appointment. I'm seeing it through."
Before I can argue, a door at the back of the waiting room opens. A tall man in his late forties, wearing dark scrubs and a white coat, steps out. He looks at me, then at Maren, a small, knowing smile on his face.
"Maren Whitaker," he says, walking over. "It’s been a long time."
"Dr. Evans," she replies, shaking his hand. Her professional mask slips back into place instantly. "Thank you for seeing us on such short notice."
"When you call in a favor, I don't ask questions." The doctor turns his attention to me. "Bennett Hayes. I’ve watched you play for a decade. Come on back to exam room two."
We follow him down a short, brightly lit hallway. The exam room is standard—a padded table, a sink, and cabinets full of medical supplies.
"Have a seat on the table, Bennett," Dr. Evans says, pulling on a pair of latex gloves. "And take your shirt off. Let's see what we're dealing with."
I pull the hoodie over my head, careful not to jerk my right arm. The cold air of the exam room hits my skin.
Dr. Evans steps closer, his eyes narrowing as he examines the heavy bruising and swelling around my AC joint. He gently probes the collarbone, his fingers pressing into the inflamed muscle.
I don't flinch, but my jaw locks tight.
"You've got a Grade 2 acromioclavicular sprain, at minimum," the doctor says, his tone shifting from friendly to strictly medical. "The ligaments are partially torn. The bruising indicates micro-hemorrhaging in the surrounding tissue. How long have you been playing on this?"
"Four weeks," I say.
"You're an idiot," he replies flatly.
"I'm a defenseman."
Dr. Evans sighs, walking over to a stainless steel tray.
"I can give you a cortisone injection. It will reduce the inflammation and numb the pain temporarily.
But it will not heal the tear. If you take another heavy hit to this shoulder, you risk a full separation.
If that happens, your season is over, and you're looking at six months of surgical recovery. "
"Just give me the shot," I say.
The doctor prepares the syringe. It’s a long needle, designed to reach deep into the joint capsule. I have had them before. They burn like hell going in, and they leave a deep, aching pressure that lasts for hours before the numbness finally takes over.
I look across the room. Maren is standing near the door, her arms crossed over her chest. She is watching the needle, her face completely pale.
"You don't have to watch this," I tell her.
"I'm fine," she says, though she doesn't sound fine at all.
"Alright, Bennett. Deep breath," Dr. Evans says, stepping up to the table. "This is going to bite."
He inserts the needle directly into the top of the AC joint.
The pain is sharp and immediate, a burning pressure that forces the air out of my lungs. I grip the edge of the padded table with my left hand, my knuckles turning white. I keep my eyes fixed on the blank wall opposite me, refusing to make a sound.
It takes ten seconds to empty the syringe, but it feels like an hour.
"Done," the doctor says, pulling the needle out and pressing a piece of gauze against the puncture site.
He tapes it down quickly. "The localized pain will fade in about twenty minutes.
The anti-inflammatory effect will peak in forty-eight hours.
I strongly advise you to avoid contact drills until then. "
"I have a game tomorrow night," I say, rolling my shoulder slightly to test the pressure.
Dr. Evans shakes his head, stripping off his gloves. "I'm a doctor, Hayes. Not a miracle worker. If you play tomorrow, you are rolling the dice with your career."
He turns to Maren. "I won't put this in the league registry, as requested. The consultation is off the books. But Maren, if he tears this completely, there is no PR spin that can hide a surgery."
"I understand," Maren says quietly. "Thank you, David."
"Take care of yourself, Captain," the doctor says to me, before walking out of the room and pulling the door shut behind him.
The silence in the exam room is heavy.
I pick up my hoodie from the chair and carefully pull it back on. The injection site is throbbing, a deep, hot ache that radiates down my bicep.
I look at Maren. She hasn't moved from her spot by the door. She is staring at my shoulder, her expression completely unreadable.
"I told you I didn't want you here," I say, my voice rough.
"I know." She finally looks up at my face. "But if I wasn't here, you would have walked out of this clinic, gotten into your truck, and pretended that needle didn't just hurt you."
"It didn't hurt."
"Stop lying to me." She takes a step forward, her voice cracking slightly. "Stop acting like you are made of steel. I saw your hand on the table, Bennett. I saw you stop breathing."
I look away. The exhaustion is hitting me hard, a sudden, overwhelming wave of physical and mental fatigue. I have spent a month hiding the pain, pretending to be the unbreakable captain, and right now, I don't have the energy to keep the armor up.
"It's my job to take the hits," I say, staring at the floor.
"It's your job to play hockey," she corrects, walking closer until she is standing right in front of me. "It is not your job to destroy your body just to prove to Marcus Thorne that you can."
"If I don't play tomorrow, Thorne uses it against me. He's already building the narrative." I look back up at her. "He wants me gone, Maren. And if I sit out, I hand him the excuse he needs on a silver platter."
"Then we find another way to fight him."
"There is no other way." I reach out, my left hand gripping the edge of her coat. I pull her a fraction of an inch closer. "I have two weeks until the deadline. If I can survive two weeks, the trade window closes, and I stay in Portland. I stay here. With you."
Maren’s breath catches.
She looks at my hand holding her coat, then up at my eyes.
The truth is hanging in the air between us, heavy and undeniable.
I am not destroying my shoulder for the franchise anymore.
I am doing it to buy time. I am doing it because the thought of being traded to a different city and leaving her behind is worse than the physical pain.
She reaches up and places her hand over mine. Her fingers are cold.
"You can't do this for me," she whispers.
"I'm doing it for me."
She shakes her head, a desperate, frustrated movement. "Bennett, if you tear that muscle completely tomorrow night, your career is over. You won't get a new contract next year. You will lose the game."
"I don't care about the game."
The words slip out before I can stop them. They are the truest words I have spoken in a decade, and they terrify me.
Maren stares at me, the shock evident in her eyes. She knows what hockey means to me. She knows it is the only identity I have ever had.
"Don't say that," she says, her voice trembling.
"It's the truth." I let go of her coat and slide my hand around to the back of her neck, pulling her gently forward until her forehead rests against my good shoulder. "I am so tired of fighting, Maren."
She doesn't pull away. She leans into me, her hands coming up to rest flat against my chest. I can feel the rapid beat of her heart against my ribs.
We stand there in the sterile, brightly lit exam room, hiding from the world, hiding from the front office, hiding from the reality of the next two weeks.
"I will figure out a way to stop Thorne," she murmurs against my hoodie. "I will build a strategy. I will find leverage."
"You can't risk your license for me."
"I already did," she replies, lifting her head to look at me. "When I made this appointment, I crossed the line. There is no going back now."
I look at her. The fierce, protective determination in her eyes is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. She is a woman who spent two years building walls to keep athletes out, and she just tore them all down to stand between me and the firing line.
I lean down and kiss her.
It isn't desperate like the kiss in the hallway. It is slow, deep, and incredibly deliberate. It is an acknowledgment of the line we just crossed, and a promise that I am not going to let her fight this war alone.
She kisses me back, her hands sliding up to grip my shoulders, careful to avoid the right side.
When I finally pull back, the throbbing in my AC joint is still there, a dull, heavy ache. But the crushing weight of carrying it alone is gone.
"I have a game tomorrow," I say softly, brushing a strand of hair away from her face.
"I know." She steps back, smoothing the front of her coat, the PR manager slowly returning to the surface. "Play smart, Captain. If you take a heavy hit, I will personally walk down to the bench and drag you off the ice."
I allow a small, genuine smile. "I'd like to see you try."
"Don't test me."
She turns and walks toward the door. I grab my duffel bag and follow her out into the empty waiting room.
We leave the clinic through the back exit, stepping out into the cold, dark Portland night. We walk to our separate cars in silence, the reality of the secret we are keeping settling heavily over both of us.
I unlock my truck and climb inside. I watch her taillights disappear down the street before I start the engine.
The injection is starting to work, the sharp pain dulling into a numb pressure. I can move my arm a little more freely. I have bought myself forty-eight hours of borrowed time.
But as I pull out of the parking garage, my phone vibrates on the passenger seat.
I glance at the screen. It is a text from Mac.
Mac: Just got a heads up from the equipment manager. Thorne requested a copy of the security footage from the executive hallway outside Maren’s office from yesterday afternoon. Watch your back.
I grip the steering wheel, my knuckles turning white.
The borrowed time just ran out.