“I’ll be fine,” I bite out.
“Yeah, but your shoulder won’t be.”
He’s telling me what I already know. My shoulder has always given me trouble, but after a gnarly hit in our second game this season, it’s been giving me more problems than usual. One more wrong hit and my career will be over. Fuck, the way it’s currently feeling, it may already be, but I’m not ready. At thirty-three, I know I don’t have much more time left out on the ice, but in no way did I think this would be my last season.
We walk into the medical room, and I sit on one of the tables, removing my jersey and shoulder pads. Dr. Hamilton assesses my shoulder, muttering to himself when he attempts to move it and I wince at the pain.
“For fuck’s sake, Nuttall,” he says. “I’ll give you a shot of Toradol, but we’re gonna have to do something more about this.”
“Yeah,” I grumble. There’s only so much ice, tape, and the shots will do. It needs to be formally assessed, and I need more than a temporary bandage. My leg bounces up and down as I watch the clock. He needs to fucking hurry so I can get back out there.
He prepares my shoulder for the injection and then administers the shot.
“Should kick in after ten minutes,” he says, starting to clean up the supplies as I re-dress for the game. “Let’s take it easy the rest of the first, and you can go back in at the start of the second.”
“I think I’m good,” I say, rotating my shoulder. The pain is still present, but I can already feel the miracle drug working.
He shakes his head. “You’re insane.”
Making my way back to the bench, there are three minutes left in the first period. We’re still down 1-0, and I don’t want to go into intermission behind. I take a seat with the rest of my team, biding my time until it’s my turn to get back out there.
Kai makes his way down the ice toward the goal, our two wingers trailing close behind. He looks gassed, and guilt crawls up my throat at the thought that my teammates have had to make up for me being gone. As the defense closes in on him, he attempts to shoot the puck, but it bounces off the right post and the Rats regain possession.
Shouting his name from the bench, I alert him that I’m back. He gestures in my direction, and I ready myself for the ice.
A Rats defenseman skates off, and Ulrich rejoins the game. He passes our bench and throws me a wink and a smirk.
Kai makes it to me a second later, and I jump over the boards, rejoining the game as well.
There’s only a minute and half left of the period, but that’s more than enough time to even the score.
Theo passes me the puck, and I charge toward the Rats’ end of the ice. Ulrich moves to rub me out against the board, but I pass back to Theo and manage to sidestep the asshole before he can finish his check.
Theo flicks the puck back across the middle of the ice to me, and when I wind up to shoot, I’m relieved to find the meds are working, the sharp pain that once radiated down my arm gone. I one-time to pass, narrowly missing the goalie’s outstretched glove and into the back of the net.
“Fuck yeah!” I shout, my teammates circling around me in celebration. Turning, I find Claire again. She’s standing among the erupting fans with her eyes locked on me. A subtle look of approval paints her face, and I have to remind myself to focus on the game.
We’ve evened up the score, but now we need to win.
Chapter 6: I Guess We’re Fucking Doing This
Everett
It’s the third period, and the Rats are leading us 2-1. My heart pounds against my chest as I hustle up the ice. Theo skates down the left wing and into the Rats’ defensive zone with the puck, and I trail behind, trying to stay open and ready for his pass.
We need another goal. Fuck, we need two goals because I want to see the look on Raph’s smug face when we win.
I move in towards the goal from the point just as Theo whips a pass onto my stick from the corner. I hesitate, trying to freeze the goalie. The stadium goes silent as I focus on the goal. My stick curls as I wire a wrist shot at the net just as the butt of a stick jabs into my ribs, throwing me off my balance.
“Whoops,” Ulrich says, laughing and returning his stick to the ice.
“What did you say?” I ask, moving forward and bumping my chest up against his. My blood runs hot, and it’s taking everything in me not to drop the gloves with this guy. Fucking prick made me hit the post.
“Didn’t see you there,” he sneers.
I skate forward again, pushing him backward. Tension has been building the entire game, and I want to snap. “You need to fucking cool it, Ulrich,” I warn. The hit against the boards at the start of the game was just the beginning. He’s throwing questionable hits leftand right, and the referees aren’t doing anything to hold him accountable.
“Or what?”
