Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Oliver
“It’s okay, man. It happens.” I clap Atlas, one of our defensemen, on the back. The kid’s face is still crimson, jaw working like he's chewing on words he can't spit out.
“I should’ve stopped him.” His voice cracks on the last word, hands balled into fists at his sides. The center from the opposing team slipped past the blue line on his watch—barely a real mistake, more like a split-second hesitation that most people wouldn’t even notice.
I get it, though. When the game matters as much to you as breathing, when every shift feels like life or death, you can’t afford even the smallest slip. The weight of perfection sits on your shoulders like concrete blocks, and one crack feels like the whole thing collapsing.
“One game won't ruin your life.” The words taste bitter coming out. Hypocrite. I let hundreds of games ruin mine, let them become my entire identity until there was nothing left of me outside the rink.
Atlas doesn't seem to hear me anyway. His eyes are already distant, replaying that moment over and over, torturing himself with what he should have done differently. I recognize that look—wore it myself for years.
What else can I say? Hey kid, don't end up like me—broken down at thirty-five, realizing you worshipped at the altar of a sport that chewed you up and spit you out? Don't sacrifice your body, your relationships, your sanity for sixty minutes on ice that won't matter in five years?
“Have fun.” The words escape before I can stop them. Atlas is already heading back toward the bench, but he pauses, glances back with confusion written across his face.
“Have fun?” Jeff's eyebrow arches so high it nearly disappears into his hairline. He’s been watching from a few feet away, clipboard tucked under his arm.
I shrug, trying to play it off even though my chest feels tight. “It's better than me expecting them to be perfect out there.”
The way Jeff looks at me—part surprise, part something else I can't quite read—makes my skin prickle. Like I’ve just stripped naked in front of him, revealed all the broken pieces I’ve been trying to keep hidden.
The game pulls our attention back before he can say anything, the puck dropping for another face-off.
My gaze drifts across the ice to where Devin kneels beside the bench, carefully taping up our goalie’s ankle.
She must feel me watching because she glances up, and when our eyes meet, that familiar electricity shoots through me.
Her lips curve into a smile that’s just for me, private and warm, and I can’t help but mirror it.
The energy between us amplifies, buzzing under my skin like I’ve touched a live wire.
It reminds me of those early days when she was an intern for my team, both of us dancing around this magnetic pull neither of us could acknowledge.
We’d catch each other staring during practice, find excuses to linger after everyone else had left.
The tension built for weeks until that day in the empty locker room.
She was wrapping my wrist, her fingers gentle but professional, and I just..
. couldn’t take it anymore. I kissed her.
What followed was the hottest fifteen minutes of my life—her back against the lockers, my hands tangled in her hair, both of us desperate and hungry until she pulled away, breathless.
“I can’t risk my internship,” she’d said, her lips swollen, cheeks flushed. “We have to wait.”
Talk about agonizing. Those next few months were torture.
I didn’t even look at other women—couldn’t.
Devin occupied every corner of my mind. Walking into the rink knowing she’d be there, having to keep my distance, maintain that professional boundary when all I wanted was to press her against those lockers again. ..
But when we finally could be together? When she wasn’t an intern anymore and we could walk into restaurants holding hands, kiss on street corners without looking over our shoulders?
Pure heaven.
That’s where I’m at now. Another waiting period.
Things with Devin aren’t where I want them to be—not even close—but they’re progressing.
Moving forward, even if it feels like inches instead of miles.
Slowly is better than nothing at all, and there’s definitely a payoff around the corner.
I just need to cool my heels, let her take the lead, not push too hard.
Unless she's waiting for me to make the next move?
Shit.
Should I ask her to dinner? Make it clear it’s just friendly, no pressure? Of course I want more than friendly, but maybe if I—
The whistle cuts through my thoughts like a knife.
Sharp, urgent. My eyes snap back to the ice, trying to focus through the haze of my wandering mind.
The whole game has been happening without me even seeing it, and now there’s a player down.
On his back, clutching his knee, a sound coming out of him that makes my stomach drop.
Richie. One of our forwards.
The howl that escapes him echoes off the arena walls, raw and animal.
Every other player has frozen mid-stride, sticks hanging loose in their gloves.
The crowd’s roar dies to an eerie silence—the same suffocating quiet that descended when I took my career-ending fall.
You could hear someone’s sharp intake of breath three sections away.
Devin is already up and moving, her sneakers sliding on the ice as she rushes toward Richie. I scramble after her, nearly losing my footing twice before dropping to my knees beside them.
“My knee!” Richie's face is twisted in agony, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Oh God, my knee!”
I didn't see what happened. I should have been watching, should have been paying attention instead of daydreaming about Devin like some lovesick teenager.
What kind of coach misses his own player getting injured?
The guilt sits heavy in my chest, mixing with something else—a creeping dread that makes my hands shake.
“Okay, don't move.” Devin's voice is steady, professional, her hands already assessing without actually touching the injury. “You'll be all right. The medics are on their way to check you out.”
The rink feels like a vacuum, all the air sucked out.
My vision starts to strobe at the edges, little flashes of light and dark.
I wipe at my eyes with the back of my hand, trying to clear them.
No. Not now. I can't have a panic attack here, not in front of everyone, not when this kid needs me to keep it together.
The ambulance takes forever. Or maybe it's just minutes that feel like hours. Richie keeps crying out, each sound like a nail being driven into my chest. His parents aren't even here—they’re driving from a work meeting, hoping to make the third period. He’d been talking about it in the locker room before the game, how his mom had an important presentation but promised she’d try to make it.
“You okay?” Jeff's hand lands on my shoulder as the medics finally get Richie onto a stretcher, carefully maneuvering him toward the exit.
Do I not look okay? My forehead is slick with sweat I hadn't noticed until now, my shirt sticking to my back. “Yeah.” My voice comes out rougher than intended. “I'm good. I'll walk out with them.”
The cold air outside the rink hits like a slap, but it doesn’t help the growing tightness in my chest. The medics are sliding Richie’s stretcher into the ambulance, their movements efficient and practiced.
He couldn’t even stand up, couldn’t put any weight on that leg.
Just like I couldn’t use my wrist after—
“Are you coming?” Devin pauses at the open back doors of the ambulance, one hand on the frame. It takes my brain a second to process that she’s asking if I’m going to ride along.
My throat constricts. The last time I was in an ambulance, I was the one on the stretcher, my wrist shattered, my career over before I even knew it. The parking lot tilts slightly, the ground seeming to shift under my feet. I swallow hard, force the words out.
“Yeah.” There's no choice here. I'm Richie’s coach. His parents aren’t here, and he needs an adult with him. He needs me to be strong, to be the responsible one. My issues, my trauma, my pathetic freak-outs—none of that matters right now.
I haul myself up into the ambulance, the metal floor vibrating under my feet as the engine idles. The smell hits immediately—antiseptic and plastic and something else, something that takes me right back to the worst day of my life.
The hospital is only a few minutes away, but each one stretches like taffy. Devin murmurs reassurances to Richie while I sit frozen, gripping the bench seat so hard my knuckles turn white. When we arrive, I jump out first, eager to escape the confined space, then help guide Richie’s stretcher out.
The automatic doors slide open with a mechanical whoosh, and that smell intensifies—industrial cleaner trying to mask something underneath, something sick and scared and dying. My feet carry me forward a few steps before everything starts to tilt.
I freeze just inside the entrance while Richie disappears down a hallway flanked by medics and nurses.
The fluorescent lights are too bright, making everything look washed out and unreal.
The walls start to sway, or maybe I’m the one swaying.
That terrible feeling creeps in—like nothing is real, like I’m watching myself from outside my body.
Heavy breathing fills my ears, someone gasping for air like they’re drowning.
It takes a moment to realize it’s me. My chest feels crushed, like someone parked a car on my ribs.
My hand shoots out to brace against the wall, but it doesn’t feel solid.
Nothing feels solid. I’m dying. This is what dying feels like.
“Oliver?” Devin's voice cuts through the fog, but it’s too sharp, pitched too high with worry.